The Story of My Life eBook (2024)

The Story of My Life by Ellen Terry

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Table of Contents
Section	Page

Start of eBook	1
Ellen Terry	1
INTRODUCTION	1
THE STORY OF MY LIFE	3
I	3
THE CHARLES KEANS	8
TRAINING IN SHAKESPEARE	12
II	19
LIFE IN A STOCK COMPANY	26
III	38
MY FIRST IMPRESSION OF HENRY IRVING	44
IV	46
V	54
THE END OF MY APPRENTICESHIP	54
PORTIA	59
TOM TAYLOR AND LAVENDER SWEEP	65
VI	71
VII	82
VIII	93
IX	111
X	130
XI	146
THE FIRST OF EIGHT TOURS	146
WHAT CONSTITUTES CHARM	154
FALSE NOSE	155
NOT HIS BEAUTY	155
BEGAN TO HOWL	155
PLAYFULLY TOSSING	155
VIGOROUS KICK	155
XII	157
XIII	175
XIV	183
MY STAGE JUBILEE	190
APOLOGIA	191
THE DEATH OF HENRY IRVING	192
ALFRED GILBERT AND OTHERS	197
“BEEFSTEAK” GUESTS AT THE LYCEUM	204
BITS FROM MY DIARY	212
THE END	217
INDEX	217
MR. AND MRS. BENJAMIN TERRY	225
ELLEN TERRY AT SEVENTEEN	225
HEAD OF A YOUNG GIRL (ELLEN TERRY)	225
MISS ELLEN TERRY IN 1883	226
MISS ELLEN TERRY IN 1898	227
SIR HENRY IRVING	227
HENRY IRVING AS BECKET	227

Ellen Terry

Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin Terry

Charles Kean and Ellen Terry in 1856

Ellen Terry in 1856

Ellen Terry at Sixteen

“The Sisters” (Kate and Ellen Terry)

Ellen Terry at Seventeen

George Frederick Watts, R.A.

Ellen Terry as Helen in “The Hunchback”

Henry Irving

Head of a Young Girl (Ellen Terry)

Henry Irving

Ellen Terry as Portia

Henry Irving as Matthias in “The Bells”

Henry Irving as Philip of Spain

Henry Irving as Hamlet

Lily Langtry

William Terriss as Squire Thornhill in “Olivia”

Ellen Terry as Ophelia

Ellen Terry as Beatrice

Sir Henry Irving

Irving as Louis XI

Ellen Terry as Henrietta Maria

Ellen Terry as Camma in “The Cup”

Ellen Terry as Iolanthe

Ellen Terry as Letitia Hardy in “The Belle’sStratagem”

Edwin Thomas Booth

Ellen Terry as Juliet

Two Portraits of Ellen Terry as Beatrice

Ellen Terry’s Favourite Photograph as Olivia

Eleanora Duse with Lenbach’s Child

Ellen Terry as Margaret in “Faust”

Ellen Terry as Ellaline in “The Amber Heart”

Miss Ellen Terry in 1883

The Bas-relief Portrait of Robert Louis Stevenson

Miss Terry and Sir Henry Irving

Sarah Holland, Ellen Terry’s Dresser

Miss Rosa Corder

Miss Ellen Terry with her Fox-terriers

Miss Ellen Terry in 1898

Sir Henry Irving

Miss Ellen Terry

Ellen Terry as Lady Macbeth

Sir Henry Irving

Ellen Terry as Lucy Ashton in “Ravenswood”

Henry Irving as Cardinal Wolsey in “Henry VIII.”

Ellen Terry as Nance Oldfield

Ellen Terry as Kniertje in “The Good Hope”

Ellen Terry as Imogen

Henry Irving as Becket

Sir Henry Irving

Ellen Terry as Rosamund in “Becket”

Ellen Terry as Guinevere in “King Arthur”

“Olivia”

Miss Terry’s Garden at Winchelsea

Ellen Terry as Hermione in “The Winter’sTale”

INTRODUCTION

“When I read the book,the biography famous,
And is this then (said I)what the author calls a man’s life?
And so will some one whenI am dead and gone write my life?
(As if any man really knewaught of my life!)
Why even I myself, I oftenthink, know little or nothing of my real
life.
Only a few hints—afew diffused faint clues and indirections
I seek ... to trace out here.”

Walt Whitman.

For years I have contemplated telling this story,and for years I have put off telling it. WhileI have delayed, my memory has not improved, and myrecollections of the past are more hazy and fragmentarythan when it first occurred to me that one day I mightwrite them down.

My bad memory would matter less if I had some skillin writing—the practiced writer can seepossibilities in the most ordinary events—orif I had kept a systematic and conscientious recordof my life. But although I was at one time conscientiousand diligent enough in keeping a diary, I kept itfor use at the moment, not for future reference.I kept it with paste-pot and scissors as much as witha pen. My method was to cut bits out of the newspapersand stick them into my diary day by day. Beforethe end of the year was reached Mr. Letts would havebeen ashamed to own his diary. It had becomea bursting, groaning dust-bin of information, forthe most part useless. The biggest elastic bandmade could hardly encircle its bulk, swelled by photographs,letters, telegrams, dried flowers—the wholemaking up a confusion in which every one but the ownerwould seek in vain to find some sense or meaning.

About six years ago I moved into a smaller house inLondon, and I burnt a great many of my earlier diariesas unmovable rubbish. The few passages whichI shall quote in this book from those which escapeddestruction will prove that my bonfire meant no greatloss!

Still, when it was suggested to me in the year ofmy stage jubilee that I ought to write down my recollections,I longed for those diaries! I longed for anythingwhich would remind me of the past and make it liveagain for me. I was frightened. Somethingwould be expected of me, since I could not deny thatI had had an eventful life packed full of incident,and that by the road I had met many distinguished andinteresting men and women. I could not deny thatI had been fifty years on the stage, and that thismeant enough material for fifty books, if only thedetails of every year could be faithfully told.But it is not given to all of us to see our livesin relief as we look back. Most of us, I think,see them in perspective, of which our birth is thevanishing point. Seeing, too, is only half thebattle. How few people can describe what theysee!

While I was thinking in this obstructive fashion andwishing that I could write about my childhood likeTolstoi, about my girlhood like Marie Bashkirtseff,and about the rest of my days and my work like manyother artists of the pen, who merely, by putting blackupon white, have had the power to bring before theirreaders not merely themselves “as they lived,”but the most homely and intimate details of their lives,the friend who had first impressed on me that I oughtnot to leave my story untold any longer, said thatthe beginning was easy enough: “What isthe first thing you remember? Write that downas a start.”

But for my friend’s practical suggestion itis doubtful if I should ever have written a line!He relieved my anxiety about my powers of compilinga stupendous autobiography, and made me forget thatwriting was a new art, to me, and that I was ratherold to try my hand at a new art. My memory suddenlybegan to seem not so bad after all. For weeksI had hesitated between Othello’s “Nothingextenuate, nor write down aught in malice,”and Pilate’s “What is truth?” asmy guide and my apology. Now I saw that bothwere too big for my modest endeavor. I was notleaving a human document for the benefit of futurepsychologists and historians, but telling as muchof my story as I could remember to the good, livingpublic which has been considerate and faithful to mefor so many years.

How often it has made allowances for me when I wasnervous on first nights! With what patience ithas waited long and uncomfortable hours to see me!Surely its charity would quickly cover my literarysins.

I gave up the search for a motto which should expressmy wish to tell the truth so far as I know it, todescribe things as I see them, to be faithful accordingto my light, not dreading the abuse of those who mightsee in my light nothing but darkness.

I shut up “Othello” and did not try toverify the remark of “jesting” Pilate.The only instruction that I gave myself was to “beginat the beginning.”

E.T.

THE STORY OF MY LIFE

I

A CHILD OF THE STAGE

1848-1856

This is the first thing I remember.

In the corner of a lean-to whitewashed attic stooda fine, plain, solid oak bureau. By climbingup on to this bureau I could see from the window theglories of the sunset. My attic was on a hillin a large and busy town, and the smoke of a thousandchimneys hung like a gray veil between me and thefires in the sky. When the sun had set, and thescarlet and gold, violet and primrose, and all thosemagic colors that have no names, had faded into thedark, there were other fires for me to see. Theflaming forges came out, and terrified while they fascinatedmy childish imagination.

What did it matter to me that I was locked in andthat my father and mother, with my elder sister Kate,were all at the theater? I had the sunset, theforges, and the oak bureau.

I cannot say how old I was at this time, but I amsure that it wasn’t long after my birth (whichI can’t remember, although I have often beenasked to decide in which house at Coventry I was born!).At any rate, I had not then seen a theater, and Itook to the stage before many years had passed overmy head.

Putting together what I remembered, and such authentichistory as there is of my parents’ movements,I gather that this attic was in theatrical lodgingsin Glasgow. My father was an actor, my motheran actress, and they were at this time on tour inScotland. Perhaps this is the place to say thatfather was the son of an Irish builder, and that heeloped in a chaise with mother, who was the daughterof a Scottish minister. I am afraid I know nodetails of their romance. As for my less immediateancestry, it is “wropt in mystery.”Were we all people of the stage? There was aDaniel Terry who was not only a famous actor in hisday, but a friend of Sir Walter Scott’s.There was an Eliza Terry, an actress whose portraitappears in The Dramatic Mirror in 1847.But so far as I know I cannot claim kinship with eitherEliza or Daniel.

I have a very dim recollection of anything that happenedin the attic, beyond the fact that when my fatherand mother went to the theater every night, they usedto put me to bed and that directly their backs wereturned and the door locked, I used to jump up and goto the window. My “bed” consistedof the mattress pulled off their bed and laid on thefloor—on father’s side. Bothmy father and my mother were very kind and devotedparents (though severe at times, as all good parentsare), but while mother loved all her children toowell to make favorites, I was, I believe, my father’sparticular pet. I used to sleep all night holdinghis hand.

One night I remember waking up to find a beautifulface bending over me. Father was holding a candleso that the visitor might see me better, and graduallyI realized that the face belonged to some one in abrown silk dress—the first silk dress thatI had ever seen. This being from another worldhad brown eyes and brown hair, which looked to me verydark, because we were a white lot, very fair indeed.I shall never forget that beautiful vision of thiswell-dressed woman with her lovely complexion andher gold chain round her neck. It was my AuntLizzie.

I hold very strongly that a child’s earliestimpressions mould its character perhaps more thaneither heredity or education. I am sure it istrue in my case. What first impressed me?An attic, an oak bureau, a lovely face, a bed on thefloor. Things have come and gone in my life sincethen, but they have been powerless to efface thoseearly impressions. I adore pretty faces.I can’t keep away from shops where they sellgood old furniture like my bureau. I like plainrooms with low ceilings better than any other rooms;and for my afternoon siesta, which is one of my institutions,I often choose the floor in preference to bed or sofa.

What we remember in our childhood and what we aretold afterwards often become inextricably confusedin our minds, and after the bureau and Aunt Lizzie,my memory is a blank for some years. I can’teven tell you when it was first decided that I wasto go on the stage, but I expect it was when I wasborn, for in those days theatrical folk did not imaginethat their children could do anything but followtheir parents’ profession.

I must depend now on hearsay for certain facts.The first fact is my birth, which should, perhaps,have been mentioned before anything else. Tospeak by the certificate, I was born on the 27th ofFebruary, 1848, at Coventry. Many years afterwards,when people were kind enough to think that the housein which I was born deserved to be discovered, therewas a dispute as to which house in Market Street couldclaim me. The dispute was left unsettled in rathera curious way. On one side of the narrow streeta haberdasher’s shop bore the inscription, “Birthplaceof Ellen Terry.” On the other, an eating-housedeclared itself to be “the original birthplace”!I have never been able to arbitrate in the matter,my statement that my mother had always said that thehouse was “on the right-hand side, coming fromthe market-place,” being apparently of no use.I have heard lately that one of the birthplaces hasretired from the competition, and that the haberdasherhas the field to himself. I am glad, for thesake of those friends of mine who have bought hishandkerchiefs and ties as souvenirs. There is,however, nothing very attractive about the house itself.It is better built than a house of the same size wouldbe built now, and it has a certain old-fashioned respectability,but that is the end of its praises. Coventry itselfmakes up for the deficiency. It is a delightfultown, and it was a happy chance that made me a nativeof Warwickshire, Shakespeare’s own county.Sarah Kemble married Mr. Siddons at Coventry too—anotherhappy omen.

I have acted twice in my native town in old days,but never in recent years. In 1904 I plannedto act there again, but unfortunately I was takenill at Cambridge, and the doctors would not allow meto go to Coventry. The morning my company leftCambridge without me, I was very miserable. Itis always hateful to disappoint the public, and onthis occasion I was compelled to break faith whereI most wished to keep it. I heard afterwardsfrom my daughter (who played some of my parts insteadof me) that many of the Coventry people thought I hadnever meant to come at all. If this should meettheir eyes, I hope they will believe that this wasnot so. My ambition to play at Coventry againshall be realized yet.[1]

[Footnote 1: Since I wrote this, I have againvisited my native town—this time to receiveits civic congratulations on the occasion of my jubilee,and as recently as March of the present year I actedat the new Empire Theater.]

At one time nothing seemed more unlikely than thatI should be able to act in another Warwickshire town,a town whose name is known all over the world.But time and chance and my own great wish succeededin bringing about my appearance at Stratford-on-Avon.

I can well imagine that the children of some strollingplayers used to have a hard time of it, but my motherwas not one to shirk her duties. She worked hardat her profession and yet found it possible not todrag up her children, to live or die as it happened,but to bring them up to be healthy, happy, and wise—theater-wise,at any rate. When her babies were too small tobe left at the lodgings (which she and my father tookin each town they visited as near to the theater aspossible), she would bundle us up in a shawl and putus to sleep in her dressing-room. So it was,that long before I spoke in a theater, I slept inone.

Later on, when we were older and mother could leaveus at home, there was a fire one night at our lodgings,and she rushed out of the theater and up the streetin an agony of terror. She got us out of the houseall right, took us to the theater, and went on withthe next act as if nothing had happened. Suchfortitude is commoner in our profession, I think,than in any other. We “go on with the nextact” whatever happens, and if we know our business,no one in the audience will ever guess that anythingis wrong—that since the curtain last wentdown some dear friend has died, or our children inthe theatrical lodgings up the street have run therisk of being burnt to death.

My mother had eleven children altogether, but onlynine survived their infancy, and of these nine, myeldest brother, Ben, and my sister Florence have sincedied. My sister Kate, who left the stage at anage when most of the young women of the present daytake to it for the first time, and made an enduringreputation in a few brilliant years, was the eldestof the family. Then came a sister, who died, andI was the third. After us came Ben, George, Marion,Flossie, Charles, Tom, and Fred. Six out of the ninehave been on the stage, but only Marion, Fred, andI are there still.

Two or three members of this large family, at themost, were in existence when I first entered a theaterin a professional capacity, so I will leave them allalone for the present. I had better confess atonce that I don’t remember this great event,and my sister Kate is unkind enough to say that itnever happened—to me! The story, sheasserts, was told of her. But without damningproofs she is not going to make me believe it!Shall I be robbed of the only experience of my firsteight years of life? Never!

During the rehearsals of a pantomime in a Scottishtown (Glasgow, I think. Glasgow has always beenan eventful place to me!), a child was wanted forthe Spirit of the Mustard-pot. What more naturalthan that my father should offer my services?I had a shock of pale yellow hair, I was small enoughto be put into the property mustard-pot, and the Glasgowstage manager would easily assume that I had inheritedtalent. My father had acted with Macready inthe stock seasons both at Edinburgh and Glasgow, andbore a very high reputation with Scottish audiences.But the stage manager and father alike reckoned withouttheir actress! When they tried to put me intothe mustard-pot, I yelled lustily and showed morelung-power than aptitude for the stage.

“Pit your child into the mustard-pot, Mr. Terry,”said the stage manager.

“D—n you and your mustard-pot, sir!”said my mortified father. “I won’tfrighten my child for you or anyone else!”

But all the same he was bitterly disappointed at myfirst dramatic failure, and when we reached home heput me in the corner to chasten me. “You’llnever make an actress!” he said, shaking a reproachfulfinger at me.

It is my mustard-pot, and why Kate should wantit, I can’t think! She hadn’t yellowhair, and she couldn’t possibly have behavedso badly. I have often heard my parents say significantlythat they had no trouble with Kate! Beforeshe was four, she was dancing a hornpipe in a sailor’sjumper, a rakish little hat, and a diminutive pairof white ducks! Those ducks, marked “KateTerry,” were kept by mother for years as a preciousrelic, and are, I hope, still in the family archives!

I stick to the mustard-pot, but I entirely disclaimthe little Duke of York in Richard III., which someone with a good memory stoutly insists he saw me playbefore I made my first appearance as Mamilius.Except for this abortive attempt at Glasgow, I wasnever on any stage even for a rehearsal until 1856,at the Princess’s Theater, when I appeared withCharles Kean in “A Winter’s Tale.”

The man with the memory may have seen Kate as oneof the Princes in the Tower, but he never saw me withher. Kate was called up to London in 1852 toplay Prince Arthur in Charles Kean’s productionof “King John,” and after that she actedin all his plays, until he gave up management in 1859.She had played Arthur during a stock season at Edinburgh,and so well that some one sang her praises to Keanand advised him to engage her. My mother tookKate to London, and I was left with my father in theprovinces for two years. I can’t recallmuch about those two years except sunsets and a greatmass of shipping looming up against the sky.The sunsets followed me about everywhere; the shippingwas in Liverpool, where father was engaged for a considerabletime. He never ceased teaching me to be useful,alert, and quick. Sometimes he hastened my perceptivepowers with a slipper, and always he corrected me ifI pronounced any word in a slipshod fashion.He himself was a beautiful elocutionist, and if Inow speak my language well it is in no small degreedue to my early training.

It was to his elocution that father owed his engagementwith Macready, of whom he always spoke in terms ofthe most affectionate admiration in after years, andprobably it did him a good turn again with CharlesKean. An actor who had supported Macready withcredit was just the actor likely to be useful to amanager who was producing a series of plays by Shakespeare.Kate had been a success at the Princess’s, too,in child parts, and this may have reminded Mr. Keanto send for Kate’s father! At any ratehe was sent for towards the end of the year 1853 andleft Liverpool for London. I know I cooked hisbreakfasts for him in Liverpool, but I haven’tthe slightest recollection of the next two years inLondon. As I am determined not to fill up theearly blanks with stories of my own invention, I mustgo straight on to 1856, when rehearsals were calledat the Princess’s Theater for Shakespeare’s“Winter’s Tale.”

THE CHARLES KEANS

1856

The Charles Keans from whom I received my first engagement,were both remarkable people, and at the Princess Theaterwere doing very remarkable work. Kean the youngerhad not the fire and genius of his wonderful father,Edmund, and but for the inherited splendor of his nameit is not likely that he would ever have attained greateminence as an actor. His Wolsey and his Richard(the Second, not the Third) were his best parts, perhapsbecause in them his beautiful diction had full scopeand his limitations were not noticeable. But itis more as a stage reformer than as an actor thathe will be remembered. The old happy-go-luckyway of staging plays, with its sublime indifferenceto correctness of detail and its utter disregard ofarchaeology, had received its first blow from Kembleand Macready, but Charles Kean gave it much harderknocks and went further than either of them in thegood work.

It is an old story and a true one that when EdmundKean made his first great success as Shylock, aftera long and miserable struggle as a strolling player,he came home to his wife and said: “Youshall ride in your carriage,” and then, catchingup his little son, added, “and Charley shallgo to Eton!” Well, Charley did go to Eton, andif Eton did not make him a great actor, it openedhis eyes to the absurd anachronisms in costumes andaccessories which prevailed on the stage at that period,and when he undertook the management of the Princess’sTheater, he turned his classical education to account.In addition to scholarly knowledge, he had a naturallyrefined taste and the power of selecting the rightman to help him. Planche, the great authorityon historical costumes, was one of his ablest coadjutors,and Mr. Bradshaw designed all the properties.It has been said lately that I began my career onan unfurnished stage, when the play was the thing,and spectacle was considered of small importance.I take this opportunity of contradicting that statementmost emphatically. Neither when I began nor yetlater in my career have I ever played under a managementwhere infinite pains were not given to every detail.I think that far from hampering the acting, a beautifuland congruous background and harmonious costumes,representing accurately the spirit of the time inwhich the play is supposed to move, ought to help andinspire the actor.

Such thoughts as these did not trouble my head whenI acted with the Keans, but, child as I was, the beautyof the productions at the Princess’s Theatermade a great impression on me, and my memory of themis quite clear enough, even if there were not plentyof other evidence, for me to assert that in some respectsthey were even more elaborate than those of the presentday. I know that the bath-buns of one’schildhood always seem in memory much bigger and betterthan the buns sold nowadays, but even allowing forthe natural glamor which the years throw over bunsand rooms, places and plays alike, I am quite certainthat Charles Kean’s productions of Shakespearewould astonish the modern critic who regards the periodof my first appearance as a sort of dark-age in thescenic art of the theater.

I have alluded to the beauty of Charles Kean’sdiction. His voice was also of a wonderful quality—softand low, yet distinct and clear as a bell. Whenhe played Richard II. the magical charm of this organwas alone enough to keep the house spellbound.His vivid personality made a strong impression onme. Yet others only remember that he called hiswife “Delly,” though she was Nelly, andalways spoke as if he had a cold in his head.How strange! If I did not understand what suggestedimpressions so different from my own, they would makeme more indignant.

“Now who shall arbitrate?
Ten men love what I hate,
Shun what I follow, slightwhat I receive.
Ten who in ears and eyes
Match me; they all surmise,
They this thing, and I that:
Whom shall my soul believe?”

What he owed to Mrs. Kean, he would have been thefirst to confess. In many ways she was the leadingspirit in the theater; at the least, a joint ruler,not a queen-consort. During the rehearsals Mr.Kean used to sit in the stalls with a loud-voiceddinner-bell by his side, and when anything went wrongon the stage, he would ring it ferociously, and everythingwould come to a stop, until Mrs. Kean, who always saton the stage, had set right what was wrong. Shewas more formidable than beautiful to look at, buther wonderful fire and genius were none the less impressivebecause she wore a white handkerchief round her headand had a very beaky nose! How I admired andloved and feared her! Later on the fear was replacedby gratitude, for no woman ever gave herself moretrouble to train a young actress than did Mrs. Kean.The love and admiration, I am glad to say, remainedand grew. It is rare that it falls to the lotof anyone to have such an accomplished teacher.Her patience and industry were splendid.

It was Mrs. Kean who chose me out of five or six otherchildren to play my first part. We were all triedin it, and when we had finished, she said the samething to us all: “That’s very nice!Thank you, my dear. That will do.”

We none of us knew at the time which of us had pleasedher most.

At this time we were living in the upper part of ahouse in the Gower Street region. That firsthome in London I remember chiefly by its fine brassknocker, which mother kept beautifully bright, andby its being the place to which I was sent my firstpart! Bound in green American cloth, it lookedto me more marvelous than the most priceless book hasever looked since! I was so proud and pleasedand delighted that I danced a hornpipe for joy!

Why was I chosen, and not one of the other children,for the part of Mamilius? some one may ask. Itwas not mere luck, I think. Perhaps I was a bornactress, but that would have served me little if Ihad not been able to speak! It must beremembered that both my sister Kate and I had beentrained almost from our birth for the stage, and particularlyin the important branch of clear articulation.Father, as I have already said, was a very charmingelocutionist, and my mother read Shakespeare beautifully.They were both very fond of us and saw our faults witheyes of love, though they were unsparing in theircorrections. In these early days they had needof all their patience, for I was a most troublesome,wayward pupil. However, “the labor we delightin physics pain,” and I hope, too, that my morestaid sister made it up to them!

The rehearsals for “A Winter’s Tale”were a lesson in fortitude. They taught me onceand for all that an actress’s life (even whenthe actress is only eight) is not all beer and skittles,or cakes and ale, or fame and glory. I was castfor the part of Mamilius in the way I have described,and my heart swelled with pride when I was told whatI had to do, when I realized that I had a real Shakespearepart—a possession that father had taughtme to consider the pride of life!

But many weary hours were to pass before the firstnight. If a company has to rehearse four hoursa day now, it is considered a great hardship, andplayers must lunch and dine like other folk. Butthis was not Kean’s way! Rehearsals lastedall day, Sundays included, and when there was no playrunning at night, until four or five the next morning!I don’t think any actor in those days dreamedof luncheon. (Tennyson, by the way, told me to say“luncheon”—not “lunch.”)How my poor little legs used to ache! SometimesI could hardly keep my eyes open when I was on thestage, and often when my scene was over, I used tocreep into the greenroom and forget my troubles andmy art (if you can talk of art in connection witha child of eight) in a delicious sleep.

At the dress-rehearsals I did not want to sleep.All the members of the company were allowed to sitand watch the scenes in which they were not concerned,from the back of the dress-circle. This, by theway, is an excellent plan, and in theaters where itis followed the young actress has reason to be grateful.In these days of greater publicity when the pressattend rehearsals, there may be strong reasons againstthe company being “in front,” but theperfect loyalty of all concerned would dispose ofthese reasons. Now, for the first time, the beginneris able to see the effect of the weeks of thoughtand labor which have been given to the production.She can watch from the front the fulfillment of whatshe has only seen as intention and promise duringthe other rehearsals. But I am afraid that beginnersnow are not so keen as they used to be. The firstwicked thing I did in a theater sprang from excessof keenness. I borrowed a knife from a carpenterand made a slit in the canvas to watch Mrs. Kean asHermione!

Devoted to her art, conscientious to a degree in masteringthe spirit and details of her part, Mrs. Kean alsopossessed the personality and force to chain the attentionand indelibly imprint her rendering of a part on theimagination. When I think of the costume in whichshe played Hermione, it seems marvelous to me thatshe could have produced the impression that she did.This seems to contradict what I have said about themagnificence of the production. But not at all!The designs of the dresses were purely classic; butthen, as now, actors and actresses seemed unable tokeep their own period and their own individuality outof the clothes directly they got them on their backs.In some cases the original design was quite swamped.No matter what the character that Mrs. Kean was assuming,she always used to wear her hair drawn flat over herforehead and twisted tight round her ears in a kindof circular sweep—such as the old writing-mastersused to make when they attempted an extra grand flourish.And then the amount of petticoats she wore! Evenas Hermione she was always bunched out by layer uponlayer of petticoats, in defiance of the fact thatclassical parts should not be dressed in a superfluityof raiment. But if the petticoats were full ofstarch, the voice was full of pathos—andthe dignity, simplicity, and womanliness of Mrs. CharlesKean’s Hermione could not have been marred bya far more grotesque costume.

There is something, I suppose, in a woman’snature which always makes her remember how she wasdressed at any specially eventful moment of her life,and I can see myself, as though it were yesterday,in the little red-and-silver dress I wore as Mamilius.Mrs. Grieve, the dresser—“Peter Grieve-us,”as we children called her—had pulled meinto my very pink tights (they were by no means tightbut very baggy, according to the pictures of me),and my mother had arranged my hair in sausage curlson each side of my head in even more perfect orderand regularity than usual. Besides my clothes,I had a beautiful “property” to be proudof. This was a go-cart, which had been made inthe theater by Mr. Bradshaw, and was an exact copyof a child’s toy as depicted on a Greek vase.It was my duty to drag this little cart about the stage,and on the first night, when Mr. Kean as Leontes toldme to “go play,” I obeyed his instructionswith such vigor that I tripped over the handle andcame down on my back! A titter ran through thehouse, and I felt that my career as an actress wasruined forever. Even now I remember how bitterlyI wept, and how deeply humiliated I felt. Butthe little incident, so mortifying to me, did notspoil my first appearance altogether. The Timesof May 1, 1856, was kind enough to call me “vivaciousand precocious,” and “a worthy relativeof my sister Kate,” and my parents were pleased(although they would not show it too much), and Mrs.Kean gave me a pat on the back. Father and Katewere both in the cast, too, I ought to have said,and the Queen, Prince Albert, and the Princess Royalwere all in a box on the first night.

To act for the first time in Shakespeare, in a theaterwhere my sister had already done something for ourname, and before royalty, was surely a good beginning.

From April 28, 1856, I played Mamilius every nightfor one hundred and two nights. I was never ill,and my understudy, Clara Denvil, a very handsome,dark child with flaming eyes, though quite ready andlonging to play my part, never had the chance.

I had now taken the first step, but I had taken itwithout any notion of what I was doing. I wasinnocent of all art, and while I loved the actualdoing of my part, I hated the labor that led up toit. But the time was soon to come when I wasto be fired by a passion for work. MeanwhileI was unconsciously learning a number of lessons whichwere to be most useful to me in my subsequent career.

TRAINING IN SHAKESPEARE

1856-1859

From April 1856 until 1859 I acted constantly at thePrincess’s Theater with the Keans, spendingthe summer holidays in acting at Ryde. My wholelife was the theater, and naturally all my early memoriesare connected with it. At breakfast father wouldbegin the day’s “coaching.”Often I had to lay down my fork and say my lines.He would conduct these extra rehearsals anywhere—inthe street, the ’bus—we were neversafe! I remember vividly going into a chemist’sshop and being stood upon a stool to say my part tothe chemist! Such leisure as I had from my professionwas spent in “minding” the younger children—anoccupation in which I delighted. They all hadvery pretty hair, and I used to wash it and comb itout until it looked as fine and bright as floss silk.

It is argued now that stage life is bad for a youngchild, and children are not allowed by law to go onthe stage until they are ten years old—quitea mature age in my young days! I cannot discussthe whole question here, and must content myself withsaying that during my three years at the Princess’sI was a very strong, happy, and healthy child.I was never out of the bill except during the runof “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,”when, through an unfortunate accident, I broke my toe.I was playing Puck, my second part on any stage, andhad come up through a trap at the end of the lastact to give the final speech. My sister Katewas playing Titania that night as understudy to CarlottaLeclercq. Up I came—but not quiteup, for the man shut the trapdoor too soon and caughtmy toe. I screamed. Kate rushed to me andbanged her foot on the stage, but the man only closedthe trap tighter, mistaking the signal.

“Oh, Katie! Katie!” I cried.“Oh, Nelly! Nelly!” said poor Katehelplessly. Then Mrs. Kean came rushing on andmade them open the trap and release my poor foot.

“Finish the play, dear,” she whisperedexcitedly, “and I’ll double your salary!”There was Kate holding me up on one side and Mrs. Keanon the other. Well, I did finish the play ina fashion. The text ran something like this—

“If we shadows haveoffended (Oh, Katie, Katie!)
Think but this, and all ismended, (Oh, my toe!)
That you have but slumberedhere,
While these visions did appear.(I can’t, I can’t!)
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,(Oh, dear! oh, dear!)
Gentles, do not reprehend;(A big sob)
If you pardon, we will mend.(Oh, Mrs. Kean!)”

How I got through it, I don’t know! Butmy salary was doubled—it had been fifteenshillings, and it was raised to thirty—andMr. Skey, President of Bartholomew’s Hospital,who chanced to be in a stall that very evening, cameround behind the scenes and put my toe right.He remained my friend for life.

I was not chosen for Puck because I had played Mamiliuswith some credit. The same examination was gonethrough, and again I came out first. During therehearsals Mrs. Kean taught me to draw my breath inthrough my nose and begin a laugh—a veryvaluable accomplishment! She was also indefatigablein her lessons in clear enunciation, and I can hearher now lecturing the ladies of the company on theirvowels. “A, E, I, O, U, my dear,”she used to say, “are five distinct vowels, sodon’t mix them all up together, as if you weremaking a pudding. If you want to say, ‘Iam going on the river,’ say it plainly and don’ttell us you are going on the ‘riv_ah_!’You must say her, not har; it’sGod, not Gud: rem_on_strance, notrem_un_strance,” and so forth. No one everhad a sharper tongue or a kinder heart than Mrs. Kean.Beginning with her, I have always loved women witha somewhat hard manner! I have never believedin their hardness, and have proved them tender andgenerous in the extreme.

Actor-managers are very proud of their long runs nowadays,but in Shakespeare, at any rate, they do not ofteneclipse Charles Kean’s two hundred and fiftynights of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”at the Princess’s. It was certainly a veryfascinating production, and many of the effects werebeautiful. I, by the way, had my share in marringone of these during the run. When Puck was toldto put a girdle round the earth in forty minutes,I had to fly off the stage as swiftly as I could,and a dummy Puck was whirled through the air from thepoint where I disappeared. One night the dummy,while in full flying action, fell on the stage, whereupon,in great concern for its safety, I ran on, pickedit up in my arms, and ran off with it amid roars oflaughter! Neither of the Keans was acting inthis production, but there was some one in authorityto give me a sound cuff. Yet I had such excellentintentions. ’Tis ever thus!

I reveled in Puck and his impish pranks, and unconsciouslyrealized that it was a part in which the imaginationcould run riot. I believe I played it well, butI did not look well, and I must contradictemphatically the kind assumption that I must have beena “delightful little fairy.” As MamiliusI was really a sweet little thing, but while I wasplaying Puck I grew very gawky—not to sayugly! My hair had been cut short, and my redcheeks stuck out too much. I was a sight!

The parts we play influence our characters to someextent, and Puck made me a bit of a romp. I grewvain and rather “co*cky,” and it was justas well that during the rehearsals for the Christmaspantomime in 1857 I was tried for the part of theFairy Dragonetta and rejected. I believe thatmy failure was principally due to the fact that Naturehad not given me flashing eyes and raven hair—withoutwhich, as everyone knows, no bad fairy can hold upher head and respect herself. But at the timeI felt distinctly rebuffed, and only the extreme beautyof my dress as the maudlin “good fairy”Goldenstar consoled me. Milly Smith (afterwardsMrs. Thorn) was Dragonetta, and one of her speechesran like this:

“Ungrateful Simple Simon(darting forward) You thought no doubt to
spite me!
That to this Royal Christeningyou did not invite me!
BUT—(Mrs. Kean:“You must plaster that ‘but’ onthe white wall
at the back of the gallery.")—
But on this puling brat revengedI’ll be!
My fiery dragon there shallhave her broiled for tea!”

At Ryde during the previous summer my father had takenthe theater, and Kate and I played in several farceswhich the Keeleys and the great comedian Robson hadmade famous in London. My performances as Waddiloveand Jacob Earwig had provoked some one to describeme as “a perfect little heap of talent!”To fit my Goldenstar, I must borrow that phrase anddescribe myself as a perfect little heap of vanity.

It was that dress! It was a long dress, thoughI was still a baby, and it was as pink and gold asit was trailing. I used to think I looked beautifulin it. I wore a trembling star on my forehead,too, which was enough to upset any girl!

One of the most wearisome, yet essential details ofmy education is connected with my first long dress.It introduces, too, Mr. Oscar Byrn, the dancing-masterand director of crowds at the Princess’s.One of his lessons was in the art of walking witha flannel blanket pinned on in front and trailingsix inches on the floor. My success in carryingout this maneuver with dignity won high praise fromMr. Byrn. The other children used to kick atthe blanket and progress in jumps like young kangaroos,but somehow I never had any difficulty in moving gracefully.No wonder then that I impressed Mr. Byrn, who had atheory that “an actress was no actress unlessshe learned to dance early.” Whenever hewas not actually putting me through my paces, I wasbusy watching him teach the others. There wasthe minuet, to which he used to attach great importance,and there was “walking the plank.”Up and down one of the long planks, extending thelength of the stage, we had to walk first slowly andthen quicker and quicker until we were able at a considerablepace to walk the whole length of it without deviatingan inch from the straight line. This exercise,Mr. Byrn used to say, and quite truly, I think, taughtus uprightness of carriage and certainty of step.

“Eyes right! Chest out! Chin tuckedin!” I can hear the dear old man shouting atus as if it were yesterday; and I have learned to seeof what value all his drilling was, not only to deportment,but to clear utterance. It would not be a badthing if there were more “old fops” likeOscar Byrn in the theaters of to-day. That old-fashionedart of “deportment” is sadly neglected.

The pantomime in which I was the fairy Goldenstarwas very frequently preceded by “A MidsummerNight’s Dream,” and the two parts on onenight must have been fairly heavy work for a child,but I delighted in it.

In the same year (1858) I played Karl in “Faustand Marguerite,” a jolly little part with plentyof points in it, but not nearly as good a part asPuck. Progress on the stage is often crab-like,and little parts, big parts, and no parts at all mustbe accepted as “all in the day’s work.”In these days I was cast for many a “dumb”part. I walked on in “The Merchant of Venice”carrying a basket of doves; in “Richard II.”I climbed up a pole in the street scene; in “HenryVIII.” I was “top angel” inthe vision, and I remember that the heat of the gasat that dizzy height made me sick at the dress-rehearsal!I was a little boy “cheering” in severalother productions. In “King Lear”my sister Kate played Cordelia. She was onlyfourteen, and the youngest Cordelia on record.Years after I played it at the Lyceum when I was overforty!

The production of “Henry VIII.” at thePrincess’s was one of Charles Kean’s bestefforts. I always refrain from belittling thepresent at the expense of the past, but there wereefforts here which I have never seen surpassed, andabout this my memory is not at all dim. At thistime I seem to have been always at the side watchingthe acting. Mrs. Kean’s Katherine of Aragonwas splendid, and Charles Kean’s Wolsey, hisbest part after, perhaps, his Richard II. Still,the lady who used to stand ready with a tear-bottleto catch his tears as he came off after his last scenerather overdid her admiration. My mental criticismat the time was “What rubbish!” When Isay in what parts Charles Kean was “best,”I don’t mean to be assertive. How shoulda mere child be able to decide? I “thinkback” and remember in what parts I liked himbest, but I may be quite wide of the mark.

In those days audiences liked plenty for their money,and a Shakespeare play was not nearly long enoughto fill the bill. English playgoers in the early’fifties did not emulate the Japanese, who goto the theater early in the morning and stay thereuntil late at night, still less the Chinese, whoseplays begin one week and end the next, but they thoughtnothing of sitting in the theater from seven to twelve.In one of the extra pieces which these hours necessitated,I played a “tiger,” one of those youthfulgrooms who are now almost a bygone fashion. Thepride that I had taken in my trembling star in thepantomime was almost equaled now by my pride in mytop-boots! They were too small and caused meinsupportable suffering, but I was so afraid that theywould be taken away if I complained, that every eveningI used to put up valorously with the torture.The piece was called “If the Cap Fits,”but my boots were the fit with which I was most concerned!

Years later the author of the little play, Mr. EdmundYates, the editor of The World—wroteto me about my performance as the tiger:

“When on June 13, 1859 (to noone else in the world would I breathe the date!)I saw a very young lady play a tiger in a comediettaof mine called ‘If the Cap Fits,’I had no idea that that precocious child hadin her the germ of such an artist as she has sinceproved herself. What I think of her performanceof Portia she will see in The World.”

In “The Merchant of Venice” though I hadno speaking part, I was firmly convinced that thebasket of doves which I carried on my shoulder wasthe principal attraction of the scene in which it appeared.The other little boys and girls in the company regardedthose doves with eyes of bitter envy. One littlechorus boy, especially, though he professed a personaldevotion of the tenderest kind for me, could neverquite get over those doves, and his romantic sentimentscooled considerably when I gained my proud positionas dove-bearer. Before, he had shared his sweetswith me, but now he transferred both sweets and affectionsto some more fortunate little girl. Envy, afterall, is the death of love!

Mr. Harley was the Launcelot Gobbo in “The Merchantof Venice”—an old gentleman, andalmost as great a fop as Mr. Byrn. He was alwayssmiling; his two large rows of teeth were so verygood! And he had pompous, grandiloquent manners,and wore white gaiters and a long hanging eye-glass.His appearance I should never have forgotten anyhow,but he is also connected in my mind with my firstexperience of terror.

It came to me in the greenroom, the window-seat ofwhich was a favorite haunt of mine. Curled upin the deep recess I had been asleep one evening,when I was awakened by a strange noise, and, peepingout, saw Mr. Harley stretched on the sofa in a fit.One side of his face was working convulsively, andhe was gibbering and mowing the air with his hand.When he saw me, he called out: “Little Nelly!oh, little Nelly!” I stood transfixed with horror.He was still dressed as Launcelot Gobbo, and thismade it all the more terrible. A doctor was sentfor, and Mr. Harley was looked after, but he neverrecovered from his seizure and died a few days afterwards.

Although so much of my early life is vague and indistinct,I can always see and hear Mr. Harley as I saw andheard him that night, and I can always recollect theview from the greenroom window. It looked outon a great square courtyard, in which the spare scenery,that was not in immediate use, was stacked. Forsome reason or other this courtyard was a favoriteplayground for a large company of rats. I don’tknow what the attraction was for them, except thatthey may have liked nibbling the paint off the canvas.Out they used to troop in swarms, and I, from my perchon the window-seat, would watch and wonder. Oncea terrible storm came on, and years after, at theLyceum, the Brocken Scene in “Faust” broughtback the scene to my mind—the thunder andlightning and the creatures crawling on every side,the grayness of the whole thing.

All “calls” were made from the greenroomin those days, and its atmosphere was, I think, betterthan that of the dressing-room in which nowadays actorsand actresses spend their time during the waits.The greenroom at the Princess’s was often visitedby distinguished people, among them Planche, the archaeologist,who did so much for Charles Kean’s productions,and Macready. One night, as with my usual impetuosityI was rushing back to my room to change my dress, Iran right into the white waistcoat of an old gentleman!Looking up with alarm, I found that I had nearly knockedover the great Mr. Macready.

“Oh, I beg your pardon!” I exclaimedin eager tones. I had always heard from fatherthat Macready was the greatest actor of all, and thiswas our first meeting. I was utterly abashed,but Mr. Macready, looking down with a very kindlysmile, only answered: “Never mind!You are a very polite little girl, and you act veryearnestly and speak very nicely.”

I was too much agitated to do anything but continuemy headlong course to my dressing-room, but even inthose short moments the strange attractiveness ofhis face impressed itself on my imagination. Iremember distinctly his curling hair, his oddly coloredeyes full of fire, and his beautiful, wavy mouth.

When I first described this meeting with Macready,a disagreeable person wrote to the papers and saidthat he did not wish to question my veracity, butthat it was utterly impossible that Macready couldever have brought himself to go to the Princess’sat this time, because of the rivalry between him andCharles Kean. I know that the two actors werenot on speaking terms, but very likely Macready hadcome to see my father or Mr. Harley or one of themany members of Kean’s company who had onceserved under him.

The period when I was as vain as a little peaco*ckhad come to an end before this. I think my partin “Pizarro” saw the last of it. Iwas a Worshiper of the Sun, and in a pink feather,pink swathings of muslin, and black arms, I was againstruck by my own beauty. I grew quite attachedto the looking-glass which reflected that feather!Then suddenly there came a change. I began to seethe whole thing. My attentive watching of otherpeople began to bear fruit, and the labor and perseverance,care and intelligence which had gone to make theseenormous productions dawned on my young mind. Onemust see things for oneself. Up to this time Ihad loved acting because it was great fun, but I hadnot loved the grind. After I began to rehearsePrince Arthur in “King John,” a part inwhich my sister Kate had already made a great successsix years earlier, I understood that if I did not work,I could not act. And I wanted to work. Iused to get up in the middle of the night and watchmy gestures in the glass. I used to try my voiceand bring it down and up in the right places.And all vanity fell away from me. At the firstrehearsals of “King John” I could not doanything right. Mrs. Kean stormed at me, slappedme. I broke down and cried, and then, with allthe mortification and grief in my voice, managed toexpress what Mrs. Kean wanted and what she could notteach me by doing it herself.

“That’s right, that’s right!”she cried excitedly, “you’ve got it!Now remember what you did with your voice, reproduceit, remember everything, and do it!”

When the rehearsal was over, she gave me a vigorouskiss. “You’ve done very well,”she said. “That’s what I want.You’re a very tired little girl. Now runhome to bed.” I shall never forget the reliefof those kind words after so much misery, and thelittle incident often comes back to me now when Ihear a young actress say, “I can’t do it!”If only she can cry with vexation, I feel sure thatshe will then be able to make a good attempt at doingit!

There were oppositions and jealousies in the Keans’camp, as in most theaters, but they were never broughtto my notice until I played Prince Arthur. ThenI saw a great deal of Mr. Ryder, who was the Hubertof the production, and discovered that there was somesoreness between him and his manager. Ryder wasa very pugnacious man—an admirable actor,and in appearance like an old tree that has been struckby lightning, or a greenless, barren rock; and hewas very strong in his likes and dislikes, and inhis manner of expressing them.

“D’ye suppose he engaged me for my powersas an actor?” he used to say of Mr. Kean.“Not a bit of it! He engaged me for my d——darchaeological figure!”

One night during the run of “King John,”a notice was put up that no curtain calls would beallowed at the end of a scene. At the end of myscene with Hubert there was tremendous applause, andwhen we did not appear, the audience began to shoutand yell and cheer. I went off to the greenroom,but even from there I could still hear the voices:“Hubert! Arthur!” Mr. Kean began thenext scene, but it was of no use. He had to givein and send for us. Meanwhile old Ryder had beenstriding up and down the greenroom in a perfect fury.“Never mind, ducky!” he kept on sayingto me; and it was really quite unnecessary, for “ducky”was just enjoying the noise and thinking it all capitalfun. “Never mind! When other peopleare rotting in their graves, ducky, you’ll beup there!” (with a terrific gesture indicativeof the dizzy heights of fame). When the messagecame to the greenroom that we were to take the call,he strode across the stage to the entrance, I runningafter him and quite unable to keep up with his longsteps.

In “Macbeth” I was again associated withRyder, who was the Banquo when I was Fleance, andI remember that after we had been dismissed by Macbeth:“Good repose the while,” we had to go offup a flight of steps. I always stayed at thetop until the end of the scene, but Mr. Ryder usedto go down the other side rather heavily, and Mr. Kean,who wanted perfect quiet for the dagger speech, hadto keep on saying: “Ssh! ssh!” allthrough it.

“Those carpenters at the side are enough toruin any acting,” he said one night when hecame off.

“I’m a heavy man, and I can’t helpit,” said Ryder.

“Oh, I didn’t know it was you,”said Mr. Kean—but I think he did! Onenight I was the innocent cause of a far worse disturbance.I dozed at the top of the steps and rolled from thetop to the bottom with a fearful crash! Anothernight I got into trouble for not catching Mrs. Keanwhen, as Constance, in “King John,” shesank down on to the ground.

“Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it!”

I was, for my sins, looking at the audience, and Mrs.Kean went down with a run, and was naturallyvery angry with me!

In 1860 the Keans gave up the management of the Princess’sTheater and went to America. They traveled ina sailing vessel, and, being delayed by a calm, hadto drink water caught in the sails, the water supplyhaving given out. I believe that although thereceipts were wonderful, Charles Kean spent much morethan he made during his ten years of management.Indeed, he confessed as much in a public announcement.The Princess’s Theater was not very big, andthe seats were low-priced. It is my opinion,however, that no manager with high artistic aims,resolute to carry them out in his own way, can evermake a fortune.

Of the other members of the company during my threeyears at the Princess’s, I remember best WalterLacy, who was the William Terriss of the time.He knew Madame Vestris, and had many entertaining storiesabout her. Then there were the Leclercqs, twoclever sisters, Carlotta and Rose, who did great thingslater on. Men, women and children alike workedhard, and if the language of the actors was more Rabelaisianthan polite, they were good fellows and heart andsoul devoted to their profession. Their salarieswere smaller and their lives were simpler than isthe case with actors now.

Kate and I had been hard at work for some years, butour parents had no notion of our resting. Wewere now to show what our training had done for usin “A Drawing-room Entertainment.”

II

ON THE ROAD

1859-1861

From July to September every year the leading theatersin London and the provincial cities were closed forthe summer vacation. This plan is still adheredto more or less, but in London, at any rate, some theaterskeep their doors open all the year round. Duringthese two months most actors take their holiday, butwhen we were with the Keans we were not in a positionto afford such a luxury. Kate and I were earninggood salaries for our age,[1] but the family at homewas increasing in size, and my mother was carefulnot to let us think that there never could be anyrainy days. I am bound to say that I left questionsof thrift, and what we could afford and what we couldn’tentirely to my parents. I received sixpence aweek pocket-money, with which I was more than contentfor many years. Poor we may have been at thistime, but, owing to my mother’s diligent care

and cleverness, we always looked nice and neat.One of the few early dissipations I can remember wasa Christmas party in Half Moon Street, where our whitemuslin dresses were equal to any present. Butmore love and toil and pride than money had gone tomake them. I have a very clear vision of cominghome late from the theater to our home in StanhopeStreet, Regent’s Park, and seeing my dear motherstitching at those pretty frocks by the light of onecandle. It was no uncommon thing to find hersewing at that time, but if she was tired, she nevershowed it. She was always bright and tender.With the callousness of childhood, I scarcely realizedthe devotion and ceaseless care that she bestowedon us, and her untiring efforts to bring us up asbeautifully as she could. The knowledge came tome later on when, all too early in my life, my ownresponsibilities came on me and quickened my perceptions.But I was a heartless little thing when I danced offto that party! I remember that when the greatevening came, our hair, which we still wore down ourbacks, was done to perfection, and we really lookedfit to dance with a king. As things were, I diddance with the late Duke of Cambridge! It wasthe most exciting Christmas Day in my life.

[Footnote 1: Of course, all salaries are biggernow than they were then. The “stars”in old days earned large sums—Edmund Keanreceived two hundred and fifty pounds for four performances—butthe ordinary members of a company were paid at a verymoderate rate. I received fifteen shillings aweek at the Princess’s until I played Puck, whenmy salary was doubled.—E.T.]

Our summer holidays, as I have said, were spent atRyde. We stayed at Rose Cottage (for which Isought in vain when I revisited the place the otherday), and the change was pleasant, even though we wereworking hard. One of the pieces father gave atthe theater to amuse the summer visitors was a farcecalled “To Parents and Guardians.”I played the fat, naughty boy Waddilove, a part whichhad been associated with the comedian Robson in London,and I remember that I made the unsophisticated audienceshout with laughter by entering with my hands coveredwith jam! Father was capital as the French usherTourbillon; and the whole thing went splendidly.Looking back, it seems rather audacious for such achild to have attempted a grown-up comedian’spart, but it was excellent practice for that child!It was the success of these little summer venturesat Ryde which made my father think of our touringin “A Drawing-room Entertainment” whenthe Keans left the Princess’s.

The entertainment consisted of two little plays “Homefor the Holidays” and “Distant Relations,”and they were written, I think, by a Mr. Courtney.We were engaged to do it first at the Royal Colosseum,Regent’s Park, by Sir Charles Wyndham’sfather, Mr. Culverwell. Kate and I played allthe parts in each piece, and we did quick changes atthe side worthy of Fregoli! The whole thing wasquite a success, and after playing it at the Colosseumwe started on a round of visits.

In “Home for the Holidays,” which camefirst on our little programme, Kate played LetitiaMelrose, a young girl of about seventeen, who is expectingher young brother “home for the holidays.”Letitia, if I remember right, was discovered soliloquizingsomewhat after this fashion: “Dear littleHarry! Left all alone in the world, as we are,I feel such responsibility about him. Shall Ifind him changed, I wonder, after two years’absence? He has not answered my letters lately.I hope he got the cake and toffee I sent him, butI’ve not heard a word.” At this pointI entered as Harry, but instead of being the innocentlittle schoolboy of Letitia’s fond imagination,Harry appears in loud peg-top trousers (peg-top trouserswere very fashionable in 1860), with a big cigar inhis mouth, and his hat worn jauntily on one side.His talk is all of racing, betting, and fighting.Letty is struck dumb with astonishment at first, butthe awful change, which two years have effected, graduallydawns on her. She implores him to turn from hisidle, foolish ways. Master Harry sinks on hisknees by her side, but just as his sister is aboutto rejoice and kiss him, he looks up in her face andbursts into loud laughter. She is much exasperated,and, threatening to send some one to him who willtalk to him in a very different fashion, she leavesthe stage. Master Hopeful thereupon dons hisdressing-gown and smoking cap, and, lying full lengthupon the sofa, begins to have a quiet smoke.He is interrupted by the appearance of a most wonderfuland grim old woman in blue spectacles—Mrs.Terrorbody. This is no other than “SisterLetty,” dressed up in order to frighten theyouth out of his wits. She talks and talks, and,after painting vivid pictures of what will becomeof him unless he alters his “vile ways,”leaves him, but not before she succeeds in making himshed tears, half of fright and half of anger.Later on, Sister Letty, looking from the window, seesa grand fight going on between Master Harry and abutcher-boy, and then Harry enters with his coat off,his sleeves tucked up, explaining in a state of blazingexcitement that he “had to fight thatbutcher-boy, because he had struck a little girl inthe street.” Letty sees that the lad hasa fine nature in spite of his folly, and appeals tohis heart and the nobility of his nature—thistime not in vain.

“Distant Relations” was far more inconsequent,but it served to show our versatility, at any rate.I was all things by turns, and nothing long!First I was the page boy who admitted the “relations”(Kate in many guises). Then I was a relationmyself—Giles, a rustic. As Giles, Isuddenly asked if the audience would like to hear meplay the drum, and “obliged” with a drumsolo, in which I had spent a great deal of time perfectingmyself. Long before this I remember dimly somerehearsal when I was put in the orchestra and takencare of by “the gentleman who played the drum,”and how badly I wanted to play it too! I afterwardstook lessons from Mr. Woodhouse, the drummer at thePrincess’s. Kate gave an imitation of Mrs.Kean as Constance so beautifully that she used tobring tears to my eyes, and make the audience weeptoo.

Both of us, even at this early age, had dreams ofplaying all Mrs. Kean’s parts. We knewthe words, not only of them, but of every female partin every play in which we had appeared at the Princess’s.“Walking on is so dull,” the young actresssays sometimes to me now, and I ask her if she knowsall the parts of the play in which she is “walkingon.” I hardly ever find that she does.“I have no understudy,” is her excuse.Even if a young woman has not been given an understudy,she ought, if she has any intention of taking herprofession as an actress seriously, to constituteherself an understudy to every part in the piece!Then she would not find her time as a “super”hang heavy on her hands.

Some of my readers may be able to remember the “StalactiteCaverns” which used to form one of the attractionsat the Colosseum. It was there that I first studiedthe words of Juliet. To me the gloomy horror ofthe place was a perfect godsend! Here I couldcultivate a creepy, eerie sensation, and get intoa fitting frame of mind for the potion scene.Down in this least imposing of subterranean abodesI used to tremble and thrill with passion and terror.Ah, if only in after years, when I played Juliet atthe Lyceum, I could have thrilled an audience to thesame extent!

After a few weeks at the Colosseum, we began our littletour. It was a very merry, happy time. Wetraveled a company of five, although only two of uswere acting. There were my father and mother,Kate and myself, and Mr. Sydney Naylor, who playedthe very important part of orchestra. With afew exceptions we made the journeys in a carriage.Once we tramped from Bristol to Exeter. Oh, thosedelightful journeys on the open road! I tastedthe joys of the strolling player’s existence,without its miseries. I saw the country for thefirst time.... When they asked me what I wasthinking of as we drove along, I remember answering:“Only that I should like to run wild in a woodfor ever!” At night we stayed in beautiful littleinns which were ever so much more cheap and comfortablethan the hotels of to-day. In some of the placeswe were asked out to tea and dinner and very muchfeted. An odd little troupe we were! Fatherwas what we will call for courtesy’s sake “StageManager,” but in reality he set the stage himself,and did the work which generally falls to the lotof the stage manager and an army of carpenters combined.My mother used to coach us up in our parts, dressus, make us go to sleep part of the day so that wemight look “fresh” at night, and lookafter us generally. Mr. Naylor, who was not verymuch more than a boy, though to my childish eyes hisyears were quite venerable, besides discoursing eloquentmusic in the evenings, during the progress of the“Drawing-room Entertainment,” would amuseus—me most especially—by beingvery entertaining himself during our journeys fromplace to place. How he made us laugh about—well,mostly about nothing at all.

We traveled in this way for nearly two years, visitinga new place every day, and making, I think, aboutten to fifteen pounds a performance. Our littlepieces were very pretty, but very slight, too; andI can only suppose that the people thought that “neveranything can be amiss when simpleness and duty tenderit,” for they received our entertainment verywell. The time had come when my little brothershad to be sent to school, and our earnings came inuseful.

When the tour came to an end in 1861, I went to Londonwith my father to find an engagement, while Kate joinedthe stock company at Bristol. We still gave the“Drawing-room Entertainment” at Ryde inthe summer, and it still drew large audiences.

In London my name was put on an agent’s booksin the usual way, and presently he sent me to MadameAlbina de Rhona, who had not long taken over the managementof the Royal Soho Theater and changed its name tothe Royalty. The improvement did not stop at thenew play. French workmen had swept and garnishedthe dusty, dingy place and transformed it into a theateras dainty and pretty as Madame de Rhona herself.Dancing was Madame’s strong point, but she hadbeen very successful as an actress too, first in Parisand Petersburg, and then in London at the St. James’sand Drury Lane. What made her go into managementon her own account I don’t know. I supposeshe was ambitious, and rich enough for the enterprise.

At this time I was “in standing water,”as Malvolio says of Viola when she is dressed as aboy. I was neither child nor woman—along-legged girl of about thirteen, still in shortskirts, and feeling that I ought to have long ones.However, when I set out with father to see Madam deRhona, I was very smart. I borrowed Kate’snew bonnet—pink silk trimmed with blacklace—and thought I looked nice in it.So did father, for he said on the way to the theaterthat pink was my color. In fact, I am sure itwas the bonnet that made Madame de Rhona engage meon the spot!

She was the first Frenchwoman I had ever met, andI was tremendously interested in her. Her neatand expressive ways made me feel very “small,”or rather big and clumsy, even at the firstinterview. A quick-tempered, bright, energeticl*ttle woman, she nearly frightened me out of my witsat the first rehearsal by dancing round me on the stagein a perfect frenzy of anger at what she was pleasedto call my stupidity. Then something I did suddenlypleased her, and she overwhelmed me with complimentsand praise. After a time these became the orderof the day, and she soon won my youthful affections.“Gross flattery,” as a friend of minesays, “is good enough for me!” Madame deRhona was, moreover, very kind-hearted and generous.To her generosity I owed the first piece of jeweleryI ever possessed—a pretty little brooch,which, with characteristic carelessness, I promptlylost! Besides being flattered by her praise and

grateful for her kindness, I was filled with greatadmiration for her. She was a wee thing—likea toy, and her dancing was really exquisite.When I watched the way she moved her hands and feet,despair entered my soul. It was all so precise,so “express and admirable.” Her limbswere so dainty and graceful—mine so bigand unmanageable! “How long and gaunt Iam,” I used to say to myself, “and whata pattern of prim prettiness she is!” I wasso much ashamed of my large hands, during this timeat the Royalty, that I kept them tucked up under myarms! This subjected me to unmerciful criticismfrom Madame Albina at rehearsals.

“Take down your hands,” she would callout. “Mon Dieu! It is like an ugly youngpoulet going to roost!”

In spite of this, I did not lose my elegant habitfor many years! I was only broken of it at lastby a friend saying that he supposed I had very uglyhands, as I never showed them! That did it!Out came the hands to prove that they were not sovery ugly, after all! Vanity often succeedswhere remonstrance fails.

The greenroom at the Royalty was a very pretty littleplace, and Madame Albina sometimes had supper-partiesthere after the play. One night I could not resistthe pangs of curiosity, and I peeped through the keyholeto see what was going on! I chose a lucky moment!One of Madame’s admirers was drinking champagneout of her slipper! It was even worth the boxon the ear that mother gave me when she caught me.She had been looking all over the theater for me,to take me home.

My first part at the Royalty was Clementine in “AttarGull.” Of the play, adapted from a storyby Eugene Sue, I have a very hazy recollection, butI know that I had one very effective scene in it.Clementine, an ordinary fair-haired ingenue in whitemuslin, has a great horror of snakes, and, in orderto cure her of her disgust, some one suggests thata dead snake should be put in her room, and she betaught how harmless the thing is for which she hadsuch an aversion. An Indian servant, who, forsome reason or other, has a deadly hatred for thewhole family, substitutes a live reptile. Clementineappears at the window with the venomous creature coiledround her neck, screaming with wild terror. Thespectators on the stage think that the snake is dead,and that she is only screaming from “nerves,”but in reality she is being slowly strangled.I began screaming in a frantic, heartrending manner,and continued screaming, each cry surpassing the lastin intensity and agony. At rehearsal I couldnot get these screams right for a long time.Madame de Rhona grew more and more impatient and atlast flew at me like a wild-cat and shook me.I cried, just as I had done when I could not get PrinceArthur’s terror right, and then the wild, agonizedscream that Madame de Rhona wanted came to me.I reproduced it and enlarged it in effect.On the first night the audience applauded the screamingmore than anything in the play. Madame de Rhonaassured me that I had made a sensation, kissed me andsaid I was a genius! How sweet and pleasant herflattering words sounded in my young and inexperiencedears I need hardly say.

Looking back to it now, I know perfectly well whyI, a mere child of thirteen, was able to give sucha realistic display of horror. I had the emotionalinstinct to start with, no doubt, but if I did it well,it was because I was able to imagine what would bereal in such a situation. I had neverobserved such horror, but I had previously realizedit, when, as Arthur, I had imagined the terror ofhaving my eyes put out.

Imagination! imagination! I put it first yearsago, when I was asked what qualities I thought necessaryfor success upon the stage. And I am still ofthe same opinion. Imagination, industry, and intelligence—“thethree I’s”—are all indispensableto the actress, but of these three the greatest is,without any doubt, imagination.

After this “screaming” success, which,however, did not keep “Attar Gull” inthe bill at the Royalty for more than a few nights,I continued to play under Madame de Rhona’smanagement until February 1862. During thesefew months new plays were being constantly put on,for Madame was somehow not very fortunate in gaugingthe taste of the public. It was in the fourthproduction—“The Governor’s Wife,”that, as Letty Briggs, I had my first experience ofwhat is called “stage fright.” I hadbeen on the stage more than five years, and had playedat least sixteen parts, so there was really no excusefor me. I suspect now that I had not taken enoughpains to get word-perfect. I know I had five newparts to study between November 21 and December 26.

Stage fright is like nothing else in the world.You are standing on the stage apparently quite welland in your right mind, when suddenly you feel asif your tongue had been dislocated and was lying powerlessin your mouth. Cold shivers begin to creep downwardsfrom the nape of your neck and all up you at the sametime, until they seem to meet in the small of yourback. About this time you feel as if a centipede,all of whose feet have been carefully iced, has begunto run about in the roots of your hair. The nextagreeable sensation is the breaking out of a coldsweat all over. Then you are certain that someone has cut the muscles at the back of your knees.Your mouth begins to open slowly, without giving utteranceto a single sound, and your eyes seem inclined to jumpout of your head over the footlights. At thispoint it is as well to get off the stage as quicklyas you can, for you are far beyond human help.

Whether everybody suffers in this way or not I cannotsay, but it exactly describes the torture I went throughin “The Governor’s Wife.” Ihad just enough strength and sense to drag myself offthe stage and seize a book, with which, after a fewminutes, I reappeared and ignominiously read my part.Whether Madame de Rhona boxed my ears or not, I can’tremember, but I think it is very likely she did, forshe was very quick-tempered. In later years Ihave not suffered from the fearsome malady, but evennow, after fifty years of stage-life, I never playa new part without being overcome by a terrible nervousnessand a torturing dread of forgetting my lines.Every nerve in my body seems to be dancing an independentjig on its own account.

It was at the Royalty that I first acted with Mr.Kendal. He and I played together in a comediettacalled “A Nice Quiet Day.” Soon after,my engagement came to an end, and I went to Bristol,where I gained the experience of my life with a stockcompany.

LIFE IN A STOCK COMPANY

1862-1863

“I think anything, naturally written, oughtto be in everybody’s way that pretends to bean actor.” This remark of Colley Cibber’slong ago struck me as an excellent motto for beginningon the stage. The ambitious boy thinks of Hamlet,the ambitious girl of Lady Macbeth or Rosalind, butwhere shall we find the young actor and actress whoseheart is set on being useful?

Usefulness! It is not a fascinating word, andthe quality is not one of which the aspiring spiritcan dream o’ nights, yet on the stage it isthe first thing to aim at. Not until we have learnedto be useful can we afford to do what we like.The tragedian will always be a limited tragedian ifhe has not learned how to laugh. The comedianwho cannot weep will never touch the highest levelsof mirth.

It was in the stock companies that we learned thegreat lesson of usefulness; we played everything—tragedy,comedy, farce, and burlesque. There was no questionof parts “suiting” us; we had to take whatwe were given.

The first time I was cast for a part in a burlesqueI told the stage manager I couldn’t sing andI couldn’t dance. His reply was short andto the point. “You’ve got to do it,”and so I did it in a way—a very funny wayat first, no doubt. It was admirable training,for it took all the self-consciousness out of me tostart with. To end with, I thought it capitalfun, and enjoyed burlesque as much as Shakespeare.

What was a stock company? I forget that in thesedays the question may be asked in all good faith,and that it is necessary to answer it. Well,then, a stock company was a company of actors and actressesbrought together by the manager of a provincial theaterto support a leading actor or actress—“astar”—from London. When EdmundKean, the Kembles, Macready, or Mrs. Siddons visitedprovincial towns, these companies were ready to supportthem in Shakespeare. They were also ready to playburlesque, farce, and comedy to fill out the bill.Sometimes the “stars” would come for awhole season; if their magnitude were of the firstorder, for only one night. Sometimes they wouldrehearse with the stock company, sometimes they wouldn’t.There is a story of a manager visiting Edmund Keanat his hotel on his arrival in a small provincial town,and asking the great actor when he would rehearse.

“Rehearse! I’m not going to rehearse—I’mgoing to sleep!”

“Have you any instructions?”

“Instructions! No! Tell ’emto keep at a long arm’s length away from meand do their d——d worst!”

At Bristol, where I joined Mr. J.H. Chute’sstock company in 1861, we had no experience of thatkind, perhaps because there was no Kean alive to giveit to us. And I don’t think that our “worst”would have been so very bad. Mr. Chute, who hadmarried Macready’s half-sister, was a splendidmanager, and he contrived to gather round him a companywhich was something more than “sound.”

Several of its members distinguished themselves greatlyin after years. Among these I may mention MissMarie Wilton (now Lady Bancroft) and Miss Madge Robertson(now Mrs. Kendal).

Lady Bancroft had left the company before I joinedit, but Mrs. Kendal was there, and so was Miss HenriettaHodson (afterwards Mrs. Labouchere). I was muchstruck at that time by Mrs. Kendal’s singing.Her voice was beautiful. As an example of howanything can be twisted to make mischief, I may quotehere an absurd tarradiddle about Mrs. Kendal neverforgetting in after years that in the Bristol stockcompany she had to play the singing fairy to my Titaniain “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”The simple fact, of course, was that she had the bestvoice in the company, and was of such infinite valuein singing parts that no manager in his senses wouldhave taken her out of them. There was no questionof my taking precedence of her, or of her playing secondfiddle to me.

Miss Hodson was a brilliant burlesque actress, a goodsinger, and a capital dancer. She had great personalcharm, too, and was an enormous favorite with theBristol public. I cannot exactly call her a “rival”of my sister Kate’s, for Kate was the “principallady” or “star,” and Henrietta Hodsonthe “soubrette,” and, in burlesque, the“principal boy.” Nevertheless, therewere certainly rival factions of admirers, and thefriendly antagonism between the Hodsonites and theTerryites used to amuse us all greatly.

We were petted, spoiled, and applauded to our heart’scontent, but I don’t think it did us any harm.We all had scores of admirers, but their youthfulardor seemed to be satisfied by tracking us when wewent to rehearsal in the morning and waiting for usoutside the stage-door at night.

When Kate and I had a “benefit” night,they had an opportunity of coming to rather closerquarters, for on these occasions tickets could bebought from members of the company, as well as at thebox-office of the theater.

Our lodgings in Queen Square were besieged by Bristolyouths who were anxious to get a glimpse of the Terrys.The Terrys demurely chatted with them and sold themtickets. My mother was most vigilant in her roleof duenna, and from the time I first went on the stageuntil I was a grown woman I can never remember goinghome unaccompanied by either her or my father.

The leading male members of Mr. Chute’s stockcompany were Arthur Wood (an admirable comedian),William George Rignold, W.H. Vernon, and CharlesCoghlan. At this time Charles Coghlan was actingmagnificently, and dressing each of his charactersso correctly and so perfectly that most of the audiencedid not understand it. For instance, as Glavis,in “The Lady of Lyons,” he looked a pictureof the Directoire fop. He did not compromisein any single detail, but wore the long stragglinghair, the high cravat, the eye-glass, bows, jags,and tags, to the infinite amusem*nt of some membersof the audience, who could not imagine what his quaintdress meant. Coghlan’s clothes were notmore perfect than his manner, but both were a littlein advance of the appreciation of Bristol playgoersin the ’sixties.

At the Princess’s Theater I had gained my experienceof long rehearsals. When I arrived in BristolI was to learn the value of short ones. Mr. Chutetook me in hand, and I had to wake up and be alertwith brains and body. The first part I playedwas Cupid in “Endymion.” To this dayI can remember my lines. I entered as a blindold woman in what is known in theatrical parlanceas a “disguise cloak.” Then, throwingit off, I said:

“Pity the poor blind—whatno one here?
Nay then, I’m not soblind as I appear,
And so to throw off all disguiseand sham,
Let me at once inform youwho I am!
I’m Cupid!”

Henrietta Hodson as Endymion and Kate as Diana hada dance with me which used to bring down the house.I wore a short tunic which in those days was consideredtoo scanty to be quite nice, and carried the conventionalbow and quiver.

In another burlesque, “Perseus and Andromeda,”I played Dictys; it was in this piece that ArthurWood used to make people laugh by punning on the line:“Such a mystery (Miss Terry) here!” Itwas an absurd little joke, but the people used tocheer and applaud.

At the end of my first season at Bristol I returnedto London for a time to play at the Haymarket underMr. Buckstone, but I had another season at Bristolin the following year. While my stage educationwas progressing apace, I was, through the influenceof a very wonderful family whose acquaintance we made,having my eyes opened to beautiful things in art andliterature. Mr. Godwin, the architect and archaeologist,was living in Bristol when Kate and I were at the TheaterRoyal, and we used to go to his house for some of theShakespeare readings in which our Bristol friendsasked us to take part. This house, with its Persianrugs, beautiful furniture, its organ, which for thefirst time I learned to love, its sense of design inevery detail, was a revelation to me, and the talkof its master and mistress made me think.At the theater I was living in an atmosphere whichwas developing my powers as an actress and teachingme what work meant, but my mind had begun to graspdimly and almost unconsciously that I must do somethingfor myself—something that all the educationand training I was receiving in my profession couldnot do for me. I was fourteen years old at Bristol,but I now felt that I had never really lived at allbefore. For the first time I began to appreciatebeauty, to observe, to feel the splendor of things,to aspire!

I remember that in one of the local papers there hadappeared under the headline “Jottings”some very wonderful criticisms of the performancesat the theater. The writer, whoever he was, didnot indulge in flattery, and in particular he attackedour classical burlesques on the ground that they wereugly. They were discussing “Jottings”one day at the Godwins’ house, and Kate saidit was absurd to take a burlesque so seriously.“Jottings” was all wrong.

“I don’t know,” said our host.“Even a burlesque can be beautiful.”

Afterwards he asked me what I thought of “Jottings,”and I confessed that there seemed to me a good dealof truth in what had been said. I had cut outall that he had written about us, read it several times,and thought it all very clever, most amusing—andgenerally right. Later on I found that Mr. Godwinand “Jottings” were one and the same!

At the Godwins’ I met Mr. Barclay, Mr. Hine,William Burges the architect, and many other peoplewho made an impression on my young mind. I acceptedtheir lessons eagerly, and found them of the greatestvalue later on.

In March 1863 Mr. Chute opened the Theater Royal,Bath, when, besides a specially written play symbolicof the event, his stock company performed “AMidsummer Night’s Dream.” Titaniawas the first Shakespeare part I had played sinceI left Charles Kean, but I think even in those earlydays I was more at home in Shakespeare than anythingelse. Mr. Godwin designed my dress, and we madeit at his house in Bristol. He showed me howto damp it and “wring” it while it waswet, tying up the material as the Orientals do intheir “tie and dry” process, so that whenit was dry and untied, it was all crinkled and clinging.This was the first lovely dress that I ever wore,and I learned a great deal from it.

Almost directly after that appearance at Bath I wentto London to fulfill an engagement at the HaymarketTheater, of which Mr. Buckstone was still the managerand Sothern the great attraction. I had playedGertrude Howard in “The Little Treasure”during the stock season at Bristol, and when Mr. Buckstonewanted to do the piece at the Haymarket, he was toldabout me. I was fifteen at this time, and my senseof humor was as yet ill-developed. I was fondof “larking” and merry enough, but I hatedbeing laughed at! At any rate, I couldsee no humor in Mr. Sothern’s jokes at my expense.He played my lover in “The Little Treasure,”and he was always teasing me—pulling myhair, making me forget my part and look like an idiot.But for dear old Mr. Howe, who was my “father”in the same piece, I should not have enjoyed actingin it at all, but he made amends for everything.We had a scene together in which he used to cry, andI used to cry—oh, it was lovely!

Why I should never have liked Sothern, with his wonderfulhands and blue eyes, Sothern, whom every one foundso fascinating and delightful, I cannot say, and Irecord it as discreditable to me, not to him.It was just a case of “I do not like thee, Dr.Fell.” I admired him—I couldnot help doing that—but I dreaded his jokes,and thought some of them very cruel.

Another thing I thought cruel at this time was thescandal which was talked in the theater. A changefor the better has taken place in this respect—atany rate, in conduct. People behave better now,and in our profession, carried on as it is in thepublic eye, behavior is everything. At the Haymarketthere were simply no bounds to what was said in thegreenroom. One night I remember gathering up myskirts (we were, I think, playing “The Rivals”at the time), making a curtsey, as Mr. Chippendale,one of the best actors in old comedy I ever knew, hadtaught me, and sweeping out of the room with the famousline from another Sheridan play: “Ladiesand gentlemen, I leave my character behind me!”

I see now that this was very priggish of me, but Iam quite as uncompromising in my hatred of scandalnow as I was then. Quite recently I had a lineto say in “Captain Brassbound’s Conversion,”which is a very helpful reply to any tale-bearing.“As if any one ever knew the whole truth aboutanything!” That is just the point. It isonly the whole truth which is informing and fair inthe long run, and the whole truth is never known.

I regard my engagement at the Haymarket as one ofmy lost opportunities, which in after years I wouldhave given much to have over again. I might havelearned so much more than I did. I was preoccupiedby events outside the theater. Tom Taylor, whohad for some time been a good friend to both Kateand me, had introduced us to Mr. Watts, the greatpainter, and to me the stage seemed a poor place whencompared with the wonderful studio where Kate andI were painted as “The Sisters.” Atthe Taylors’ house, too, the friends, the arts,the refinements had an enormous influence on me, andfor a time the theater became almost distasteful.Never at any time in my life have I been ambitious,but at the Haymarket I was not even passionately anxiousto do my best with every part that came in my way—aquality which with me has been a good substitute forambition. I was just dreaming of and aspiringafter another world, a world full of pictures andmusic and gentle, artistic people with quiet voicesand elegant manners. The reality of such a worldwas Little Holland House, the home of Mr. Watts.

So I confess quite frankly that I did not appreciateuntil it was too late, my advantages in serving atthe Haymarket with comrades who were the most surpassinglyfine actors and actresses in old comedy that I haveever known. There were Mr. Buckstone, the Chippendales,Mr. Compton, Mr. Farren. They one and all thoroughlyunderstood Sheridan. Their bows, their curtseys,their grand manner, the indefinable style whichthey brought to their task were something to see.We shall never know their like again, and the smoothestold-comedy acting of this age seems rough in comparison.Of course, we suffer more with every fresh decadethat separates us from Sheridan. As he gets fartherand farther away, the traditions of the performanceswhich he conducted become paler and paler. Mr.Chippendale knew these traditions backwards. Hemight even have known Sheridan himself. CharlesReade’s mother did know him, and sat on thestage with him while he rehearsed “The Schoolfor Scandal” with Mrs. Abingdon, the originalLady Teazle in the part.

Mrs. Abingdon, according to Charles Reade, who toldthe story, had just delivered the line, “Howdare you abuse my relations?” when Sheridanstopped the rehearsal.

“No, no, that won’t do at all! Itmustn’t be pettish. That’sshallow—shallow. You must go up stagewith, ’You are just what my cousin Sophy saidyou would be,’ and then turn and sweep down onhim like a volcano. ’You are a great bearto abuse my relations! How dare you abusemy relations!’”

I want to refrain, in telling the story of my life,from praising the past at the expense of the present.It is at best the act of a fogey and always an easything to do, as there are so few people who can contradictone. Yet even the fear of joining hands with thepeople who like every country but their own, and everyage except that in which they live, shall not determe from saying that although I have seen many improvementsin actors and acting since I was at the Haymarket,I have never seen artificial comedy acted as it wasacted there.

Not that I was much good at it myself. I playedJulia in “The Rivals” very ill; it wastoo difficult and subtle for me—ungratefulinto the bargain—and I even made a blunderin bringing down the curtain on the first night.It fell to my lot to finish the play—inplayers’ language, to speak the “tag.”Now, it has been a superstition among actors for centuriesthat it is unlucky to speak the “tag” infull at rehearsal. So during the rehearsals of“The Rivals,” I followed precedent anddid not say the last two or three words of my partand of the play, but just “mum, mum, mum!”When the first night came, instead of dropping my voicewith the last word in the conventional and proper manner,I ended with an upward inflection, which was rightfor the sense, but wrong for the curtain.

This unexpected innovation produced utter consternationall round me. The prompter was so much astoundedthat he thought there was something more coming anddid not give the “pull” for the curtainto come down. There was a horrid pause whileit remained up, and then Mr. Buckstone, the Bob Acresof the cast, who was very deaf and had not heard theupward inflection, exclaimed loudly and irritably:“Eh! eh! What does this mean? Whythe devil don’t you bring down the curtain?”And he went on cursing until it did come down.This experience made me think more than ever of theadvice of an old actor: “Never leave yourstage effects to chance, my child, but rehearse,and find out all about it!”

How I wished I had rehearsed that “tag”and taken the risk of being unlucky!

For the credit of my intelligence I should add thatthe mistake was a technical one, not a stupid one.The line was a question. It demanded anupward inflection; but no play can end like that.

It was not all old comedy at the Haymarket. “MuchAdo About Nothing” was put on during my engagement,and I played Hero to Miss Louisa Angell’s Beatrice.Miss Angell was a very modern Beatrice, but I, thoughI say it “as shouldn’t,” playedHero beautifully! I remember wondering if I shouldever play Beatrice. I just wondered, thatwas all. It was the same when Miss Angell playedLetitia Hardy in “The Belle’s Stratagem,”and I was Lady Touchwood. I just wondered!I never felt jealous of other people having biggerparts; I never looked forward consciously to a daywhen I should have them myself. There was no virtuein it. It was just because I wasn’t ambitious.

Louise Keeley, a pretty little woman and clever, tookmy fancy more than any one else in the company.She was always merry and kind, and I admired her dainty,vivacious acting. In a burlesque called “Buckstoneat Home” (in which I played Britannia and cameup a trap in a huge pearl, which opened and disclosedme) Miss Keeley was delightful. One evening thePrince and Princess of Wales (now our King and Queen)came to see “Buckstone at Home.”I believe it was the very first time they had appearedat a theater since their marriage. They sat farback in the royal box, the ladies and gentlemen oftheir suite occupying the front seats. Miss Keeley,dressed as a youth, had a song in which she broughtforward by the hand some well-known characters in fairytales and nursery rhymes—Cinderella, LittleBoy Blue, Jack and Jill, and so on, and introducedthem to the audience in a topical verse. One verseran:

“Here’s the Princeof Happyland,
Once he dwelt at the Lyceum;
Here’s another Princeat hand,
But being invisible,you can’t see him!”

Probably the Prince of Wales must have wished thesinger at—well, not at the Haymarket Theater;but the next minute he must have been touched by theloyal greeting that he received. When the audiencegrasped the situation, every one—stalls,boxes, circle, pit, gallery—stood up andcheered and cheered again. Never was there a moreextraordinary scene in a playhouse—suchexcitement, such enthusiasm! The action of theplay came to a full stop, but not the cheers.They grew louder and louder, until the Prince cameforward and bowed his acknowledgments. I doubtif any royal personage has ever been so popular inEngland as he was. Of course he is popular asKing too, but as Prince of Wales he came nearer thepeople. They had more opportunities of seeinghim, and they appreciated his untiring efforts tomake up by his many public appearances for the seclusionin which the Queen lived.

1864

In the middle of the run of “The American Cousin”I left the stage and married. Mary Meredith wasthe part, and I played it vilely. I was not quitesixteen years old, too young to be married even inthose days, when every one married early. ButI was delighted, and my parents were delighted, althoughthe disparity of age between my husband and me wasvery great. It all seems now like a dream—nota clear dream, but a fitful one which in the morningone tries in vain to tell. And even if I couldtell it, I would not. I was happy, because myface was the type which the great artist who had marriedme loved to paint. I remember sitting to himin armor for hours and never realizing that it washeavy until I fainted!

The day of my wedding it was very cold. Likemost women, I always remember what I was wearing onthe important occasions of my life. On that dayI wore a brown silk gown which had been designed byHolman Hunt, and a quilted white bonnet with a sprigof orange-blossom, and I was wrapped in a beautifulIndian shawl. I “went away” in a sealskinjacket with coral buttons, and a little sealskin cap.I cried a great deal, and Mr. Watts said, “Don’tcry. It makes your nose swell.” Theday I left home to be married, I “tubbed”all my little brothers and sisters and washed theirfair hair.

Little Holland House, where Mr. Watts lived, seemedto me a paradise, where only beautiful things wereallowed to come. All the women were graceful,and all the men were gifted. The trio of sisters—Mrs.Prinsep—(mother of the painter), Lady Somers,and Mrs. Cameron, who was the pioneer in artisticphotography as we know it to-day—were knownas Beauty, Dash, and Talent. There were two morebeautiful sisters, Mrs. Jackson and Mrs. Dalrymple.Gladstone, Disraeli and Browning were among Mr. Watts’visitors. At Freshwater, where I went soon aftermy marriage, I first saw Tennyson.

As I write down these great names I feel almost guiltyof an imposture! Such names are bound to raisehigh anticipations, and my recollections of the mento whom some of the names belong are so very humble.

I sat, shrinking and timid, in a corner—thegirl-wife of a famous painter. I was, if I wasanything at all, more of a curiosity, of a side-show,than hostess to these distinguished visitors.Mr. Gladstone seemed to me like a suppressed volcano.His face was pale and calm, but the calm was the calmof the gray crust of Etna. To look into the piercingdark eyes was like having a glimpse into the red-hotcrater beneath. Years later, when I met him againat the Lyceum and became better acquainted with him,this impression of a volcano at rest again struckme. Of Disraeli I carried away even a scantierimpression. I remember that he wore a blue tie,a brighter blue tie than most men would dare to wear,and that his straggling curls shook as he walked.He looked the great Jew before everything. But“there is the noble Jew,” as George Meredith

writes somewhere, “as well as the bestial Gentile.”When I first saw Henry Irving made up as Shylock,my thoughts flew back to the garden-party at LittleHolland House, and Disraeli. I know I must haveadmired him greatly, for the only other time I eversaw him he was walking in Piccadilly, and I crossedthe road, just to get a good look at him. I evenwent the length of bumping into him on purpose.It was a very little bump! My elbow justtouched his, and I trembled. He took off hishat, muttered, “I beg your pardon,” andpassed on, not recognizing me, of course; but I hadhad my look into his eyes. They were very quieteyes, and didn’t open wide.

I love Disraeli’s novels—like histie, brighter in color than any one else’s.It was “Venetia” which first made me seethe real Lord Byron, the real Lady Byron, too.In “Tancred” I recall a description ofa family of strolling players which seems to me morelike the real thing than anything else of the kindin fiction. It is strange that Dizzy’snovels should be neglected. Can any one with apictorial sense fail to be delighted by their pageantry?Disraeli was a heaven-born artist, who, like so manyof his race, on the stage, in music, and elsewhere,seems to have had an unerring instinct for the thingswhich the Gentile only acquires by labor and training.The world he shows us in his novels is big and swelling,but only to a hasty judgment is it hollow.

Tennyson was more to me than a magic-lantern shape,flitting across the blank of my young experience,never to return. The first time I saw him hewas sitting at the table in his library, and Mrs. Tennyson,her very slender hands hidden by thick gloves, wasstanding on a step-ladder handing him down some heavybooks. She was very frail, and looked like afaint tea-rose. After that one time I only rememberher lying on a sofa.

In the evenings I went walking with Tennyson overthe fields, and he would point out to me the differencesin the flight of different birds, and tell me to watchtheir solid phalanxes turning against the sunset,the compact wedge suddenly narrowing sharply into athin line. He taught me to recognize the barksof trees and to call wild flowers by their names.He picked me the first bit of pimpernel I ever noticed.Always I was quite at ease with him. He was sowonderfully simple.

A hat that I wore at Freshwater suddenly comes tomy remembrance. It was a brown straw mushroomwith a dull red feather round it. It was tiedunder my chin, and I still had my hair down.

It was easy enough to me to believe that Tennysonwas a poet. He showed it in everything, althoughhe was entirely free from any assumption of the poeticalrole. That Browning, with his carefully brushedhat, smart coat, and fine society manners was a poet,always seemed to me far more incomprehensible thanhis poetry, which I think most people would have takenstraightforwardly and read with a fair amount of ease,if certain enthusiasts had not founded societies formaking his crooked places plain, and (to me) his plainplaces very crooked. These societies have terrorizedthe ordinary reader into leaving Browning alone.The same thing has been tried with Shakespeare, butfortunately the experiment in this case has provedless successful. Coroners’ inquests by learnedsocieties can’t make Shakespeare a dead man.

At the time of my first marriage, when I met thesegreat men, I had never had the advantage—Iassume that it is an advantage!—ofa single day’s schooling in a real school.What I have learned outside my own profession I havelearned from my environment. Perhaps it is thiswhich makes me think environment more valuable thana set education, and a stronger agent in forming charactereven than heredity. I should have written theexternals of character, for primal, inner feelingsare, I suppose, always inherited.

Still, my want of education may be partly responsiblefor the unsatisfactory blankness of my early impressions.As it takes two to make a good talker, so it takestwo to make a good hero—in print, at anyrate. I was meeting distinguished people at everyturn, and taking no notice of them. At FreshwaterI was still so young that I preferred playing Indiansand Knights of the Round Table with Tennyson’ssons, Hallam and Lionel, and the young Camerons, tositting indoors noticing what the poet did and said.I was mighty proud when I learned how to prepare hisdaily pipe for him. It was a long churchwarden,and he liked the stem to be steeped in a solutionof sal volatile, or something of that kind, so thatit did not stick to his lips. But he and all theothers seemed to me very old. There were my youngknights waiting for me; and jumping gates, climbingtrees, and running paper-chases are pleasant whenone is young.

It was not to inattentive ears that Tennyson readhis poems. His reading was most impressive, butI think he read Browning’s “Ride from Ghentto Aix” better than anything of his own, except,perhaps, “The Northern Farmer.” Heused to preserve the monotonous rhythm of the gallopinghorses in Browning’s poem, and made the wordscome out sharply like hoofs upon a road. It wasa little comic until one got used to it, but thatfault lay in the ear of the hearer. It was theright way and the fine way to read this particularpoem, and I have never forgotten it.

In after years I met Tennyson again, when with HenryIrving I acted in two of his plays at the Lyceum.When I come to those plays, I shall have more to sayof him. Gladstone, too, came into my later life.Browning I saw once or twice at dinner-parties, butknew him no better than in this early period, whenI was Nelly Watts, and heedless of the greatness ofgreat men. “To meet an angel and not tobe afraid is to be impudent.” I don’tlike to confess to it, but I think I must have been,according to this definition, very impudent!

One charming domestic arrangement at Freshwater wasthe serving of the dessert in a separate room fromthe rest of the dinner. And such a dessert italways was!—fruit piled high on great dishesin Veronese fashion, not the few nuts and an orangeof some English households.

It must have been some years after the Freshwaterdays, yet before the production of “The Cup,”that I saw Tennyson in his carriage outside a jeweler’sshop in Bond Street.

“How very nice you look in the daytime,”he said. “Not like an actress!”

I disclaimed my singularity, and said I thought actresseslooked very nice in the daytime.

To him and to the others my early romance was alwaysthe most interesting thing about me. When I sawthem in later times, it seemed as if months, not years,had passed since I was Nelly Watts.

Once, at the dictates of a conscience perhaps overfastidious, I made a bonfire of my letters. Buta few were saved from the burning, more by accidentthan design. Among them I found yesterday a kindlittle note from Sir William Vernon Harcourt, whichshows me that I must have known him, too, at the timeof my first marriage and met him later on when I returnedto the stage.

“You cannot tell how much pleasedI am to hear that you have been as happy as youdeserve to be. The longer one lives, the moreone learns not to despair, and to believe thatnothing is impossible to those who have courageand hope and youth—I was going to add beautyand genius.” (This is the sort of thing thatmade me blush—and burn my lettersbefore they shamed me!)

“My little boyis still the charm and consolation of my life.He is
now twelve years old,and though I say it that should not, is a
perfect child, and winsthe hearts of all who know him.”

That little boy, now in His Majesty’s Government,is known as the Right Honorable Lewis Harcourt.He married an American lady, Miss Burns of New York.

Many inaccurate stories have been told of my briefmarried life, and I have never contradicted them—theywere so manifestly absurd. Those who can imaginethe surroundings into which I, a raw girl, undevelopedin all except my training as an actress, was thrown,can imagine the situation.

Of one thing I am certain. While I was with Signor—thename by which Mr. Watts was known among his friends—Inever had one single pang of regret for the theater.This may do me no credit, but it is true.

I wondered at the new life, and worshiped it becauseof its beauty. When it suddenly came to an end,I was thunderstruck; and refused at first to consentto the separation, which was arranged for me in muchthe same way as my marriage had been.

The whole thing was managed by those kind friendswhose chief business in life seems to be the careof others. I don’t blame them. Thereare cases where no one is to blame. “Theredo exist such things as honest misunderstandings,”as Charles Reade was always impressing on me at alater time. There were no vulgar accusations oneither side, and the words I read in the deed of separation,“incompatibility of temper”—amere legal phrase—more than coveredthe ground. Truer still would have been “incompatibilityof occupation,” and the interference ofwell-meaning friends. We all suffer from thatsort of thing. Pray God one be not a well-meaningfriend one’s self!

“The marriage was not a happy one,” theywill probably say after my death, and I forestallthem by saying that it in many ways was very happyindeed. What bitterness there was effaced itselfin a very remarkable way.

I saw Mr. Watts but once face to face after the separation.We met in the street at Brighton, and he told me thatI had grown! I was never to speak to him again.But years later, after I had appeared at the Lyceumand had made some success in the world, I was in thegarden of a house which adjoined Mr. Watt’snew Little Holland House, and he, in his garden, sawme through the hedge. It was then that I receivedfrom him the first letter that I had had for years.In this letter he told me that he had watched my successwith eager interest, and asked me to shake hands withhim in spirit. “What success I may have,”he wrote, “will be very incomplete and unsatisfactoryif you cannot do what I have long been hesitatingto ask. If you cannot, keep silence. If youcan, one word, ‘Yes,’ will be enough.”

I answered simply, “Yes.”

After that he wrote to me again, and for two or threeyears we corresponded, but I never came into personalcontact with him.

As the past is now to me like a story in a book thatI once read, I can speak of it easily. But ifby doing so I thought that I might give pain or embarrassmentto any one else, I should be silent about this long-forgottentime. After careful consideration it does notseem to me that it can be either indiscreet or injuriousto let it be known that this great artist honoredand appreciated my efforts and strife in my art; thatthis great man could not rid himself of the pain offeeling that he “had spoiled my life”(a chivalrous assumption of blame for what was, Ithink, a natural, almost inevitable, catastrophe),and that long after all personal relation had beenbroken off, he wrote to me gently, kindly,—assympathetically ignoring the strangeness of the position,as if, to use his own expression, “we stoodface to face on the brink of an universal grave.”

When this tender kindness was established betweenus, he sent me a portrait-head that he had done ofme when I was his wife. I think it a very beautifulpicture. He did not touch it except to mend theedges, thinking it better not to try to improve itby the work of another time.

In one of these letters he writes that “thereis nothing in all this that the world might not know.”Surely the world is always the better for having alittle truth instead of a great deal of idle inaccuracyand falsehood. That is my justification for publishingthis, if justification be needed.

If I did not fulfill his too high prophecy that “inaddition to your artistic eminence, I feel that youwill achieve a solid social position, make yourselfa great woman, and take a noble place in the historyof your time,” I was the better for his havingmade it.

If I had been able to look into the future, I shouldhave been less rebellious at the termination of myfirst marriage. Was I so rebellious, after all?I am afraid I showed about as much rebellionas a sheep. But I was miserable, indignant, unableto understand that there could be any justice in whathad happened. In a little more than two yearsI returned to the stage. I was practically drivenback by those who meant to be kind—TomTaylor, my father and mother, and others. Theylooked ahead and saw clearly it was for my good.

It was a good thing, but at the time I hatedit. And I hated going back to live at home.Mother furnished a room for me, and I thought thefurniture hideous. Poor mother!

For years Beethoven always reminded me of mendingstockings, because I used to struggle with the largeholes in my brothers’ stockings upstairs inthat ugly room, while downstairs Kate played the “MoonlightSonata.” I caught up the stitches in timeto the notes! This was the period when, thoughevery one was kind, I hated my life, hated every oneand everything in the world more than at any timebefore or since.

III

ROSSETTI, BERNHARDT, IRVING

1865-1867

Most people know that Tom Taylor was one of the leadingplaywrights of the ’sixties as well as the dramaticcritic of The Times, editor of Punch,and a distinguished Civil Servant, but to us he wasmore than this—he was an institution!I simply cannot remember when I did not know him.It is the Tom Taylors of the world who give childrenon the stage their splendid education. We neverhad any education in the strict sense of the word,yet, through the Taylors and others, we wereeducated. Their house in Lavender Sweep was lovely.I can hardly bear to go near that part of London now,it is so horribly changed. Where are its greenfields and its chestnut-trees? We were alwayswelcome at the Taylors’, and every Sunday weheard music and met interesting people—CharlesReade among them. Mrs. Taylor had rather a hardoutside—she was like Mrs. Charles Kean inthat respect—and I was often frightenedout of my life by her; yet I adored her. She wasin reality the most tender-hearted, sympathetic woman,and what an admirable musician! She composednearly all the music for her husband’s plays.Every Sunday there was music at Lavender Sweep—quartetplaying with Madame Schumann at the piano.

Tom Taylor was one of the most benign and gentle ofmen, a good and a loyal friend. At first he wasmore interested in my sister Kate’s career thanin mine, as was only natural; for, up to the time ofmy first marriage, Kate had a present, I only a future.Before we went to Bristol and played with the stockcompany, she had made her name. At the St. James’sTheater, in 1862, she was playing a small part in aversion of Sardou’s “Nos Intimes,”known then as “Friends and Foes,” and ina later day and in another version as “Peril.”

Miss Herbert—the beautiful Miss Herbert,as she was appropriately called—had thechief part in the play (Mrs. Union), and Kate, althoughnot the understudy, was called upon to play it at afew hours’ notice. She had from childhoodacquired a habit of studying every part in every playin which she was concerned, so she was as ready asthough she had been the understudy. Miss Herbertwas not a remarkable actress, but her appearance waswonderful indeed. She was very tall, with palegold hair and the spiritual, ethereal look which theaesthetic movement loved. When mother wantedto flatter me very highly, she said that I lookedlike Miss Herbert! Rossetti founded many of hispictures on her, and she and Mrs. “Janie”Morris were his favorite types. When any one wasthe object of Rossetti’s devotion, there wasno extravagant length to which he would not go indemonstrating it. He bought a white bull becauseit had “eyes like Janie Morris,” and tetheredit on the lawn of his home in Chelsea. Soon therewas no lawn left—only the bull! Heinvited people to meet it, and heaped favors on ituntil it kicked everything to pieces, when he reluctantlygot rid of it.

His next purchase was a white peaco*ck, which, verysoon after its arrival, disappeared under the sofa.In vain did Rossetti “shoo” it out.It refused to budge. This went on for days.

“The lovely creature won’t respond tome,” said Rossetti pathetically to a friend.

The friend dragged out the bird.

“No wonder! It’s dead!”

“Bulls don’t like me,” said Rossettia few days later, “and peaco*cks aren’thomely.”

It preyed on his mind so much that he tried to repairthe failure by buying some white dormice. Hesat them up on tiny bamboo chairs, and they lookedsweet. When the winter was over, he invited aparty to meet them and congratulate them upon wakingup from their long sleep.

“They are awake now,” he said, “buthow quiet they are! How full of repose!”

One of the guests went to inspect the dormice moreclosely, and a peculiar expression came over his face.It might almost have been thought that he was holdinghis nose.

“Wake up, little dormice,” said Rossetti,prodding them gently with a quill pen.

“They’ll never do that,”said the guest. “They’re dead.I believe they have been dead some days!”

Do you think Rossetti gave up live stock after this?Not a bit of it. He tried armadillos and tortoises.

“How are the tortoises?” he asked hisman one day, after a long spell of forgetfulness thathe had any.

“Pretty well, sir, thank you.... That’sto say, sir, there ain’t no tortoises!”

The tortoises, bought to eat the beetles, had beeneaten themselves. At least, the shells were foundfull of beetles.

And the armadillos? “The air of Chelseadon’t suit them,” said Rossetti’sservant. They had certainly left Rossetti’shouse, but they had not left Chelsea. All theneighbors had dozens of them! They had burrowed,and came up smiling in houses where they were far fromwelcome.

This by the way. Miss Herbert, who looked likethe Blessed Damosel leaning out “across thebar of heaven,” was not very well suited to theline of parts that she was playing at the St. James’s,but she was very much admired. During the runof “Friends and Foes” she fell ill.Her illness was Kate’s opportunity. Fromthe night that Kate played Mrs. Union, her reputationwas made.

It was a splendid chance, no doubt, but of what usewould it have been to any one who was not ready touse it? Kate, though only about nineteen at thistime, was a finished actress. She had been a perfectAriel, a beautiful Cordelia, and had played at leastforty other parts of importance since she had appearedas a tiny Robin in the Keans’ production of“The Merry Wives of Windsor.” Shehad not had her head turned by big salaries, and shehad never ceased working since she was four yearsold. No wonder that she was capable of bearingthe burden of a piece at a moment’s notice.The Americans cleverly say that “the lucky catwatches.” I should add that thelucky cat works. Reputations on the stage—atany rate, enduring reputations—are not madeby chance, and to an actress who has not worked hardthe finest opportunity in the world will be utterlyuseless.

My own opinion of my sister’s acting must betaken for what it is worth—and that isvery little. I remember how she looked on thestage—like a frail white azalea—andthat her acting, unlike that of Adelaide Neilson,who was the great popular favorite before Kate cameto the front, was scientific. She knew what shewas about. There was more ideality than passionatewomanliness in her interpretations. For thisreason, perhaps, her Cordelia was finer than her Portiaor her Beatrice.

She was engaged at one time to a young actor, calledMontagu. If the course of that love had run smooth,where should I have been? Kate would have beenthe Terry of the age. But Mr. Montagu went toAmerica, and, after five years of life as a matineeidol, died there. Before that, Arthur Lewis hadcome along. I was glad because he was rich, andduring his courtship I had some riding, of which inmy girlhood I was passionately fond.

Tom Taylor had an enormous admiration for Kate, andduring her second season as a “star” atBristol he came down to see her play Juliet and Beatriceand Portia. This second Bristol season came inthe middle of my time at the Haymarket, but I wentback, too, and played Nerissa and Hero. Beforethat I had played my first leading Shakespeare part,but only at one matinee.

An actor named Walter Montgomery was giving a matineeof “Othello” at the Princess’s (thetheater where I made my first appearance) in the Juneof 1863, and he wanted a Desdemona. The agentssent for me. It was Saturday, and I had to playit on Monday! But for my training, how couldI have done it? At this time I knew the wordsand had studied the words—a verydifferent thing—of every woman’s partin Shakespeare. I don’t know what kindof performance I gave on that memorable afternoon,but I think it was not so bad. And Walter Montgomery’sOthello? Why can’t I remember somethingabout it? I only remember that the unfortunateactor shot himself on his wedding-day!

Any one who has come with me so far in my life willrealize that Kate Terry was much better known thanEllen at the time of Ellen’s first retirementfrom the stage. From Bristol my sister had goneto London to become Fechter’s “leadinglady,” and from that time until she made herlast appearance in 1867 as Juliet at the Adelphi, hercareer was a blaze of triumph.

Before I came back to take part in her farewell tour(she became engaged to Mr. Arthur Lewis in 1866),I paid my first visit to Paris. I saw the EmpressEugenie driving in the Bois, looking like an exquisitewaxwork. Oh, the beautiful slope of womenat this period! They sat like lovely half-moons,lying back in their carriages. It was an age ofelegance—in France particularly—anage of luxury. They had just laid down asphaltfor the first time in the streets of Paris, and thequiet of the boulevards was wonderful after the rattlingLondon streets. I often went to three partiesa night; but I was in a difficult position, as I couldnot speak a word of the language. I met Tissotand Gambard, who had just built Rosa Bonheur’shouse at Nice.

I liked the Frenchmen because they liked me, but Ididn’t admire them.

I tried to learn to smoke, but I never took kindlyto it and soon gave it up.

What was the thing that made me homesick for London?Household Words. The excitement in the ’sixtiesover each new Dickens can be understood only by peoplewho experienced it at the time. Boys used to sellHousehold Words in the streets, and they wereoften pursued by an eager crowd, for all the worldas if they were carrying news of the “latestwinner.”

Of course I went to the theater in Paris. I sawSarah Bernhardt for the first time, and Madame Favart,Croisette, Delaunay, and Got. I never thoughtCroisette—a superb animal—a “patch”on Sarah, who was at this time as thin as a harrow.Even then I recognized that Sarah was not a bit conventional,and would not stay long at the Comedie. Yet shedid not put me out of conceit with the old school.I saw “Les Precieuses Ridicules” finelydone, and I said to myself then, as I have often saidsince: “Old school—new school?What does it matter which, so long as it is goodenough?”

Madame Favart I knew personally, and she gave me manyuseful hints. One was never to black my eyesunderneath when “making up.”She pointed out that although this was necessary whenthe stage was lighted entirely from beneath, it hadbecome ugly and meaningless since the introductionof top lights.

The friend who took me everywhere in Paris landedme one night in the dressing-room of a singer.I remember it because I heard her complain to a manof some injustice. She had not got some engagementthat she had expected.

“It serves you damn right!” he answered.“You can’t sing a bit.” Forthe first time I seemed to realize how brutal it wasof a man to speak to a woman like that, and I hatedit.

Long afterwards, in the same city, I saw a man sittingcalmly in a fiacre, a man of the “gentlemanly”class, and ordering the cocher to drive on,although a woman was clinging to the side of the carriageand refusing to let go. She was a strong, splendidcreature of the peasant type, bareheaded, with a fineopen brow, and she was obviously consumed by resentmentof some injustice—mad with it. Shewas dragged along in one of the busiest streets inParis, the little Frenchman sitting there smiling,easy. How she escaped death I don’t know.Then he became conscious that people were looking,and he stopped the cab and let her get in. Oh,men!

Paris! Paris! Young as I was, I fell underthe spell, of your elegance, your cleanness, yourwell-designed streets, your nonchalant gaiety.I drank coffee at Tortoni’s. I visitedthe studio of Meissonier. I stood in the crowdthat collected round Rosa Bonheur’s “HorseFair,” which was in the Salon that year.I grew dead sick of the endless galleries of the Louvre.I went to the Madeleine at Easter time, all purpleand white lilies, and fainted from trying to imagineecstasy when the Host was raised.... I neverfainted again in my life, except once from anger,when I heard some friends whom I loved slandering anotherfriend whom I loved more.

Good-bye to Paris and back to London, where I beganacting again with only half my heart. I did verywell, they said, as Helen in “The Hunchback,”the first part I played after my return; but I carednothing about my success. I was feeling wretchedlyill, and angry too, because they insisted on puttingmy married name on the bills.

After playing with Kate at Bristol and at the Adelphiin London, I accepted an engagement to appear in anew play by Tom Taylor, called “The Antipodes.”It was a bad play, and I had a bad part, but Telbin’sscenery was lovely. Telbin was a poet, and hehas handed on much of his talent to his son, who isalive now, and painted most of our Faust scenery atthe Lyceum—he and dear Mr. Hawes Craven,who so loved his garden and could paint the flickerof golden sunshine for the stage better than any one.I have always been friendly with the scene-painters,perhaps because I have always taken pains about mydresses, and consulted them beforehand about the color,so that I should not look wrong in their scenes, northeir scenes wrong with my dresses.

Telbin and Albert Moore together did up the New Queen’sTheater, Long Acre, which was opened in October, 1867,under the ostensible management of the Alfred Wigans.I say “ostensible,” because Mr. Laboucherehad something to do with it, and Miss Henrietta Hodson,whom he afterwards married, played in the burlesquesand farces without which no theater bill in Londonat that time was complete. The Wigans offeredme an engagement, and I stayed with them until 1868,when I again left the stage. During this engagementI acted with Charles Wyndham and Lionel Brough, and,last but not least, with Henry Irving.

Mrs. Wigan, nee Leonora Pincott, did me thehonor to think that I was worth teaching, and tooknearly as much pains to improve me as Mrs. Kean haddone at a different stage in my artistic growth.Her own accomplishments as a comedy actress impressedme more than I can say. I remember seeing heras Mrs. Candour, and thinking to myself, “Thisis absolutely perfect.” If I were a teacherI would impress on young actresses never to move afinger or turn the eye without being quite certainthat the movement or the glance tells something.Mrs. Wigan made few gestures, but each one quietly,delicately indicated what the words which followedexpressed. And while she was speaking she neverfrittered away the effect of that silent eloquence.

One of my besetting sins was—nay, stillis—the lack of repose. Mrs. Wiganat once detected the fault, and at rehearsals wouldwork to make me remedy it. “Stand still!”she would shout from the stalls. “Now you’reof value!” “Motionless! Just as youare! That’s right.”

A few years later she came to see me at the CourtTheater, where I was playing in “The House ofDarnley,” and afterwards wrote me the followingvery kind and encouraging letter:

“December 7, 1877.

“Dear Miss Terry,—

“You have a very difficult part in ‘TheHouse of Darnley.’ I know no one who couldplay it as well as you did last night—butyou could do it much better. You wouldvex me much if I thought you had no ambition in yourart. You are the one young actress of my day whocan have her success entirely in her own hands.You have all the gifts for your noble profession,and, as you know, your own devotion to it will giveyou all that can be learned. I’m very gladmy stage direction was useful and pleasant to you,and any benefit you have derived from it is overpaidby your style of acting. You cannot have a ‘groove’;you are too much of an artist. Go on and prosper,and if at any time you think I can help you in yourart, you may always count on that help from your mostsincere well-wisher

“LEONORA WIGAN.”

Another service that Mrs. Wigan did me was to cureme of “fooling” on the stage. “Didshe?” I thought I heard some one interrupt meunkindly at that point! Well, at any rate, shegave me a good fright one night, and I never forgotit, though I will not say I never laughed again.I think it was in “The Double Marriage,”the first play put on at the New Queen’s.As Rose de Beaurepaire, I wore a white muslin Directoiredress and looked absurdly young. There was one“curtain” which used to convulse Wyndham.He had a line, “Whose child is this?” andthere was I, looking a mere child myself, and witha bad cold in my head too, answering: “It’sbine!” The very thought of it used tosend us off into fits of laughter. We hung onto chairs, helpless, limp, and incapable. Mrs.Wigan said if we did it again, she would go in frontand hiss us, and she carried out her threat.The very next time we laughed, a loud hiss rose fromthe stagebox. I was simply paralyzed with terror.

Dear old Mrs. Wigan! The stories that have beentold about her would fill a book! She was exceedinglyplain, rather like a toad, yet, perversely, she wasmore vain of her looks than of her acting. Inthe theater she gave herself great airs and graces,and outside it hobnobbed with duch*esses and princesses.

This fondness for aristocratic society gave additionalpoint to the story that one day a blear-eyed old cabmanin capes and muffler descended from the box of a disreputable-lookinggrowler, and inquired at the stage-door for LeonoraPincott.

“Any lady ’ere of that name?”

“No.”

“Well, I think she’s married, and changedher name, but she’s ’ere right enough.Tell ’er I won’t keep ’er a minute.I’m ’er—old father!”

In “Still Waters Run Deep” I was rathergood as Mrs. Mildmay, and the rest of the cast wereadmirable. Mrs. Wigan was, of course, Mrs. Sternhold.Wyndham, who was afterwards to be such a splendid Mildmay,played Hawksley, and Alfred Wigan was Mildmay, as hehad been in the original production. When theplay is revived now, much of it seems very old-fashioned,but the office scene strikes one as freshly and stronglyas when it was first acted. I don’t thinkthat any drama which is vital and essentialcan ever be old-fashioned.

MY FIRST IMPRESSION OF HENRY IRVING

One very foggy night in December 1867—itwas Boxing Day, I think—I acted for thefirst time with Henry Irving. This ought to havebeen a great event in my life, but at the time itpassed me by and left “no wrack behind.”Ever anxious to improve on the truth, which is oftendevoid of all sensationalism, people have told a storyof Henry Irving promising that if he ever were ina position to offer me an engagement I should be hisleading lady. But this fairy story has been improvedon since. The newest tale of my first meetingwith Henry Irving was told during my jubilee.Then, to my amazement, I read that on that famousnight when I was playing Puck at the Princess’s,and caught my toe in the trap, “a young manwith dark hair and a white face rushed forward fromthe crowd and said: ’Never mind, darling.Don’t cry! One day you will be queen ofthe stage.’ It was Henry Irving!”

In view of these legends, I ought to say all the morestoutly that, until I went to the Lyceum Theater,Henry Irving was nothing to me and I was nothing tohim. I never consciously thought that he wouldbecome a great actor. He had no high opinionof my acting! He has said since that hethought me at the Queen’s Theater charming andindividual as a woman, but as an actress hoydenish!I believe that he hardly spared me even so much definitethought as this. His soul was not more surelyin his body than in the theater, and I, a woman whowas at this time caring more about love and life thanthe theater, must have been to him more or less unsympathetic.He thought of nothing else, cared for nothing else;worked day and night; went without his dinner to buya book that might be helpful in studying, or a stagejewel that might be helpful to wear. I rememberhis telling me that he once bought a sword with a jeweledhilt, and hung it at the foot of his bed. Allnight he kept getting up and striking matches to seeit, shifting its position, rapt in admiration of it.

He had it all in him when we acted together that foggynight, but he could express very little. Manyof his defects sprang from his not having been onthe stage as a child. He was stiff with self-consciousness;his eyes were dull and his face heavy. The piecewe played was Garrick’s boiled-down versionof “The Taming of the Shrew,” and he,as Petruchio, appreciated the humor and everythingelse far more than I did, as Katherine; yet he playedbadly, nearly as badly as I did; and how much moreto blame I was, for I was at this time much more easyand skillful from a purely technical point of view.

Was Henry Irving impressive in those days? Yesand no. His fierce and indomitable will showeditself in his application to his work. Quiteunconsciously I learned from watching him that to dowork well, the artist must spend his life in incessantlabor, and deny himself everything for that purpose.It is a lesson we actors and actresses cannot learntoo early, for the bright and glorious heyday of oursuccess must always be brief at best.

Henry Irving, when he played Petruchio, had been toilingin the provinces for eleven solid years, and not untilRawdon Scudamore in “Hunted Down” hadhe had any success. Even that was forgotten inhis failure as Petruchio. What a trouncing hereceived from the critics who have since heaped praiseon many worse men!

I think this was the peculiar quality in his actingafterwards—a kind of fine temper, likethe purest steel, produced by the perpetual fightagainst difficulties. Socrates, it is said, hadevery capacity for evil in his face, yet he was goodas a naturally good man could never be. HenryIrving at first had everything against him as an actor.He could not speak, he could not walk, he could notlook. He wanted to do things in a part,and he could not do them. His amazing power wasimprisoned, and only after long and weary years didhe succeed in setting it free.

A man with a will like that must be impressive!To quick-seeing eyes he must, no doubt. But myeyes were not quick, and they were, moreover, fixedon a world outside the theater. Better than histalent and his will I remember his courtesy.In those days, instead of having our salaries broughtto our dressing-rooms, we used to wait in a queue onTreasury Day to receive them. I was always latein coming, and always in a hurry to get away.Very gravely and quietly Henry Irving used to giveup his place to me.

I played once more at the Queen’s after Katherineand Petruchio. It was in a little piece called“The Household Fairy,” and I remember itchiefly through an accident which befell poor JackClayton through me. The curtain had fallen on“The Household Fairy,” and Clayton, whohad acted with me in it, was dancing with me on thestage to the music which was being played during thewait, instead of changing his dress for the next piece.This dancing during the entr’acte was very popular

among us. Many a burlesque quadrille I had withTerriss and others in later days. On this occasionClayton suddenly found he was late in changing, and,rushing upstairs to his dressing-room in a hurry, hemissed his footing and fell back on his head.This made me very miserable, as I could not help feelingthat I was responsible. Soon afterwards I leftthe stage for six years, without the slightest ideaof ever going back. I left it without regret.And I was very happy, leading a quiet, domestic lifein the heart of the country. When my two childrenwere born, I thought of the stage less than ever.They absorbed all my time, all my interest, all mylove.

IV

A SIX-YEAR VACATION

1868-1874

My disappearance from the stage must have been a heavyblow to my father and mother, who had urged me toreturn in 1866 and were quite certain that I had agreat future. For the first time for years theyhad no child in the theater. Marion and Floss,who were afterward to adopt the stage as a profession,were still at school; Kate had married; and none oftheir sons had shown any great aptitude for acting.Fred, who was afterwards to do so well, was at thistime hardly out of petticoats.

Perhaps it was because I knew they would oppose methat I left the stage quite quietly and secretly.It seemed to outsiders natural, if regrettable, thatI should follow Kate’s example. But I wastroubling myself little about what people were thinkingand saying. “They are saying—whatare they saying? Let them be saying!”

Then a dreadful thing happened. A body was foundin the river,—the dead body of a youngwoman very fair and slight and tall. Every onethought that it was my body.

I had gone away without a word. No one knew whereI was. My own father identified the corpse, andFloss and Marion, at their boarding-school, were putinto mourning. Then mother went. She kepther head under the shock of the likeness, and bethoughther of “a strawberry mark upon my left arm.”(Really I had one over my left knee.) That settledit, for there was no such mark to be found upon thepoor corpse. It was just at this moment thatthe news came to me in my country retreat that I hadbeen found dead, and I flew up to London to give ocularproof to my poor distracted parents that I was alive.Mother, who had been the only one not to identifythe drowned girl, confessed to me that she was so likeme that just for a second she, too, was deceived.You see, they knew I had not been very happy sincemy return to the stage, and when I went away withouta word, they were terribly anxious, and prepared tobelieve the first bad tidings that came to hand.It came in the shape of that most extraordinary likenessbetween me and that poor soul who threw herself intothe river.

I was not twenty-one when I left the stage for thesecond time, and I haven’t made up my mind yetwhether it was good or bad for me, as an actress,to cease from practicing my craft for six years.Talma, the great French actor, recommends long spellsof rest, and says that “perpetual indulgencein the excitement of impersonation dulls the sympathyand impairs the imaginative faculty of the comedian.”This is very useful in my defense, yet I could findmany examples which prove the contrary. I couldnever imagine Henry Irving leaving the stage for sixmonths, let alone six years, and I don’t thinkit would have been of the slightest benefit to him.But he had not been on the stage as a child.

If I was able to rest so long without rusting, itwas, I am sure, because I had been thoroughly trainedin the technique of acting long before I reached mytwentieth year—an age at which most studentsare just beginning to wrestle with elementary principles.

Of course, I did not argue in this way at the time!As I have said, I had no intention of ever actingagain when I left the Queen’s Theater.If it is the mark of the artist to love art beforeeverything, to renounce everything for its sake, tothink all the sweet human things of life well lostif only he may attain something, do some good, greatwork—then I was never an artist. Ihave been happiest in my work when I was working forsome one else. I admire those impersonal peoplewho care for nothing outside their own ambition, yetI detest them at the same time, and I have the simplestfaith that absolute devotion to another human beingmeans the greatest happiness. That happinesswas now mine.

I led a most unconventional life, and experiencedexquisite delight from the mere fact of being in thecountry. No one knows what “the country”means until he or she has lived in it. “Then,if ever, come perfect days.”

What a sensation it was, too, to be untrammeled bytime! Actors must take care of themselves andtheir voices, husband their strength for the eveningwork, and when it is over they are too tired to doanything! For the first time I was able to putall my energies into living. Charles Lamb says,I think, that when he left the East India House, hefelt embarrassed by the vast estates of time at hisdisposal, and wished that he had a bailiff to managethem for him, but I knew no such embarrassment.

I began gardening, “the purest of human pleasures”;I learned to cook, and in time cooked very well, thoughmy first essay in that difficult art was rewardedwith dire and complete failure.

It was a chicken! Now, as all the chickens hadnames—Sultan, Duke, Lord Tom Noddy, LadyTeazle, and so forth—and as I was very proudof them as living birds, it was a great wrench tokill one at all, to start with. It was the murderof Sultan, not the killing of a chicken. However,at last it was done, and Sultan deprived of his feathers,floured, and trussed. I had no idea howthis was all done, but I tried to make him “situp” nicely like the chickens in the shops.

He came up to the table looking magnificent—almostturkey-like in his proportions.

“Hasn’t this chicken rather an odd smell?”said our visitor.

“How can you!” I answered. “Itmust be quite fresh—it’s Sultan!”

However, when we began to carve, the smell grew moreand more potent.

I had cooked Sultan without taking out his in’ards!

There was no dinner that day except bread-sauce, beautifullymade, well-cooked vegetables, and pastry like thefoam of the sea. I had a wonderful hand for pastry!

My hour of rising at this pleasant place near MackeryEnd in Hertfordshire was six. Then I washed thebabies. I had a perfect mania for washingeverything and everybody. We had one little servant,and I insisted on washing her head. Her mothercame up from the village to protest.

“Never washed her head in my life. Neverwashed any of my children’s heads. Andjust look at their splendid hair!”

After the washing I fed the animals. There weretwo hundred ducks and fowls to feed, as well as thechildren. By the time I had done this, and cookedthe dinner, the morning had flown away. Afterthe midday meal I sewed. Sometimes I drove outin the pony-cart. And in the evening I walkedacross the common to fetch the milk. The babiesused to roam where they liked on this common in chargeof a bulldog, while I sat and read.

I studied cookery-books instead of parts—Mrs.Beeton instead of Shakespeare!

Of course, I thought my children the most brilliantand beautiful children in the world, and, indeed,“this side idolatry,” they were exceptional,and they had an exceptional bringing up. Theywere allowed no rubbishy picture-books, but from thefirst Japanese prints and fans lined their nurserywalls, and Walter Crane was their classic. Ifinjudicious friends gave the wrong sort of present,it was promptly burned. A mechanical mouse inwhich Edy, my little daughter, showed keen interestand delight, was taken away as being “realisticand common.” Only wooden toys were allowed.This severe training proved so effective that whena doll dressed in a violent pink silk dress was givento Edy, she said it was “vulgar”!

By that time she had found a tongue, but until shewas two years old she never spoke a word, though sheseemed to notice everything with her grave dark eyes.We were out driving when I heard her voice for thefirst time:

“There’s some more.”

She spoke quite distinctly. It was almost uncanny.

“More what?” I asked in a trembling voice,afraid that having delivered herself once, she mightlapse into dumbness.

“Birds!”

The nursemaid, Essie, described Edy tersely as “apiece,” while Teddy, who was adored by everyone because he was fat and fair and angelic-looking,she called “the feather of England.”

“The feather of England” was consideredby his sister a great coward. She used to hithim on the head with a wooden spoon for crying, andexhort him, when he said, “Master Teddy afraidof the dark,” to be a woman!

I feel that if I go maundering on much longer aboutmy children, some one will exclaim with a witty anddelightful author when he saw “Peter Pan”for the seventh time: “Oh, for an hour ofHerod!” When I think of little Edy bringingme in minute branches of flowers all the morning,with the reassuring intelligence that “thereare lots more,” I could cry. But why shouldany one be interested in that? Is it interestingto any one else that when she dug up a turnip in thegarden for the first time, she should have come runningin to beg me to come quick: “Miss Edy founda radish. It’s as big as—as bigas God!”

When I took her to her first theater—itwas Sanger’s Circus—and the clownpretended to fall from the tightrope, and the drumwent bang! she said: “Take me away! takeme away! you ought never to have brought me here!”No wonder she was considered a dour child! I immediatelyand humbly obeyed.

It was truly the simple life we led in Hertfordshire.From scrubbing floors and lighting fires, cooking,gardening, and harnessing the pony, I grew thinnerthan ever—as thin as a whipping-post, ahurdle, or a haddock! I went to church in blue-and-whitecotton, with my servant in silk. “I don’thalf like it,” she said. “They’lltake you for the cook, and me for the lady!”

We kept a goat, a dear fellow whom I liked very muchuntil I caught him one day chasing my daughter.I seized him by his horns to inflict severe punishment;but then I saw that his eyes were exactly like mine,and it made me laugh so much that I let him go andnever punished him at all.

“Boo” became an institution in these days.She was the wife of a doctor who kept a private asylumin the neighboring village, and on his death she triedto look after the lunatics herself. But she wasn’tat all successful! They kept escaping, and peopledidn’t like it. This was my gain, for “Boo”came to look after me instead, and for the next thirtyyears I was her only lunatic, and she my most constantcompanion and dear and loyal friend.

We seldom went to London. When we did, Ted nearlyhad a fit at seeing so many “we’els gowound.” But we went to Normandy, and sawLisieux, Mantes, Bayeux. Long afterwards, whenI was feeling as hard as sandpaper on the stage, Ihad only to recall some of the divine music I had heardin those great churches abroad to become soft, melted,able to act. I remember in some cathedral weleft little Edy sitting down below while we climbedup into the clerestory to look at some beautiful pieceof architecture. The choir were practicing, andsuddenly there rose a boy’s voice, pure, effortless,and clear.... For years that moment stayed withme. When we came down to fetch Edy, she said:

“Ssh! ssh! Miss Edy has seen the angels!”

Oh, blissful quiet days! How soon they came toan end! Already the shadow of financial troublefell across my peace. Yet still I never thoughtof returning to the stage.

One day I was driving in a narrow lane, when the wheelof the pony-cart came off. I was standing there,thinking what I should do next, when a whole crowdof horsem*n in “pink” came leaping overthe hedge into the lane. One of them stoppedand asked if he could do anything. Then he lookedhard at me and exclaimed: “Good God! it’sNelly!”

The man was Charles Reade.

“Where have you been all these years?”he said.

“I have been having a very happy time,”I answered.

“Well, you’ve had it long enough.Come back to the stage!”

“No, never!”

“You’re a fool! You ought to comeback.”

Suddenly I remembered the bailiff in the house a fewmiles away, and I said laughingly: “Well,perhaps, I would think of it if some one would giveme forty pounds a week!”

“Done!” said Charles Reade. “I’llgive you that, and more, if you’ll come andplay Philippa Chester in ‘The Wandering Heir.’”

He went on to explain that Mrs. John Wood, who hadbeen playing Philippa at the New Queen’s, ofwhich he was the lessee, would have to relinquishthe part soon, because she was under contract to appearelsewhere. The piece was a great success, andpromised to run a long time if he could find a goodPhilippa to replace Mrs. Wood. It was a kind ofRosalind part, and Charles Reade only exaggeratedpardonably when he said that I should never have anypart better suited to me!

In a very short time after that meeting in the lane,it was announced that the new Philippa was to be anactress who was returning to the stage “aftera long period of retirement.” Only justbefore the first night did anyone guess who it was,and then there was great excitement among those whor*membered me. The acclamation with which I waswelcomed back on the first night surprised me.The papers were more flattering than they had everbeen before. It was a tremendous success for me,and I was all the more pleased because I was followingan accomplished actress in the part.

It is curious how often I have “followed”others. I never “created” a part,as theatrical parlance has it, until I played Oliviaat the Court, and I had to challenge comparison, inturn, with Miss Marie Wilton, Mrs. John Wood and Mrs.Kendal. Perhaps it was better for me than if Ihad had parts specially written for me, and with whichno other names were associated.

The hero of “The Wandering Heir,” whenI first took up the part of Philippa, was played byEdmund Leathes, but afterward by Johnston Forbes-Robertson.Everyone knows how good-looking he is now, but as aboy he was wonderful—a dreamy, poetic-lookingcreature in a blue smock, far more of an artist thanan actor—he promised to paint quite beautifully—andfull of aspirations and ideals. In those daysbegan a friendship between us which has lasted unbrokenuntil this moment. His father and mother weredelightful people, and very kind to me always.

Everyone was kind to me at this time. Friendswhom I had thought would be estranged by my long absencerallied round me and welcomed me as if it were sixminutes instead of six years since I had dropped outof their ken. I was not yet a “made”woman, but I had a profitable engagement, and a delightfulone, too, with Charles Reade, and I felt an enthusiasmfor my work which had been wholly absent when I hadreturned to the stage the first time. My childrenwere left in the country at first, but they came upand joined me when, in the year following “TheWandering Heir,” I went to the Bancrofts at thePrince of Wales’s. I never had the slightestfear of leaving them to their own devices, for theyalways knew how to amuse themselves, and were veryindependent and dependable in spite of their extremeyouth. I have often thanked Heaven since that,with all their faults, my boy and girl have never beenlazy and never dull. At this time Teddy alwayshad a pencil in his hand, when he wasn’t lookingfor his biscuit—he was a greedy little thing!—andEdy was hammering clothes onto her dolls with tin-tacks!Teddy said poetry beautifully, and when he and hissister were still tiny mites, they used to go throughscene after scene of “As You Like It,”for their own amusem*nt, not for an audience, in thewilderness at Hampton Court. They were by nomeans prodigies, but it did not surprise me that myson, when he grew up, should be first a good actor,then an artist of some originality, and should finallyturn all his brains and industry to new developmentsin the art of the theater. My daughter has actedalso—not enough to please me, for I havea very firm belief in her talents—and hasshown again and again that she can design and makeclothes for the stage that are both lovely and effective.In all my most successful stage dresses lately shehas had a hand, and if I had anything to do with anational theater, I should, without prejudice, puther in charge of the wardrobe at once!

I may be a proud parent, but I have always refrainedfrom “pushing” my children. Theyhave had to fight for themselves, and to their mothertheir actual achievements have mattered very little.So long as they were not lazy, I have always feltthat I could forgive them anything!

And now Teddy and Edy—Teddy in a minutewhite pique suit, and Edy in a tiny kimono, in whichshe looked as Japanese as everything which surroundedher—disappear from these pages for quitea long time. But all this time, you must understand,they are educating their mother!

Charles Reade, having brought me back to the stage,and being my manager into the bargain, was deeplyconcerned about my progress as an actress. Duringthe run of “The Wandering Heir” he usedto sit in a private box every night to watch the play,and would send me round notes between the acts, tellingme what I had done ill and what well in the precedingact. Dear, kind, unjust, generous, cautious, impulsive,

passionate, gentle Charles Reade. Never haveI known anyone who combined so many qualities, farasunder as the poles, in one single disposition.He was placid and turbulent, yet always majestic.He was inexplicable and entirely lovable—astupid old dear, and as wise as Solomon! He seemedguileless, and yet had moments of suspicion and craftinessworthy of the wisdom of the serpent. One momenthe would call me “dearest child”; thenext, with indignant emphasis, “Madam!”

When “The Wandering Heir” had at lastexhausted its great popularity, I went on a tour withCharles Reade in several of his plays. In spiteof his many and varied interests, he had entirelysuccumbed to the magic of the “irresistibletheater,” and it used to strike me as ratherpathetic to see a man of his power and originalityworking the stage sea at nights, in company with arough lad, in his dramatic version of “HardCash.” In this play, which was known as“Our Seaman,” I had a part which I couldnot bear to be paid twenty-five pounds a week for acting.I knew that the tour was not a financial success,and I ventured to suggest that it would be good economyto get some one else for Susan Merton. For answerI got a fiery “Madam, you are a rat! Youdesert a sinking ship!” My dear old companion,Boo, who was with me, resented this very much:“How can you say such things to my Nelly?”

“Your Nelly!” said Charles Reade.“I love her a thousand times better than youdo, or any puling woman.”

Another time he grew white with rage, and his darkeyes blazed, because the same “puling woman”said very lightly and playfully: “Why didpoor Nell come home from rehearsal looking so tiredyesterday? You work her too hard.”He thought this unfair, as the work had to be done,and flamed out at us with such violence that it wasalmost impossible to identify him with the kind oldgentleman of the Colonel Newcome type whom I had seenstand up at the Tom Taylors’, on Sunday evenings,and sing “The Girl I Left Behind Me” withsuch pathos that he himself was moved to tears.But, though it was a painful time for both of us, itwas almost worth while to quarrel with him, becausewhen we made it up he was sure to give me some “treat”—aluncheon, a present, or a drive. We both feltwe needed some jollification because we had sufferedso much from being estranged. He used to saythat there should be no such word as “quarrel,”and one morning he wrote me a letter with the followingpostscript written in big letters:

“THERE DO EXISTSUCH THINGS AS HONEST MISUNDERSTANDINGS.

“There, my Eleanora Delicia”(this was his name for me, my real, full namebeing Ellen Alicia), “stick that up in some placewhere you will often see it. Better putit on your looking-glass. And ifyou can once get those words into your noddle, it willsave you a world of unhappiness.”

I think he was quite right about this. Wouldthat he had been as right in his theories about stagemanagement! He was a rare one for realism.He had preached it in all his plays, and whenhe produced a one-act play, “Rachael the Reaper,”in front of “The Wandering Heir,” he beganto practice what he preached—jumped intoreality up to the neck!

He began by buying real pigs, real sheep,a real goat, and a real dog. Reallitter was strewn all over the stage, much to theinconvenience of the unreal farm-laborer, Charles Kelly,who could not compete with it, although he lookedas like a farmer as any actor could. They alllooked their parts better than the real wall whichran across the stage, piteously naked of realshadows, owing to the absence of the real sun,and, of course, deficient in the painted shadows whichmake a painted wall look so like the real thing.

Never, never can I forget Charles Reade’s arrivalat the theater in a four-wheeler with a goat and alot of little pigs. When the cab drew up at thestage-door, the goat seemed to say, as plainly as anygoat could: “I’m dashed if I stayin this cab any longer with these pigs!” andwhile Charles Reade was trying to pacify it, the piggiesescaped! Unfortunately, they didn’t allgo in the same direction, and poor dear Charles Readehad a “divided duty.” There was thegoat, too, in a nasty mood. Oh, his serious face,as he decided to leave the goat and run for the pigs,with his loose trousers, each one a yard wide at least,flapping in the wind!

“That’s a relief, at any rate,”said Charles Kelly, who was watching the flight ofthe pigs. “I sha’n’t have thosed——d pigs to spoil my acting aswell as the d——d dog and the d——dgoat!”

How we all laughed when Charles Reade returned fromthe pig-hunt to rehearsal with the brief directionto the stage manager that the pigs would be “cutout.”

The reason for the real wall was made more evidentwhen the real goat was tied up to it. A paintedwall would never have stood such a strain.

On the first night, the real dog bit Kelly’sreal ankles, and in real anger he kicked the realanimal by a real mistake into the orchestra’sreal drum.

So much for realism as practiced by Charles Reade!There was still something to remind him of the experimentin Rachael, the circus goat. Rachael—hewas no she, but what of that?—was giventhe free run of the garden of Reade’s houseat Knightsbridge. He had everything that anynormal goat could desire—a rustic stable,a green lawn, the best of food. Yet Rachael pinedand grew thinner and thinner. One night when wewere all sitting at dinner, with the French windowsopen onto the lawn because it was a hot night, Rachaelcame prancing into the room, looking happy, lively,and quite at home. All the time, while CharlesReade had been fashing himself to provide every sortof rural joy for his goat, the ungrateful beast hadbeen longing for the naphtha lights of the circus,for lively conversation and the applause of the crowd.

You can’t force a goat any more than you canforce a child to live the simple life. “N’Yawk’sthe place,” said the child of a Bowery tenementin New York, on the night of her return from an enforcedsojourn in Arcady. She hated picking daisies,and drinking rich new milk made her sick. Whenthe kind teacher who had brought her to the countrystrove to impress her by taking her to see a cow milked,she remarked witheringly to the man who was milking:“Gee! You put it in!”

Rachael’s sentiments were of the same type,I think. “Back to the circus!” washis cry, not “Back to the land!”

I hope, when he felt the sawdust under his feet again(I think Charles Reade sent him back to the ring),he remembered his late master with gratitude.To how many animals, and not only four-footed ones,was not Charles Reade generously kind, and to noneof them more kind than to Ellen Terry.

V

THE ACTRESS AND THE PLAYWRIGHT

THE END OF MY APPRENTICESHIP

1874

The relation between author and actor is a very importantelement in the life of the stage. It is the waywith some dramatists to despise those who interprettheir plays, to accuse us of ruining their creations,to suffer disappointment and rage because we do not,or cannot, carry out their ideas.

Other dramatists admit that we players can teach themsomething; but I have noticed that it is generallyin “the other fellow’s” play thatwe can teach them, not in their own!

As they are necessary to us, and we to them, the greatthing is to reduce friction by sympathy. Theactor should understand that the author can be ofuse to him; the author, on his side, should believethat the actor can be of service to the author, andsometimes in ways which only a long and severe trainingin the actor’s trade can discover.

The first author with whom I had to deal, at a criticalpoint in my progress as an actress, was Charles Reade,and he helped me enormously. He might, and oftendid, make twelve suggestions that were wrong; butagainst them he would make one that was so right thatit* value was immeasurable and unforgettable.

It is through the dissatisfaction of a man like CharlesReade that an actress learns—thatis, if she is not conceited. Conceit is an insuperableobstacle to all progress. On the other hand, itis of little use to take criticism in a slavish spiritand to act on it without understanding it. CharlesReade constantly wrote and said things to me whichwere not absolutely just criticism; but they directedmy attention to the true cause of the faults whichhe found in my performance, and put me on the wayto mending them.

A letter which he wrote me during the run of “TheWandering Heir” was such a wonderful lessonto me that I am going to quote it almost in full,in the hope that it may be a lesson to other actresses—“happyin this, they are not yet so old but they can learn”;unhappy in this, that they have never had a CharlesReade to give them a trouncing!

Well, the letter begins with sheer eulogy. Eulogyis nice, but one does not learn anything from it.Had dear Charles Reade stopped after writing “womanlygrace, subtlety, delicacy, the variety yet invariabletruthfulness of the facial expression, compared withwhich the faces beside yours are wooden, uniform dolls,”he would have done nothing to advance me in my art;but this was only the jam in which I was to take thepowder!

Here followed more jam—with the first tasteof the powder:

“I prefer you for my Philippato any other actress, and shall do so still,even if you will not, or cannot, throw more vigor intothe lines that need it. I do not pretendto be as good a writer of plays as you are anactress [how naughty of him!], but I do pretendto be a great judge of acting in general. [He wasn’t,although in particular details he was a brilliantcritic and adviser.] And I know how my ownlines and business ought to be rendered infinitelybetter than any one else, except the Omniscient.It is only on this narrow ground I presume to teacha woman of your gifts. If I teach you Philippa,you will teach me Juliet; for I am very surethat when I have seen you act her, I shall knowa vast deal more about her than I do at present.

“No great quality of an actressis absent from your performance. Very oftenyou have vigor. But in other places whereit is as much required, or even more, you turnlimp. You have limp lines, limp business,and in Act III. limp exits instead of ardent exits.”

Except in the actual word used, he was perfectly right.I was not limp, but I was exhausted. Bya natural instinct, I had produced my voice scientificallyalmost from the first, and I had found out for myselfmany things, which in these days of Delsarte systemsand the science of voice-production, are taught.But when, after my six years’ absence from thestage, I came back, and played a long and arduous part,I found that my breathing was still not right.This accounted for my exhaustion, or limpness andlack of vigor, as Charles Reade preferred to callit.

As for the “ardent” exits, how right hewas! That word set me on the track of learningthe value of moving off the stage with a swift rush.I had always had the gift of being rapid in movement,but to have a gift, and to use it, aretwo very different things.

I never realized that I was rather quick in movementuntil one day when I was sitting on a sofa talkingto the famous throat specialist, Dr. Morell Mackenzie.In the middle of one of his sentences I said:“Wait a minute while I get a glass of water.”I was out of the room and back so soon that he said,“Well, go and get it then!” and was paralyzedwhen he saw that the glass was in my hand and thatI was sitting down again!

Consider! That was one of Charles Reade’sfavorite expressions, and just hearing him say theword used to make me consider, and think, and cometo conclusions—perhaps not always the conclusionsthat he wished, but suggested by him.

In this matter of “ardent” exit, he wrote:

“The swift rush of the words,the personal rush, should carry you off the stage.It is in reality as easy as shelling peas, if youwill only go by the right method instead of bythe wrong. You have overcome far greaterdifficulties than this, yet night after night yougo on suffering ignoble defeat at this point.Come, courage! You took a leaf out of Reade’sdictionary at Manchester, and trampled on twodifficulties—impossibilities, you calledthem. That was on Saturday, Monday you knockedthe poor impossibilities down. Tuesday youkicked them where they lay. Wednesday you walkedplacidly over their prostrate bodies!”

The difficulty that he was now urging me to knockdown was one of pace, and I am afraid thatin all my stage life subsequently I never quite succeededin kicking it or walking over its prostrate body!

Looking backward, I remember many times when I failedin rapidity of utterance, and was “pumped”at moments when swiftness was essential. Paceis the soul of comedy, and to elaborate lines at theexpense of pace is disastrous. Curiously enough,I have met and envied this gift of pace in actorswho were not conspicuously talented in other respects,and no Rosalind that I have ever seen has had enoughof it. Of course, it is not a question of swiftutterance only, but of swift thinking. I am ableto think more swiftly on the stage now than at thetime Charles Reade wrote to me, and I only wish Iwere young enough to take advantage of it. Butyouth thinks slowly, as a rule.

Vary the pace. Charles Reade was never tiredof saying this, and, indeed, it is one of the foundationsof all good acting.

“You don’t seem quite torealize,” he writes in the letter before me,“that uniformity of pace leads inevitably tolanguor. You should deliver a pistol-shotor two. Remember Philippa is a fiery girl;she can snap. If only for variety, she shouldsnap James’ head off when she says, ‘DoI speak as if I loved them!’”

My memories of the part of Philippa are rather vague,but I know that Reade was right in insisting thatI needed more “bite” in the passages whenI was dressed as a boy. Though he complimentedme on my self-denial in making what he called “somesacrifice of beauty” to pass for a boy, “sothat the audience can’t say, ’Why, Jamesmust be a fool not to see she is a girl,’”he scolded me for my want of bluntness.

“Fix your mindon the adjective ‘blunt’ and the substantive
‘pistol-shot’;they will do you good service.”

They did! And I recommend them to anyone whofinds it hard to overcome monotony of pace and languorof diction.

“When you come to tell old Surefootabout his daughter’s love,” the lettergoes on, “you should fall into a positive imitationof his manner: crest, motionless, and handsin front, and deliver your preambles with a nasaltwang. But at the second invitation to speakout, you should cast this to the winds, and go intothe other extreme of bluntness and rapidity.[Quite right!] When you meet him afterthe exposure, you should speak as you are coming tohim and stop him in mid-career, and thenattack him. You should also (in Act II.)get the pearls back into the tree before you say:’Oh, I hope he did not see me!’”

Yes, I remember that in both these places I used tomuddle and blur the effect by doing the business andspeaking at the same time. By acting on Reade’ssuggestion I gained confidence in making a pause.

“After the beating, wait at leastten seconds longer than you do—torouse expectation—and when you do come on,make a little more of it. You ought to bevery pale indeed—even to enter with a slighttotter, done moderately, of course; and before yousay a single word, you ought to stand shakingand with your brows knitting, looking almostterrible. Of course, I do not expect or desireto make a melodramatic actress of you, but still Ithink you capable of any effect, provided itis not sustained too long.”

A truer word was never spoken. It has never beenin my power to sustain. In private life,I cannot sustain a hatred or a resentment. Onthe stage, I can pass swiftly from one effect to another,but I cannot fix one, and dwell on it, withthat superb concentration which seems to me the specialattribute of the tragic actress. To sustain,with me, is to lose the impression that I have created,not to increase its intensity.

“The last passageof the third act is just a little too hurried.
Break the line.‘Now, James—for England and liberty!’”

I remember that I never could see that he was rightabout that, and if I can’t see a thing I can’tdo it. The author’s idea must become minebefore I can carry it out—at least, withany sincerity, and obedience without sincerity wouldbe of small service to an author. It must bedespairing to him, if he wants me to say a line ina certain way, to find that I always say it in another;but I can’t help it. I have tried to actpassages as I have been told, just because Iwas told and without conviction, and I have failedmiserably and have had to go back to my own way.

“Climax is reached not only byrush but by increasing pace. Your exit speechis a failure at present, because you do not vary thepace of its delivery. Get by yourself forone half-hour—if you can! Getby the seaside, if you can, since there it was Demosthenesstudied eloquence and overcame mountains—notmole-hills like this. Being by the seaside,study those lines by themselves: ’And thenlet them find their young gentleman, and findhim quickly, for London shall not hold me long—no,nor England either.’

“Study to speakthese lines with great volubility and fire, and
settle the exact syllableto run at.”

I remember that Reade, with characteristic generosity,gave me ten pounds and sent me to the seaside in earnest,as he suggests my doing, half in fun, in the letter.“I know you won’t go otherwise,”he said, “because you want to insure your lifeor do something of that sort. Here! go to Brighton—goanywhere by the sea for Sunday! Don’t thankme! It’s all for Philippa.”

As I read these notes of his on anti-climax, monotonyof pace, and all the other offenses against scientificprinciples of acting which I committed in this onepart, I feel more strongly than ever how importantit is to master these principles. Until you havelearned them and practiced them you cannot affordto discard them. There is all the differencein the world between departure from recognized rulesby one who has learned to obey them, and neglect ofthem through want of training or want of skill orwant of understanding. Before you can be eccentricyou must know where the circle is.

This is accepted, I am told, even in shorthand, wherethe pupil acquires the knowledge of a number of signs,only for the purpose of discarding them when he isproficient enough to make an individual system.It is also accepted in music, where only the advancedpianist or singer can afford to play tricks with tempo.And I am sure it should be accepted in acting.

Nowadays acting is less scientific (except in thematter of voice-production) than it was when I wasreceiving hints, cautions, and advice from my twodramatist friends, Charles Reade and Tom Taylor; andthe leading principles to which they attached importancehave come to be regarded as old-fashioned and superfluous.This attitude is comparatively harmless in the interpretationof those modern plays in which parts are made to fitthe actors and personality is everything. Butthose who have been led to believe that they can maketheir own rules find their mistake when they cometo tackle Shakespeare or any of the standard dramatistsin which the actors have to fit themselves to theparts. Then, if ever, technique is avenged!

All my life the thing which has struck me as wantingon the stage is variety. Some people are“tone-deaf,” and they find it physicallyimpossible to observe the law of contrasts. Buteven a physical deficiency can be overcome by thatfaculty for taking infinite pains which may not begenius but is certainly a good substitute for it.

When it comes to pointing out an example, Henry Irvingis the monument, the great mark set up to show thegenius of will. For years he worked toovercome the dragging leg, which seemed to attractmore attention from some small-minded critics (sharpof eye, yet how dull of vision!) than all the mentalsplendor of his impersonations. He toiled, andhe overcame this defect, just as he overcame his disregardof the vowels and the self-consciousness which inthe early stages of his career used to hamper and

incommode him. His self was to him on afirst night what the shell is to a lobster on dryland. In “Hamlet,” when we first actedtogether after that long-ago Katherine and Petruchioperiod at the Queen’s, he used to discuss withme the secret of my freedom from self-consciousness;and I suggested a more swift entrance on the stagefrom the dressing-room. I told him that, in spiteof the advantage in ease which I had gained throughhaving been on the stage when still a mere child,I should be paralyzed with fright from over-acuterealization of the audience if I stood at the wingfor ten minutes, as he was in the habit of doing.He did not need me then, nor during the run of ournext play, “The Lady of Lyons”; but whenit came to Shylock, a quite new part to him, he triedthe experiment, and, as he told me, with great comfortto himself and success with the audience.

Only a great actor finds the difficulties of the actor’sart infinite. Even up to the last five yearsof his life, Henry Irving was striving, striving.He never rested on old triumphs, never found a partin which there was no more to do. Once when Iwas touring with him in America, at the time whenhe was at the highest point of his fame, I watchedhim one day in the train—always a delightfuloccupation, for his face provided many pictures aminute—and being struck by a curious look,half puzzled, half despairing, asked him what he wasthinking about.

“I was thinking,” he answered slowly,“how strange it is that I should have made thereputation I have as an actor, with nothing to helpme—with no equipment. My legs, my voice—everythinghas been against me. For an actor who can’twalk, can’t talk, and has no face to speak of,I’ve done pretty well.”

And I, looking at that splendid head, those wonderfulhands, the whole strange beauty of him, thought, “Ah,you little know!”

PORTIA

1875

The brilliant story of the Bancroft management ofthe old Prince of Wales’s Theater was more familiartwenty years back than it is now. I think thatfew of the youngest playgoers who point out, on thefirst nights of important productions, a remarkablystriking figure of a man with erect carriage, whitehair, and flashing dark eyes—a man whoseeye-glass, manners, and clothes all suggest Thackerayand Major Pendennis, in spite of his success in keepingabreast of everything modern—few playgoers,I say, who point this man out as Sir Squire Bancroftcould give any adequate account of what he did forthe English theater in the ’seventies.Nor do the public who see an elegant little lady startingfor a drive from a certain house in Berkeley Squarerealize that this is Marie Wilton, afterward Mrs. Bancroft,now Lady Bancroft, the comedienne who created theheroines of Tom Robertson, and, with her husband,brought what is called the cup-and-saucer drama toabsolute perfection.

We players know quite well and accept with philosophythe fact that when we have done we are forgotten.We are sometimes told that we live too much in thepublic eye and enjoy too much public favor and attention;but at least we make up for it by leaving no traceof our short and merry reign behind us when it isover!

I have never, even in Paris, seen anything more admirablethan the ensemble of the Bancroft productions.Every part in the domestic comedies, the presentationof which, up to 1875, they had made their policy,was played with such point and finish that the morerough, uneven, and emotional acting of the presentday has not produced anything so good in the sameline. The Prince of Wales’s Theater wasthe most fashionable in London, and there seemed noreason why the triumph of Robertson should not goon for ever.

But that’s the strange thing about theatricalsuccess. However great, it is limited in itsforce and duration, as we found out at the Lyceumtwenty years later. It was not only because theBancrofts were ambitious that they determined on aShakespearean revival in 1875: they felt thatyou can give the public too much even of a good thing,and thought that a complete change might bring theirtheater new popularity as well as new honor.

I, however, thought little of this at the time.After my return to the stage in “The WanderingHeir” and my tour with Charles Reade, my interestin the theater again declined. It has always beenmy fate or my nature—perhaps they are reallythe same thing—to be very happy or verymiserable. At this time I was very miserable.I was worried to death by domestic troubles and financialdifficulties. The house in which I first livedin London, after I left Hertfordshire, had been dismantledof some of its most beautiful treasures by the brokers.Pressure was being put on me by well-meaning friendsto leave this house and make a great change in mylife. Everything was at its darkest when Mrs.Bancroft came to call on me and offered me the partof Portia in “The Merchant of Venice.”

I had, of course, known her before, in the way thatall people in the theater seem to know each other,and I had seen her act; but on this day, when shecame to me as a kind of messenger of Fate, the harbingerof the true dawn of my success, she should have hadfor me some special and extraordinary significance.I could invest that interview now with many dramaticfeatures, but my memory, either because it is bad orbecause it is good, corrects my imagination.

“May I come in?”

An ordinary remark, truly, to stick in one’shead for thirty-odd years! But it was made insuch a very pretty voice—one of themost silvery voices I have ever heard from any womanexcept the late Queen Victoria, whose voice was likea silver stream flowing over golden stones.

The smart little figure—Mrs. Bancroft was,above all things, petite—dressedin black—elegant Parisian black—cameinto a room which had been almost completely strippedof furniture. The floor was covered with Japanesematting, and at one end was a cast of the Venus ofMilo, almost the same colossal size as the original.

Mrs. Bancroft’s wonderful gray eyes, examinedit curiously. The room, the statue, and I myselfmust all have seemed very strange to her. I worea dress of some deep yellow woolen material which mylittle daughter used to call the “frog dress,”because it was speckled with brown like a frog’sskin. It was cut like a Viollet-le-Duc tabard,and had not a trace of the fashion of the time.Mrs. Bancroft, however, did not look at me less kindlybecause I wore aesthetic clothes and was painfullythin. She explained that they were going to puton “The Merchant of Venice” at the Princeof Wales’s, that she was to rest for a whilefor reasons connected with her health; that she andMr. Bancroft had thought of me for Portia.

Portia! It seemed too good to be true! Iwas a student when I was young. I knew not onlyevery word of the part, but every detail of that periodof Venetian splendor in which the action of the playtakes place. I had studied Vecellio. NowI am old, it is impossible for me to work like that,but I never acknowledge that I get on as well withoutit.

Mrs. Bancroft told me that the production would beas beautiful as money and thought could make it.The artistic side of the venture was to be in thehands of Mr. Godwin, who had designed my dress forTitania at Bristol.

“Well, what do you say?” said Mrs. Bancroft.“Will you put your shoulder to the wheel withus?”

I answered incoherently and joyfully, that of allthings I had been wanting most to play in Shakespeare;that in Shakespeare I had always felt I would playfor half the salary; that—oh, I don’tknow what I said! Probably it was all very foolishand unbusinesslike, but the engagement was practicallysettled before Mrs. Bancroft left the house, althoughI was charged not to say anything about it yet.

But theater secrets are generally secrets de polichinelle.When I went to Charles Reade’s house at AlbertGate on the following Sunday for one of his regularSunday parties, he came up to me at once with a knowinglook and said:

“So you’ve got an engagement.”

“I’m not to say anything about it.”

“It’s in Shakespeare!”

“I’m not to tell.”

“But I know. I’ve been thinking itout. It’s ‘The Merchant of Venice.’”

“Nothing is settled yet. It’s onthe cards.”

“I know! I know!” said wise old Charles.“Well, you’ll never have such a good partas Philippa Chester!”

“No, Nelly, never!” said Mrs. Seymour,who happened to overhear this. “They callPhilippa a Rosalind part. Rosalind! Rosalindis not to be compared with it!”

Between Mrs. Seymour and Charles Reade existed a friendshipof that rare sort about which it is easy for peoplewho are not at all rare, unfortunately, to say ill-naturedthings. Charles Reade worshiped Laura Seymour,and she understood him and sympathized with his workand his whims. She died before he did, and henever got over it. The great success of one ofhis last plays, “Drink,” an adaptationfrom the French, in which Charles Warner is stillthrilling audiences to this day, meant nothing tohim because she was not alive to share it. The“In Memoriam” which he had inscribed overher grave is characteristic of the man, the woman,and their friendship:

HERE LIES THE GREAT HEARTOF
LAURA SEYMOUR

I liked Mrs. Seymour so much that I was hurt whenI found that she had instructed Charles Reade to tellNelly Terry “not to paint her face” inthe daytime, and I was young enough to enjoy revengingmyself in my own way. We used to play childishgames at Charles Reade’s house sometimes, andwith “Follow my leader” came my opportunity.I asked for a basin of water and a towel and scrubbedmy face with a significant thoroughness. Therules of the game meant that everyone had to followmy example! When I had dried my face I powderedit, and then darkened my eyebrows. I wished tobe quite frank about the harmless little bit of artificewhich Mrs. Seymour had exaggerated into a crime.She was now hoist with her own petard, for, beingheavily made up, she could not and would not followthe leader. After this Charles Reade acquittedme of the use of “pigments red,” but hestill kept up a campaign against “Chalky,”as he humorously christened my powder-puff. “Don’tbe pig-headed, love,” he wrote to me once; “itis because Chalky does not improve you that I forbidit. Trust unprejudiced and friendly eyes and dropit altogether.”

Although Mrs. Seymour was naturally prejudiced whereCharles Reade’s work was concerned, she onlyspoke the truth, pardonably exaggerated, about thepart of Philippa Chester. I know no part whichis a patch on it for effectiveness; yet there is littlein it of the stuff which endures. The play itselfwas too unbusiness like ever to become a classic.

Not for years afterwards did I find out that I wasnot the “first choice” for Portia.The Bancrofts had tried the Kendals first, with theidea of making a double engagement; but the negotiationsfailed. Perhaps the rivalry between Mrs. Kendaland me might have become of more significance hadshe appeared as Portia at the Prince of Wales’sand preferred Shakespeare to domestic comedy.In after years she played Rosalind—I neverdid, alas!—and quite recently acted withme in “The Merry Wives of Windsor”; butthe best of her fame will always be associated withsuch plays as “The Squire,” “TheIronmaster,” “Lady Clancarty,” andmany more plays of that type. When she playedwith me in Shakespeare she laughingly challenged meto come and play with her in a modern piece, a domesticplay, and I said, “Done!” but it has notbeen done yet, although in Mrs. Clifford’s “TheLikeness of the Night” there was a good mediumfor the experiment. I found Mrs. Kendal wonderfulto act with. No other English actress has suchextraordinary skill. Of course, people have saidwe are jealous of each other. “Ellen TerryActs with Lifelong Enemy,” proclaimed an Americannewspaper in five-inch type, when we played togetheras Mistress Page and Mistress Ford in Mr. Tree’sCoronation production of “The Merry Wives ofWindsor.” But the enmity did not seem toworry us as much as the newspaper men over the Atlantichad represented.

It was during this engagement in 1902 that a youngactor who was watching us coming in at the stage-doorat His Majesty’s one day is reported to havesaid: “Look at Mr. Tree between his two’stars’!”

“You mean Ancient Lights!” answered thewitty actress to whom the remark was made.

However, “e’en in our ashes burn our wontedfires,” or, to descend from the sublime to theridiculous, and from the poetry of Gray to the pantomimegag of Drury Lane and Herbert Campbell, “Betterto be a good old has-been than a never-was-er!”

But it was long before the “has-been”days that Mrs. Kendal decided not to bring her consummatelydexterous and humorous workmanship to the task ofplaying Portia, and left the field open for me.My fires were only just beginning to burn. SuccessI had had of a kind, and I had tasted the delightof knowing that audiences liked me, and had liked themback again. But never until I appeared as Portiaat the Prince of Wales’s had I experienced thatawe-struck feeling which comes, I suppose, to no actressmore than once in a lifetime—the feelingof the conqueror. In homely parlance, I knewthat I had “got them” at the moment whenI spoke the speech beginning, “You see me, LordBassanio, where I stand.”

“What can this be?” I thought. “Quitethis thing has never come to me before! This isdifferent! It has never been quite the same before.”

It was never to be quite the same again.

Elation, triumph, being lifted on high by a singlestroke of the mighty wing of glory—callit by any name, think of it as you like—itwas as Portia that I had my first and last sense ofit. And, while it made me happy, it made me miserablebecause I foresaw, as plainly as my own success, another’sfailure.

Charles Coghlan, an actor whose previous record wasfine enough to justify his engagement as Shylock,showed that night the fatal quality of indecision.

A worse performance than his, carried through withdecision and attack, might have succeeded, but Coghlan’sShylock was not even bad. It was nothing.

You could hardly hear a word he said. He spokeas though he had a sponge in his mouth, and movedas if paralyzed. The perspiration poured downhis face; yet what he was doing no one could guess.It was a case of moral cowardice rather than incompetency.At rehearsals no one had entirely believed in him,and this, instead of stinging him into a resolutionto triumph, had made him take fright and run away.

People felt that they were witnessing a great playwith a great part cut out, and “The Merchantof Venice” ran for three weeks!

It was a pity, if only because a more gorgeous andcomplete little spectacle had never been seen on theEnglish stage. Veronese’s “Marriagein Cana” had inspired many of the stage pictures,and the expenditure in carrying them out had beenlavish.

In the casket scene I wore a dress like almond-blossom.I was very thin, but Portia and all the ideal youngheroines of Shakespeare ought to be thin. Fatis fatal to ideality!

I played the part more stiffly and more slowly atthe Prince of Wales’s than I did in later years.I moved and spoke slowly. The clothes seemedto demand it, and the setting of the play developedthe Italian feeling in it, and let the English Elizabethanside take care of itself. The silver casket scenewith the Prince of Aragon was preserved, and so wasthe last act, which had hitherto been cut out in nearlyall stage versions.

I have tried five or six different ways of treatingPortia, but the way I think best is not the one whichfinds the heartiest response from my audiences.Has there ever been a dramatist, I wonder, whose partsadmit of as many different interpretations as do Shakespeare’s?There lies his immortality as an acting force.For times change, and parts have to be acted differentlyfor different generations. Some parts are notsufficiently universal for this to be possible, butevery ten years an actor can reconsider a Shakespearepart and find new life in it for his new purpose andnew audiences.

The aesthetic craze, with all its faults, was responsiblefor a great deal of true enthusiasm for anything beautiful.It made people welcome the Bancrofts’ productionof “The Merchant of Venice” with an appreciationwhich took the practical form of an offer to keep theperformances going by subscription, as the generalpublic was not supporting them. Sir Frederickand Lady Pollock, James Spedding, Edwin Arnold, SirFrederick Leighton and others made the proposal tothe Bancrofts, but nothing came of it.

Short as the run of the play was, it was a wonderfultime for me. Everyone seemed to be in love withme! I had sweethearts by the dozen, known andunknown. Most of the letters written to me I destroyedlong ago, but the feeling of sweetness and light withwhich some of them filled me can never be destroyed.The task of reading and answering letters has beena heavy one all my life, but it would be ungratefulto complain of it. To some people expressionis life itself. Half my letters begin: “Icannot help writing to tell you,” and I believethat this is the simple truth. I, for one, shouldhave been poorer, though my eyes might have been stronger,if they had been able to help it.

There turns up to-day, out of a long-neglected box,a charming note about “The Merchant of Venice”from some unknown friend.

“Playing to such houses,” he wrote, “isnot an encouraging pursuit; but to give to human beingsthe greatest pleasure that they are capable of receivingmust always be worth doing. You have given methat pleasure, and I write to offer you my poor thanks.Portia has always been my favorite heroine, and Isaw her last night as sweet and lovely as I had alwayshoped she might be. I hope that I shall see youagain in other Shakespearean characters, and thatnothing will tempt you to withhold your talents fromtheir proper sphere.”

The audiences may have been scanty, but they werewonderful. O’Shaughnessy, Watts-Dunton,Oscar Wilde, Alfred Gilbert, and, I think Swinburnewere there. A poetic and artistic atmosphere pervadedthe front of the house as well as the stage itself.

TOM TAYLOR AND LAVENDER SWEEP

I have read in some of the biographies of me thathave been published from time to time, that I waschagrined at Coghlan’s fiasco because it broughtmy success as Portia so soon to an end. As a matterof fact, I never thought about it. I was justsorry for clever Coghlan, who was deeply hurt andtook his defeat hardly and moodily. He wiped outthe public recollection of it to a great extent byhis Evelyn in “Money,” Sir Charles Pomanderin “Masks and Faces,” and Claude Melnottein “The Lady of Lyons,” which he playedwith me at the Princess’s Theater for one nightonly in the August following the withdrawal of “TheMerchant of Venice.”

I have been credited with great generosity for appearingin that single performance of “The Lady of Lyons.”It was said that I wanted to help Coghlan reinstatehimself, and so on. Very likely there was somesuch feeling in the matter, but there was also a goodpart and good remuneration! I remember that Iplayed Lytton’s proud heroine better then thanI did at the Lyceum five years later, and Coghlan wasmore successful as Melnotte than Henry Irving.But I was never really good. I tried invain to have sympathy with a lady who was addressedas “haughty cousin,” yet whose very pridehad so much inconsistency. How could any womanfall in love with a cad like Melnotte? I usedto ask myself despairingly. The very fact thatI tried to understand Pauline was against me.There is only one way to play her, and to be botheredby questions of sincerity and consistency means thatyou will miss that way for a certainty!

I missed it, and fell between two stools. Findingthat it was useless to depend upon feeling, I gropedafter the definite rules which had always governedthe delivery of Pauline’s fustian, and the fatethat commonly overtakes those who try to put old wineinto new bottles overtook me.

I knew for instance, exactly how the following speechought to be done, but I never could do it. Itoccurs in the fourth act, where Beauseant, after Paulinehas been disillusioned, thinks it will be an easy matterto induce the proud beauty to fly with him:

“Go! (White to the lips.)Sir, leave this house! It is humble; buta husband’s roof, however lowly, is, in the eyesof God and man, the temple of a wife’shonor. (Tumultuous applause.) Know thatI would rather starve—aye, starve—withhim who has betrayed me than accept yourlawful hand, even were you the prince whose namehe bore. (Hurrying on quickly to prevent applausebefore the finish.) Go!”

It is easy to laugh at Lytton’s rhetoric, butvery few dramatists have had a more complete masteryof theatrical situations, and that is a good thingto be master of. Why the word “theatrical”should have come to be used in a contemptuous senseI cannot understand. “Musical” isa word of praise in music; why not “theatrical”in a theater? A play in any age which holds theboards so continuously as “The Lady of Lyons”deserves more consideration than the ridicule of thosewho think that the world has moved on because ourplaywrights write more naturally than Lytton did.The merit of the play lay, not in its bombast, butin its situation.

Before Pauline I had played Clara Douglas in a revivalof “Money,” and I found her far more interestingand possible. To act the balance of thegirl was keen enjoyment; it foreshadowed some of thatgreater enjoyment I was to have in after years whenplaying Hermione—another well-judged, well-balancedmind, a woman who is not passion’s slave, whonever answers on the spur of the moment, but fromthe depths of reason and divine comprehension.I didn’t agree with Clara Douglas’s sentimentsbut I saw her point of view, and that was everything.

Tom Taylor, like Charles Reade, never hesitated tospeak plainly to me about my acting, and, after thefirst night of “Money,” wrote me a letterfull of hints and caution and advice:

“As I expected, you put feeling into every situationwhich gave you the opportunity, and the truth of yourintention and expression seemed to bring a note ofnature into the horribly sophisticated atmosphere ofthat hollow and most claptrappy of all Bulwerian stageoffenses. Nothing could be better than the appealto Evelyn in the last act. It was sweet, womanlyand earnest, and rang true in every note.

“But you were nervous and uncomfortablein many parts for want of sufficient rehearsal.These passages you will, no doubt, improve in nightly.I would only urge on you the great importance of studyingto be quiet and composed, and not fidgeting.There was especially a trick of constantly twiddlingwith and looking at your fingers which you should,above all, be on your guard against.... I think,too, you showed too evident feeling in the earlierscene with Evelyn. A blind man must have readwhat you felt—your sentiment should be moremasked.

“Laura (Mrs. Taylor) absolutely hates the play.We both thought—detestable in his part,false in emphasis, violent and coarse. Generallythe fault of the performance was, strange to say forthat theater, overacting, want of repose, point, andfinish. With you in essentials I was quite satisfied,but quiet—not so much movement ofarms and hands. Bear this in mind for improvement;and go over your part to yourself with a view to it.

“The Allinghams have been here to-day.They saw you twice as Portia, and were charmed.Mrs. Allingham wants to paint you. Allingham tellsme that Spedding is going to write an article on yourPortia, and will include Clara Douglas. I amgoing to see Salvini in ‘Hamlet’ to-morrowmorning, but I would call in Charlotte Street betweenone and two, on the chance of seeing you and talkingit over, and amplifying what I have said.

“Ever your true old friend,

“TOM TAYLOR.”

A true old friend indeed he was! I have alreadytried to convey how much I owed to him—howhe stood by me and helped me in difficulties, andsaid generously and unequivocally, at the time of myseparation from my first husband, that “thepoor child was not to blame.”

I was very fond of my own father, but in many waysTom Taylor was more of a father to me than my fatherin blood. Father was charming, but Irish andirresponsible. I think he loved my sister Flossand me most because we were the lawless ones of thefamily! It was not in his temperament to givewise advice and counsel. Having bequeathed tome light-heartedness and a sanguine disposition, andtrained me splendidly for my profession in childhood,he became in after years a very cormorant for adulationof me!

“duch*ess, you might have been anything!”was his favorite comment, when I was not living upto his ideas of my position and attainments. AndI used to answer: “I’ve played mycards for what I want.”

Years afterwards, when he and mother used to cometo first nights at the Lyceum, the grossest flatteryof me after the performance was not good enough forthem.

“How proud you must be of her!” someonewould say. “How well this part suits her!”

“Yes,” father would answer, in a sortof “is-that-all-you-have-to-say” tone.“But she ought to play Rosalind!”

To him I owe the gaiety of temperament which has enabledme to dance through the most harsh and desert passagesof my life, just as he used to make Kate and me dancealong the sordid London streets as we walked homefrom the Princess’s Theater. He would makeus come under his cloak, partly for warmth, partlyto hide from us the stages of the journey home.From the comfortable darkness one of us would cry out:

“Oh, I’m so tired! Aren’t wenearly home? Where are we, father?”

“You know Schwab, the baker?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Well, we’re not there yet!”

As I grew up, this teasing, jolly, insouciant Irishfather of mine was relieved of some of his paternalduties by Tom Taylor. It was not Nelly alonewhom Tom Taylor fathered. He adopted the wholefamily.

At Lavender Sweep, with the horse-chestnut blossomsstrewing the drive and making it look like a tessellatedpavement, all of us were always welcome, and Tom Taylorwould often come to our house and ask mother to grillhim a bone! Such intimate friendships are seldompossible in our busy profession, and there was neveranother Tom Taylor in my life.

When we were not in London and could not go to LavenderSweep to see him, he wrote almost daily to us.He was angry when other people criticised me, buthe did not spare criticism himself.

“Don’t be Nelly Know-all,” I rememberhis saying once. “I saw you flounderingout of your depth to-night on the subject of butterflies!The man to whom you were talking is one of the greatestentomologists in Europe, and must have seen throughyou at once.”

When William Black’s “Madcap Violet”was published, common report said that the heroinehad been drawn for Ellen Terry, and some of the reviewsmade Taylor furious.

“It’s disgraceful! I shall deny it.Never will I let it be said of you that you couldconceive any vulgarity. I shall write and contradictit. Indiscreet, high-spirited, full of surprises,you may be, but vulgar—never! I shallwrite at once.”

“Don’t do that,” I said. “Can’tyou see that the author hasn’t described me,but only me in ’New Men and Old Acres’?”As this was Tom Taylor’s own play, his rageagainst “Madcap Violet” was very funny!“There am I, just as you wrote it. My actions,manners, and clothes in the play are all reproduced.You ought to feel pleased, not angry.”

When his play “Victims” was being rehearsedat the Court Theater, an old woman and old actresswho had, I think, been in the preceding play was notwanted. The day the management gave her her dismissal,she met Taylor outside the theater, and poured outa long story of distress. She had not a stockingto her foot, she owed her rent, she was starving.Wouldn’t Mr. Taylor tell the management whatdismissal meant to her? Wouldn’t he gether taken back? Mr. Taylor would try, and Mr.Taylor gave her fifteen pounds in the street thenand there!

Mrs. Taylor wasn’t surprised. She onlywondered it wasn’t thirty!

“Tom the Adapter” was the Terry dramatistfor many years. Kate played in many of the pieceswhich, some openly, some deviously, he brought intothe English stage from the French. When Kate married,my turn came, and the interest that he had taken inmy sister’s talent he transferred in part tome, although I don’t think he ever thought meher equal. Floss made her first appearance inthe child’s part in Taylor’s play “ASheep in Wolf’s Clothing,” and Marionher first appearance as Ophelia in his version of“Hamlet”—perhaps “perversion”would be an honester description! Taylor introduceda “fool” who went about whacking people,including the Prince, by way of brightening up thetragedy.

I never saw my sister’s Ophelia, but I knowit was a fine send-off for her and that she must havelooked lovely. Oh, what a pretty young girl shewas! Her golden-brown eyes exactly matched herhair, and she was the winsomest thing imaginable!From the first she showed talent.

From Taylor’s letters I find—and,indeed, without them I could not have forgotten—thatthe good, kind friend never ceased to work in ourinterests. “I have recommended Flossy toplay Lady Betty in the country.” “Ihave written to the Bancrofts in favor of Forbes-Robertsonfor Bassanio.” (Evidently this was in answerto a request from me. Naturally, the Bancroftswanted someone of higher standing, but was I wrongabout J. Forbes-Robertson? I think not!) “Themother came to see me the other day. I was extremelysorry to hear the bad news of Tom.” (Tomwas the black sheep of our family, but a fascinatingwretch, all the same.) “I rejoice to think ofyour coming back,” he writes another time, “toshow the stage what an actress should be.”“A thousand thanks for the photographs.I like the profile best. It is most Paolo Veronesishand gives the right notion of your Portia, althoughthe color hardly suggests the golden gorgeousnessof your dress and the blonde glory of the hair and

complexion.... I hope you have seen the quietlittle boxes at ——’s foolisharticle.” (This refers to an article which attackedmy Portia in Blackwood’s Magazine.) “Ofcourse, if —— found his ideal in—— he must dislike you in Portia,or in anything where it is a case of grace and spontaneityand Nature against affectation, over-emphasis, stilt,and false idealism—in short, utter lackof Nature. How can the same critic admireboth? However, the public is with you, happily,as it is not always when the struggle is between goodart and bad.”

I quote these dear letters from my friend, not inmy praise, but in his. Until his death in 1880,he never ceased to write to me sympathetically andencouragingly; he rejoiced in my success the more becausehe had felt himself in part responsible for my marriageand its unhappy ending, and had perhaps feared thatmy life would suffer. Every little detail aboutme and my children, or about any of my family, wasof interest to him. He was never too busy togive an attentive ear to my difficulties. “’Thinkof you lovingly if I can’!” he writes tome at a time when I had taken a course for which allblamed me, perhaps because they did not know enoughto pardon enough—savoir tout c’esttout pardonner. “Can I think of youotherwise than lovingly? Never, if I know youand myself!”

Tom Taylor got through an enormous amount of work.Dramatic critic and art critic for the Times,he was also editor of Punch and a busy playwright.Everyone who wanted an address written or a play alteredcame to him, and his house was a kind of Mecca forpilgrims from America and from all parts of the world.Yet he all the time occupied a position in a Governmentoffice—the Home Office, I think it was—andoften walked from Whitehall to Lavender Sweep whenhis day’s work was done. He was an enthusiasticamateur actor, his favorite part being Adam in “AsYou Like It,” perhaps because tradition saysthis was a part that Shakespeare played; at any rate,he was very good in it. Gilbert and Sullivan,in very far-off days, used to be concerned in theseamateur theatricals. Their names were not associatedthen, but Kate and I established a prophetic linkby carrying on a mild flirtation, I with Arthur Sullivan,Kate with Mr. Gilbert!

Taylor never wasted a moment. He pottered, butthought deeply all the time; and when I used to watchhim plucking at his gray beard, I realized that hewas just as busy as if his pen had been plucking athis paper. Many would-be writers complain thatthe necessity of earning a living in some other andmore secure profession hinders them from achievinganything. What about Taylor at the Home Office,Charles Lamb at East India House, and Rousseau copyingmusic for bread? It all depends on the pointof view. A young lady in Chicago, who has writtensome charming short stories, told me how eagerly shewas looking forward to the time when she would beable to give up teaching and devote herself entirelyto a literary career. I wondered, and said I wasnever sure whether absolute freedom in such a matterwas desirable. Perhaps Charles Lamb was all thebetter for being a slave at the desk for so many years.

“Ah, but then, Charles Lamb wrote so little!”was the remarkable answer.

Taylor did not write “so little.”He wrote perhaps too much, and I think his heart wastoo strong for his brain. He was far too simpleand lovable a being to be great. The atmosphereof gaiety which pervaded Lavender Sweep arose fromhis generous, kindly nature, which insisted that itwas possible for everyone to have a good time.

Once, when we were rushing to catch a train with him,Kate hanging onto one arm and I onto the other, weall three fell down the station steps. “Now,then, none of your jokes!” said a cross man behindus, who seemed to attribute our descent to rowdyism.Taylor stood up with his soft felt hat bashed overone eye, his spectacles broken, and laughed, and laughed,and laughed!

VI

A YEAR WITH THE BANCROFTS

My engagement with the Bancrofts lasted a little overa year. After Portia there was nothing momentousabout it. I found Clara Douglas difficult, butI enjoyed playing her. I found Mabel Vane easy,and I enjoyed playing her, too, although there wasless to be proud of in my success here. Almostanyone could have “walked in” to victoryon such very simple womanly emotion as the part demanded.At this time friends who had fallen in love with Portiaused to gather at the Prince of Wales’s andapplaud me in a manner more vigorous than judicious.It was their fault that it got about that I had hireda claque to clap me! Now, it seems funny, butat the time I was deeply hurt at the insinuation,and it cast a shadow over what would otherwise havebeen a very happy time.

It is the way of the public sometimes, to keep alltheir enthusiasm for an actress who is doing wellin a minor part, and to withhold it from the actresswho is playing the leading part. I don’tsay for a minute that Mrs. Bancroft’s Peg Woffingtonin “Masks and Faces” was not appreciatedand applauded, but I know that my Mabel Vane was receivedwith a warmth out of all proportion to the merits ofmy performance, and that this angered some of Mrs.Bancroft’s admirers, and made them the bearersof ill-natured stories. Any unpleasantness thatit caused between us personally was of the briefestduration. It would have been odd indeed if Ihad been jealous of her, or she of me. Apart fromall else, I had met with my little bit of successin such a different field, and she was almost anotherMadame Vestris in popular esteem.

When I was playing Blanche Hayes in “Ours,”I nearly killed Mrs. Bancroft with the bayonet whichit was part of the business of the play for me to“fool” with. I charged as usual; eithershe made a mistake and moved to the right insteadof to the left, or I made a mistake. Anyhow,I wounded her in the arm. She had to wear it ina sling, and I felt very badly about it, all the morebecause of the ill-natured stories of its being noaccident.

Miss Marie Tempest is perhaps the actress of the presentday who reminds me a little of what Mrs. Bancroftwas at the Prince of Wales’s, but neither naturenor art succeed in producing two actresses exactlyalike. At her best Mrs. Bancroft was unapproachable.I think that the best thing I ever saw her do wasthe farewell to the boy in “Sweethearts.”It was exquisite!

In “Masks and Faces” Taylor and Readehad collaborated, and the exact share of each in theresult was left to one’s own discernment.I remember saying to Taylor one night at dinner whenReade was sitting opposite me, that I wished he (Taylor)would write me a part like that. “If onlyI could have an original part like Peg!”

Charles Reade, after fixing me with his amused andvery glittering eye, said across the table:“I have something for your private ear, Madam,after this repast!” And he came up withthe ladies, sat by me, and, calling me “an artfultoad”—a favorite expression of hisfor me!—told me that he, CharlesReade and no other, had written every line of Peg,and that I ought to have known it. I didn’tknow, as a matter of fact, but perhaps it was stupidof me. There was more of Tom Taylor in MabelVane.

I played five parts in all at the Prince of Wales’s,and I think I may claim that the Bancrofts found mea useful actress—ever the dull heightof my ambition! They wanted Byron—theauthor of “Our Boys”—to writeme a part in the new play, which they had ordered fromhim, but when “Wrinkles” turned up therewas no part which they felt they could offer me, andI think Coghlan was also not included in the cast.At any rate, he was free to take me to see Henry Irvingact. Coghlan was always raving about Irving atthis time. He said that one evening spent inwatching him act was the best education an actor couldhave. Seeing other people act, even if they arenot Irvings, is always an education to us. Ihave never been to a theater yet without learning something.It must have been in the spring of 1876 that I receivedthis note:

“Will you come in our box on Tuesday for QueenMary? Ever yours,

“CHARLES T. COGHLAN.

“P.S.—I am afraid that they willsoon have to smooth their wrinkled front of the P.of W. Alas! Helas! Ah, me!”

This postscript, I think, must have referred to theapproaching withdrawal of “Wrinkles” fromthe Prince of Wales’s, and the return of Coghlanand myself to the cast.

Meanwhile, we went to see Irving’s King Philip.

Well, I can only say that he never did anything betterto the day of his death. Never shall I forgethis expression and manner when Miss Bateman, as QueenMary (she was very good, by the way), was pouringout her heart to him. The horrid, dead look,the cruel unresponsiveness, the indifference of thecreature! While the poor woman protested and wept,he went on polishing up his ring! Then the tonein which he asked:

“Is dinner ready?”

It was the perfection of quiet malignity and cruelty.

The extraordinary advance that he had made since thedays when we had acted together at the Queen’sTheater did not occur to me. I was just spellboundby a study in cruelty, which seemed to me a triumphantassertion of the power of the actor to create as wellas to interpret, for Tennyson never suggested halfwhat Henry Irving did.

We talk of progress, improvement, and advance; butwhen I think of Henry Irving’s Philip, I beginto wonder if Oscar Wilde was not profound as wellas witty when he said that a great artist moves ina cycle of masterpieces, of which the last is no moreperfect than the first. Only Irving’s Petruchiostops me. But, then, he had not found himself.He was not an artist.

“Why did Whistler paint him as Philip?”some one once asked me. How dangerous to “askwhy” about anyone so freakish as Jimmy Whistler.But I answered then, and would answer now, that itwas because, as Philip, Henry, in his dress withoutmuch color (from the common point of view), his long,gray legs, and Velasquez-like attitudes, looked likethe kind of thing which Whistler loved to paint.Velasquez had painted a real Philip of the same race.Whistler would paint the actor who had created thePhilip of the stage.

I have a note from Whistler written to Henry at alater date which refers to the picture, and suggestsportraying him in all his characters. It is commonknowledge that the sitter never cared much about theportrait. Henry had a strange affection for thewrong picture of himself. He disliked the BastienLepage, the Whistler, and the Sargent, which nevereven saw the light. He adored the weak, handsomepicture by Millais, which I must admit, all the same,held the mirror up to one of the characteristics ofHenry’s face—its extreme refinement.Whistler’s Philip probably seemed to him notnearly showy enough.

Whistler I knew long before he painted the Philip.He gave me the most lovely dinner-set of blue andwhite Nanking that any woman ever possessed, and aset of Venetian glass, too good for a world where glassis broken. He sent my little girl a tiny Japanesekimono when Liberty was hardly a name. Many ofhis friends were my friends. He was with thedearest of those friends when he died.

The most remarkable men I have known were, withouta doubt, Whistler and Oscar Wilde. This doesnot imply that I liked them better or admired themmore than the others, but there was something aboutboth of them more instantaneously individual and audaciousthan it is possible to describe.

When I went with Coghlan to see Henry Irving’sPhilip I was no stranger to his acting. I hadbeen present with Tom Taylor, then dramatic criticof The Times, at the famous first night at theLyceum in 1874, when Henry Irving put his fortune,counted not in gold, but in years of scorned delightsand laborious days—years of constant studyand reflection, of Spartan self-denial, and deep melancholy—Iwas present when he put it all to the touch “towin or lose it all.” This is no exaggeration.Hamlet was by far the greatest part that he had everplayed, or was ever to play. If he had failed—butwhy pursue it? He could not fail.

Yet the success on the first night at the Lyceum in1874 was not of that electrical, almost hystericalsplendor which has greeted the momentous achievementsof some actors. The first two acts were receivedwith indifference. The people could not see howpacked they were with superb acting—perhapsbecause the new Hamlet was so simple, so quiet, sofree from the exhibition of actors’ artificeswhich used to bring down the house in “LouisXI” and in “Richelieu,” but whichwere really the easy things in acting, andin “Richelieu” (in my opinion) not especiallywell done. In “Hamlet” Henry Irvingdid not go to the audience. He made them cometo him. Slowly but surely attention gave placeto admiration, admiration to enthusiasm, enthusiasmto triumphant acclaim.

I have seen many Hamlets—Fechter, CharlesKean, Rossi, Frederick Haas, Forbes-Robertson, andmy own son, Gordon Craig, among them, but they werenot in the same hemisphere! I refuse to go andsee Hamlets now. I want to keep Henry Irving’sfresh and clear in my memory until I die.

When he engaged me to play Ophelia in 1878 he askedme to go down to Birmingham to see the play, and thatnight I saw what I shall always consider the perfectionof acting. It had been wonderful in 1874.In 1878 it was far more wonderful. It has beensaid that when he had the “advantage”of my Ophelia, his Hamlet “improved.”I don’t think so. He was always quite independentof the people with whom he acted.

The Birmingham night he knew I was there. Heplayed—I say it without vanity—forme. We players are not above that weakness, ifit be a weakness. If ever anything inspires usto do our best it is the presence in the audienceof some fellow-artist who must in the nature of thingsknow more completely than any one what we intend, whatwe do, what we feel. The response from such amember of the audience flies across the footlightsto us like a flame. I felt it once when I playedOlivia before Eleonora Duse. I felt that shefelt it once when she played Marguerite Gauthier forme.

When I read “Hamlet” now, everything thatHenry did in it seems to me more absolutely right,even than I thought at the time. I would givemuch to be able to record it all in detail—butit may be my fault—writing is not the mediumin which this can be done. Sometimes I have thoughtof giving readings of “Hamlet,” for I canremember every tone of Henry’s voice, everyemphasis, every shade of meaning that he saw in thelines and made manifest to the discerning. Yes,I think I could give some pale idea of what his Hamletwas if I read the play.

“Words! words! words!” What is it to say,for instance, that the cardinal qualities of his Princeof Denmark were strength, delicacy, distinction?There was never a touch of commonness. Whateverhe did or said, blood and breeding pervaded him.

His “make-up” was very pale, and thismade his face beautiful when one was close to him,but at a distance it gave him a haggard look.Some said he looked twice his age.

He kept three things going at the same time—theantic madness, the sanity, the sense of the theater.The last was to all that he imagined and thought,what charity is said by St. Paul to be to all othervirtues.

He was never cross or moody—only melancholy.His melancholy was as simple as it was profound.It was touching, too, rather than defiant. Younever thought that he was wantonly sad and enjoyinghis own misery.

He neglected no coup de theatre to assist him,but who notices the servants when the host is present?

For instance, his first entrance as Hamlet was, whatwe call in the theater, very much “worked up.”He was always a tremendous believer in processions,and rightly. It is through such means that Royaltykeeps its hold on the feeling of the public, and makesits mark as a Figure and a Symbol. Henry Irvingunderstood this. Therefore, to music so apt thatit was not remarkable in itself, but merely a contributionto the general excited anticipation, the Prince ofDenmark came on to the stage. I understood lateron at the Lyceum what days of patient work had goneto the making of that procession.

At its tail, when the excitement was at fever heat,came the solitary figure of Hamlet, looking extraordinarilytall and thin. The lights were turned down—anotherstage trick—to help the effect that thefigure was spirit rather than man.

He was weary—his cloak trailed on the ground.He did not wear the miniature of his fatherobtrusively round his neck! His attitude was onewhich I have seen in a common little illumination tothe “Reciter,” compiled by Dr. Pinches(Henry Irving’s old schoolmaster). Yet howright to have taken it, to have been indifferent toits humble origin! Nothing could have been betterwhen translated into life by Irving’s genius.

The hair looked blue-black, like the plumage of acrow, the eyes burning—two fires veiledas yet by melancholy. But the appearance of theman was not single, straight or obvious, as it is whenI describe it—any more than his passionsthroughout the play were. I only remember onemoment when his intensity concentrated itself in astraightforward, unmistakable emotion, without side-currentor back-water. It was when he said:

“The play’s thething
With which to catch the conscienceof the King.”

and, as the curtain came down, was seen to be writingmadly on his tablets against one of the pillars.

“Oh, God, that I were a writer!” I paraphraseBeatrice with all my heart. Surely a writercould not string words together about Henry Irving’sHamlet and say nothing, nothing.

“We must start this play a living thing,”he used to say at rehearsals, and he worked untilthe skin grew tight over his face, until he becamelivid with fatigue, yet still beautiful, to get theopening lines said with individuality, suggestiveness,speed, and power.

Bernardo: Who’sthere?

Francisco: Nay,answer me; stand, and unfold yourself.

Bernardo: Longlive the King!

Francisco: Bernardo?

Bernardo: He.

Francisco: Youcome most carefully upon your hour.

Bernardo: ’Tisnow struck twelve; get thee to bed, Francisco.

Francisco: Forthis relief much thanks; ’tis bitter cold....

And all that he tried to make others do with theselines, he himself did with every line of his own part.Every word lived.

Some said: “Oh, Irving only makes Hamleta love poem!” They said that, I suppose, becausein the Nunnery scene with Ophelia he was the loverabove the prince and the poet. With what passionatelonging his hands hovered over Ophelia at her words:

“Rich gifts wax poorwhen givers prove unkind.”

His advice to the players was not advice. Hedid not speak it as an actor. Nearly all Hamletsin that scene give away the fact that they are actors,and not dilettanti of royal blood. Irving definedthe way he would have the players speak as an order,an instruction of the merit of which he was regallysure. There was no patronizing flavor in hisacting here, not a touch of “I’ll teachyou how to do it.” He was swift—swiftand simple—pausing for the right word nowand again, as in the phrase “to hold as ’twerethe mirror up to nature.” His slight pauseand eloquent gesture was the all-embracing word “Nature”came in answer to his call, were exactly repeatedunconsciously years later by the Queen of Roumania(Carmen Sylva). She was telling us the story ofa play that she had written. The words rushedout swiftly, but occasionally she would wait for theone that expressed her meaning most comprehensivelyand exactly, and as she got it, up went her hand intriumph over her head. “Like yours in ‘Hamlet,’”I told Henry at the time.

I knew this Hamlet both ways—as an actressfrom the stage, and as an actress putting away herprofession for the time as one of the audience—andboth ways it was superb to me. Tennyson, I know,said it was not a perfect Hamlet. I wonder, then,where he hoped to find perfection!

James Spedding, considered a fine critic in his day,said Irving was “simply hideous ... a monster!”Another of these fine critics declared that he nevercould believe in Irving’s Hamlet after havingseen “part (sic) of his performance asa murderer in a commonplace melodrama.”Would one believe that any one could seriously writeso stupidly as that about the earnest effort of anearnest actor, if it were not quoted by some of Irving’sbiographers?

Some criticism, however severe, however misguided,remains within the bounds of justice, but what isone to think of the Quarterly Reviewer whodeclared that “the enormous pains taken withthe scenery had ensured Mr. Irving’s success”?The scenery was of the simplest—no moneywas spent on it even when the play was revived atthe Lyceum after Colonel Bateman’s death.Henry’s dress probably cost him about L2!

My Ophelia dress was made of material which couldnot have cost more than 2_s._ a yard, and not manyyards were wanted, as I was at the time thin to vanishingpoint! I have the dress still, and, looking atit the other day, I wondered what leading lady nowwould consent to wear it.

At all its best points, Henry’s Hamlet was susceptibleof absurd imitation. Think of this well, youngactors, who are content to play for safety, to avoidridicule at all costs, to be “natural”—oh,word most vilely abused! What sort of naturalnessis this of Hamlet’s?

“O, villain, villain,smiling damned villain!”

Henry Irving’s imitators could make people burstwith laughter when they took off his delivery of thatline. And, indeed, the original, too, was almostprovocative of laughter—rightly so, forsuch emotional indignation has its funny as well asits terrible aspect. The mad, and all are madwho have, as Socrates put it, “a divine releasefrom the common ways of men,” may speak ludicrously,even when they speak the truth.

All great acting has a certain strain of extravagancewhich the imitators catch hold of and give us theeccentric body without the sublime soul.

From the first I saw this extravagance, this bizarreriein Henry Irving’s acting. I noticed, too,its infinite variety. In “Hamlet,”during the first scene with Horatio, Marcellus andBernardo, he began by being very absent and distant.He exchanged greetings sweetly and gently, but hewas the visionary. His feet might be on the ground,but his head was towards the stars “where theeternal are.” Years later he said to meof another actor in “Hamlet”: “Hewould never have seen the ghost.” Well,there was never any doubt that Henry Irving saw it,and it was through his acting in the Horatio scenethat he made us sure.

As a bad actor befogs Shakespeare’s meaning,so a good actor illuminates it. Bit by bit asHoratio talks, Hamlet comes back into the world.He is still out of it when he says:

“My father! MethinksI see my father.”

But the dreamer becomes attentive, sharp as a needle,with the words:

“For God’s love,let me hear.”

Irving’s face, as he listened to Horatio’stale, blazed with intelligence. He cross-examinedthe men with keenness and authority. His mentaldeductions as they answered were clearly shown.With “I would I had been there” the cloudof unseen witnesses with whom he had before been communingagain descended. For a second or two Horatio andthe rest did not exist for him.... So onwardto the crowning couplet:

“...foul deeds will rise,
Though all the earth o’erwhelmthem to men’s eyes.”

After having been very quiet and rapid, very discreet,he pronounced these lines in a loud, clear voice,dragged out every syllable as if there never couldbe an end to his horror and his rage.

I had been familiar with the scene from my childhood—Ihad studied it; I had heard from my father how Macreadyacted in it, and now I found that I had a foolof an idea of it! That’s the advantage ofstudy, good people, who go to see Shakespeare acted.It makes you know sometimes what is being done, andwhat you never dreamed would be done when you readthe scene at home.

As one of the audience I was much struck by Irving’streatment of interjections and exclamations in “Hamlet.”He breathed the line: “O, that this too,too solid flesh would melt,” as one long yearning,and, “O horrible, O horrible! most horrible!”as a groan. When we first went to America hisaddress at Harvard touched on this very subject, andit may be interesting to know that what he preachedin 1885 he had practiced as far back as 1874.

“On the question of pronunciation,there is something to be said which I think inordinary teaching is not sufficiently considered.Pronunciation should be simple and unaffected,but not always fashioned rigidly according toa dictionary standard. No less an authoritythan Cicero points out that pronunciation must varywidely according to the emotions to be expressed;that it may be broken or cut with a varying ordirect sound, and that it serves for the actorthe purpose of color to the painter, from which todraw variations. Take the simplest illustration.The formal pronunciation of A-h is ‘Ah,’of O-h, ‘Oh,’ but you cannot stereotypethe expression of emotion like this. These exclamationsare words of one syllable, but the speaker whois sounding the gamut of human feeling will notbe restricted in his pronunciation by dictionaryrule. It is said of Edmund Kean that he neverspoke such ejacul*tions, but always sighed orgroaned them. Fancy an actor saying:

‘My Desdemona!Oh! oh! oh!’

“Words are intended to expressfeelings and ideas, not to bind them in rigidfetters; the accents of pleasure are different fromthe accents of pain, and if a feeling is moreaccurately expressed as in nature by a variationof sound not provided by the laws of pronunciation,then such imperfect laws must be disregarded and naturevindicated!”

It was of the address in which these words occur thata Boston hearer said that it was felt by every onepresent that “the truth had been spoken by aman who had learned it through living and not throughtheory.”

I leave his Hamlet for the present with one furtherreflection. It was in courtesy and humorthat it differed most widely from other Hamlets thatI have seen and heard of. This Hamlet was neverrude to Polonius. His attitude towards the oldBromide (I thank you, Mr. Gelett Burgess, for teachingme that word which so lightly and charmingly describesthe child of darkness and of platitude) was that ofone who should say: “You dear, funny oldsimpleton, whom I have had to bear with all my life—howterribly in the way you seem now.” Withwhat slightly amused and cynical playfulness thisHamlet said: “I had thought some of Nature’sjourneymen had made men and not made them well; theyimitated humanity so abominably.”

Hamlet was by far his greatest triumph, although hewould not admit it himself—preferring insome moods to declare that his finest work was donein Macbeth, which was almost universally disliked.

When I went with Coghlan to see Irving’s Philip,this “Hamlet” digression may have suggestedthat I was not in the least surprised at what I saw.Being a person little given to dreaming, and alwaysliving wholly in the present, it did not occur tome to wonder if I should ever act with this marvelousman. He was not at this time lessee of the Lyceum—ColonelBateman was still alive—and I looked nofurther than my engagement at the Prince of Wales’s,although in a few months it was to come to an end.

Although I was now earning a good salary, I stilllived in lodgings at Camden Town, took an omnibusto and from the theater, and denied myself all luxuries.I did not take a house until I went to the Court Theater.It was then, too, that I had my first cottage—awee place at Hampton Court where my children werevery happy. They used to give performances of“As You Like It” for the benefit of thePalace custodians—old Crimean veterans,most of them—and when the children had grownup these old men would still ask affectionately after“little Miss Edy” and “Master Teddy,”forgetting the passing of time.

My little daughter was a very severe critic!I think if I had listened to her, I should have leftthe stage in despair. She saw me act for thefirst time as Mabel Vane, but no compliments were tobe extracted from her.

“You did look long and thin in your graydress.”

“When you fainted I thought you was going tofall into the orchestra—you was so long.”

In “New Men and Old Acres” I had to playthe piano while I conducted a conversation consistingon my side chiefly of haughty remarks to the effectthat “blood would tell,” to talk naturallyand play at the same time. I “shied”at the lines, became self-conscious, and either sangthe words or altered the rhythm of the tune to suitthe pace of the speech. I grew anxious aboutit, and was always practicing it at home. Aftermuch hard work Edy used to wither me with:

“That’s not right!”

Teddy was of a more flattering disposition, but veryobstinate when he chose. I remember “wrastling”with him for hours over a little Blake poem whichhe had learned by heart, to say to his mother:

“When the voices ofchildren are heard on the green,
And laughing isheard on the hill,
My heart is at rest withinmy breast,
And everythingelse is still.
Then come home, my children,the sun is gone down,
And the dews ofthe night arise,
Come, come, leave off play,and let us away,
Till morning appearsin the skies.

No, no, let us play, for yetit is day,
And we cannotgo to sleep.
Besides, in the sky the littlebirds fly,
And the hillsare all covered with sheep....”

All went well until the last line. Then he cameto a stop.

Nothing would make him say sheep!

With a face beaming with anxiety to please, lookingadorable, he would offer any word but the right one.

“And the hills are all covered with—”

“With what, Teddy?”

“Master Teddy don’t know.”

“Something white, Teddy.”

“Snow?”

“No, no—does snow rhyme with ’sleep’?”

“Paper?”

“No, no. Now, I am not going to the theateruntil you say the right word. What are the hillscovered with?”

“People.”

“Teddy, you’re a very naughty boy.”

At this point he was put in the corner. His firstsuggestion when he came out was:

“Grass? Trees?”

“Are grass or trees white?” said the despairingmother with her eye on the clock, which warned herthat, after all, she would have to go to the theaterwithout winning.

Meanwhile, Edy was murmuring: “Sheep,Teddy,” in a loud aside, but
Teddy would not say it, not even when bothhe and I burst into tears!

At Hampton Court the two children, dressed in blueand white check pinafores, their hair closely cropped—thelittle boy fat and fair (at this time he bore a remarkableresemblance to Laurence’s portrait of the youthfulKing of Rome), the little girl thin and dark—ranas wild as though the desert had been their playgroundinstead of the gardens of this old palace of kings!They were always ready to show visitors (not so numerousthen as now) the sights; prattled freely to them of“my mamma,” who was acting in London,and showed them the new trees which they had assistedthe gardeners to plant in the wild garden, and christenedafter my parts. A silver birch was Iolanthe, amaple Portia, an oak Mabel Vane. Through theirkind offices many a stranger found it easy to followthe intricacies of the famous Maze. It was a finelife for them, surely, this unrestricted running toand fro in the gardens, with the great Palace as acivilizing influence!

It was for their sake that I was most glad of my increasingprosperity in my profession. My engagement withthe Bancrofts was exchanged at the close of the summerseason of 1876 for an even more popular one with Mr.John Hare at the Court Theater, Sloane Square.

I had learned a great deal at the Prince of Wales’s,notably that the art of playing in modern plays ina tiny theater was quite different from the art ofplaying in the classics in a big theater. Themethods for big and little theaters are alike, yetquite unlike. I had learned breadth in Shakespeareat the Princess’s, and had had to employ it againin romantic plays for Charles Reade. The pit andgallery were the audience which we had to reach.At the Prince of Wales’s I had to adopt a moredelicate, more subtle, more intimate style. Butthe breadth had to be there just the same—asseen through the wrong end of the microscope.In acting one must possess great strength before onecan be delicate in the right way. Too often weaknessis mistaken for delicacy.

Mr. Hare was one of the best stage managers that Ihave met during the whole of my long experience inthe theater. He was snappy in manner, extremelyirritable if anything went wrong, but he knew whathe wanted, and he got it. No one has ever surpassedhim in the securing of a perfect ensemble.He was the Meissonier among the theater artists.Very likely he would have failed if he had been calledupon to produce “King John,” but whatbetter witness to his talent than that he knew hisline and stuck to it?

The members of his company were his, body and soul,while they were rehearsing. He gave them fifteenminutes for lunch, and any actor or actress who wasfoolish or unlucky enough to be a minute late, wassorry afterwards. Mr. Hare was peppery and irascible,and lost his temper easily.

Personally, I always got on well with my new manager,and I ought to be grateful to him, if only becausehe gave me the second great opportunity of my career—thepart of Olivia in Wills’s play from “TheVicar of Wakefield.” During this engagementat the Court I married again. I had met CharlesWardell, whose stage name was Kelly, when he was actingin “Rachael the Reaper” for Charles Reade.At the Court we played together in several pieces.He had not been bred an actor, but a soldier.He was in the 66th Regiment, and had fought in theCrimean War; been wounded, too—no carpetknight. His father was a clergyman, vicar of Winlaton,Northumberland—a charming type of the old-fashionedparson, a friendship with Sir Walter Scott in thebackground, and many little possessions of the greatSir Walter’s in the foreground to remind oneof what had been.

Charlie Kelly, owing to his lack of training, hadto be very carefully suited with a part before heshone as an actor. But when he was suited—hisline was the bluff, hearty, kindly, soldier-like Englishman—hewas better than many people who had twenty years’start of him in experience. This is absurdlyfaint praise. In such parts as Mr. Brown in “NewMen and Old Acres,” the farmer father in “Dora,”Diogenes in “Iris,” no one could have betteredhim. His most ambitious attempt was Benedick,which he played with me when I first appeared as Beatriceat Leeds. It was in many respects a splendid performance,and perhaps better for the play than the more polished,thoughtful, and deliberate Benedick of Henry Irving.

Physically a manly, bulldog sort of a man, CharlesKelly possessed as an actor great tenderness and humor.It was foolish of him to refuse the part of Burchellin “Olivia,” in which he would have madea success equal to that achieved by Terriss as theSquire. But he was piqued at not being cast forthe Vicar, which he could not have played well, andstubbornly refused to play Burchell.

Alas! many actors are just as blind to their trueinterests.

We were married in 1876; and after I left the CourtTheater for the Lyceum, we continued to tour togetherin the provinces during vacation time when the Lyceumwas closed. These tours were very successful,but I never worked harder in my life! When weplayed “Dora” at Liverpool, Charles Reade,who had adapted the play from Tennyson’s poem,wrote:

“Nincompoop!

“What have youto fear from me for such a masterly performance!Be
assured nobody can appreciateyour value and Mr. Kelley’s as I do.
It is well played allround.”

VII

EARLY DAYS AT THE LYCEUM

It is humiliating to me to confess that I have notthe faintest recollection of “Brothers,”the play by Coghlan, in which I see by the evidenceof an old play-bill that I made my first appearanceunder Mr. Hare’s management. I rememberanother play by Coghlan, in which Henry Kemble madeone of his early appearances in the part of a butler,and how funny he was, even in those days, in a struggleto get rid of a pet monkey—a “property”monkey made of brown wool with no “devil”in it, except that supplied by the comedian’simagination. We trusted to our acting, not toreal monkeys and real dogs to bring us through, andwhen the acting was Henry Kemble’s, it was goodenough to rely upon!

Charles Coghlan seems to have been consistently unlucky.Yet he was a good actor and a brilliant man.I always enjoyed his companionship; found him a pleasant,natural fellow, absorbed in his work, and not at allthe “dangerous” man that some people representedhim.

Within less than a month from the date of the productionof “Brothers,” “New Men and OldAcres” was put into the Court bill. It wasnot a new play, but the public at once began to crowdto see it, and I have heard that it brought Mr. HareL30,000. My part, Lilian Vavasour, had been playedin the original production by Mrs. Kendal, but it hadbeen written for me by Tom Taylor when I was at theHaymarket, and it suited me very well. The revivalwas well acted all round. Charles Kelly was splendidas Mr. Brown, and Mr. Hare played a small part perfectly.

H.B. Conway, a young actor whose good looks weretalked of everywhere, was also in the cast. Hewas a descendant of Lord Byron’s, and had alook of the handsomest portraits of the poet.With his bright hair curling tightly all over hiswell-shaped head, his beautiful figure, and charmingpresence, Conway created a sensation in the ’eightiesalmost equal to that made by the more famous beauty,Lillie Langtry.

As an actor he belonged to the Terriss type, but hewas not nearly as good as Terriss. Of his extraordinaryfailure in the Lyceum “Faust” I shallsay something when I come to the Lyceum productions.

After “New Men and Old Acres,” Mr. Haretried a posthumous play by Lord Lytton—“TheHouse of Darnley.” It was not a goodplay, and I was not good in it, although thepleasant adulation of some of my friends has mademe out so. The play met with some success, andduring its run Mr. Hare commissioned Wills to write“Olivia.”

I had known Wills before this through the Forbes-Robertsons.He was at one time engaged to one of the girls, butit was a good thing it ended in smoke. With allhis charm, Wills was not cut out for a husband.He was Irish all over—the strangest mixtureof the aristocrat and the sloven. He could eata large raw onion every night like any peasant, yethis ideas were magnificent and instinct with refinement.

A true Bohemian in money matters, he made a greatdeal out of his plays—and never had a farthingto bless himself with!

In the theater he was charming—from anactor’s point of view. He interfered verylittle with the stage management, and did not careto sit in the stalls and criticise. But he wouldcome quietly to me and tell me things which were mostilluminating, and he paid me the compliment of weepingat the wing while I rehearsed “Olivia.”

I was generally weeping, too, for Olivia, morethan any part, touched me to the heart. I criedtoo much in it, just as I cried too much later onin the Nunnery scene in “Hamlet,” and inthe last act of “Charles I.” My realtears on the stage have astonished some people, andhave been the envy of others, but they have oftenbeen a hindrance to me. I have had to workto restrain them.

Oddly enough, although “Olivia” was sucha great success at the Court, it has never made muchmoney since. The play could pack a tiny theater;it could never appeal in a big way to the masses.In itself it had a sure message—the lovestory of an injured woman is one of the cards in thestage pack which it is always safe to play—butagainst this there was a bad last act, one of theworst I have ever acted in. It was always beingtinkered with, but patching and alteration only seemsto weaken it.

Mr. Hare produced “Olivia” perfectly.Marcus Stone designed the clothes, and I found mydresses—both faithful and charming as reproductionsof the eighteenth century spirit—stoodthe advance of time and the progress of ideas whenI played the part later at the Lyceum. I had notto alter anything. Henry Irving discovered thesame thing about the scenery and stage management.They could not be improved upon. There was verylittle scenery at the Court, but a great deal of tasteand care in selection.

Every one was “Olivia” mad. The Oliviacap shared public favor with the Langtry bonnet.That most lovely and exquisite creature, Mrs. Langtry,could not go out anywhere, at the dawn of the ’eighties,without a crowd collecting to look at her! Itwas no rare thing to see the crowd, to ask its cause,to receive the answer, “Mrs. Langtry!”and to look in vain for the object of the crowd’sadmiring curiosity.

This was all the more remarkable, and honorable topublic taste, too, because Mrs. Langtry’s wasnot a showy beauty. Her hair was the color thatit had pleased God to make it; her complexion was herown; in evening dress she did not display nearly asmuch of her neck and arms as was the vogue, yet theyoutshone all other necks and arms through their ownperfection.

“No worker has a right to criticise publiclythe work of another in the same field,” HenryIrving once said to me, and Heaven forbid that I shoulddisregard advice so wise! I am aware that theprofessional critics and the public did not transferto Mrs. Langtry the actress the homage that they hadpaid to Mrs. Langtry the beauty, but I can only speakof the simplicity with which she approached her work,of her industry, and utter lack of vanity about herpowers. When she played Rosalind (which my daughter,the best critic of acting I know, tells mewas in many respects admirable), she wrote to me:

“Dear Nellie,—

“I bundled through my part somehow last night,a disgraceful performance, and no waist-padding!Oh, what an impudent wretch you must think me to attemptsuch a part! I pinched my arm once or twice lastnight to see if it was really me. It was so sweetof you to write me such a nice letter, and then atelegram, too!

“Yours ever, dear Nell,

“LILLIE.

“P.S.—I am rehearsing, all day—’TheHoneymoon’ next week. I love the hard work,and the thinking and study.”

Just at this time there was a great dearth on thestage of people with lovely diction, and Lillie Langtryhad it. I can imagine that she spoke Rosalind’slines beautifully, and that her clear gray eyes andfrank manner, too well-bred to be hoydenish, musthave been of great value.

To go back to “Olivia.” Like allHare’s plays, it was perfectly cast. Whereall were good, it will be admitted, I think, by everyone who saw the production, that Terriss was the best.“As you stand there, whipping your boot, youlook the very picture of vain indifference,”Olivia says to Squire Thornhill in the first act,and never did I say it without thinking how absolutelyto the life Terriss realized that description!

As I look back, I remember no figure in the theatermore remarkable than Terriss. He was one of thoseheaven-born actors who, like kings by divine right,can, up to a certain point, do no wrong. Veryoften, like Dr. Johnson’s “inspired idiot,”Mrs. Pritchard, he did not know what he was talkingabout. Yet he “got there,” while manycleverer men stayed behind. He had unboundedimpudence, yet so much charm that no one could everbe angry with him. Sometimes he reminded me ofa butcher-boy flashing past, whistling, on the highseat of his cart, or of Phaethon driving the chariotof the sun—pretty much the same thing, Iimagine! When he was “dressed up”Terriss was spoiled by fine feathers; when he wasin rough clothes, he looked a prince.

He always commanded the love of his intimates as wellas that of the outside public. To the end hewas “Sailor Bill”—a sort ofgrown-up midshipmite, whose weaknesses provoked nomore condemnation than the weaknesses of a child.In the theater he had the tidy habits of a sailor.He folded up his clothes and kept them in beautifulcondition; and of a young man who had proposed forhis daughter’s hand he said: “Theman’s a blackguard! Why, he throws his thingsall over the room! The most untidy chap I eversaw!”

Terriss had had every sort of adventure by land andsea before I acted with him at the Court. Hehad been midshipman, tea-planter, engineer, sheep-farmer,and horse-breeder. He had, to use his own words,“hobnobbed with every kind of queer folk, andfound myself in extremely queer predicaments.”The adventurous, dare-devil spirit of the roamer,the incarnate gipsy, always looked out of his insolenteyes. Yet, audacious as he seemed, no man wasever more nervous on the stage. On a first nighthe was shaking all over with fright, in spite of hisconfident and dashing appearance.

His bluff was colossal. Once when he was a littleboy and wanted money, he said to his mother:“Give me L5 or I’ll jump out of the window.”And she at once believed he meant it, and cried out:“Come back, come back! and I’ll give youanything.”

He showed the same sort of “attack” withaudiences. He made them believe in him the momenthe stepped on to the stage.

His conversation was extremely entertaining—and,let me add, ingenuous. One of his favorite reflectionswas: “Tempus fugit! So make the mostof it. While you’re alive, gather roses;for when you’re dead, you’re dead a d——dlong time.”

He was a perfect rider, and loved to do cowboy “stunts”in Richmond Park while riding to the “Star andGarter.”

When he had presents from the front, which happenedevery night, he gave them at once to the call-boyor the gas-man. To the women-folk, especiallythe plainer ones, he was always delightful. Neverwas any man more adored by the theater staff.And children, my own Edy included, were simply daftabout him. A little American girl, daughter ofWilliam Winter, the famous critic, when staying withme in England, announced gravely when we were outdriving:

“I’ve gone a mash on Terriss.”

There was much laughter. When it had subsided,the child said gravely:

“Oh, you can laugh, but it’s true.I wish I was hammered to him!”

Perhaps if he had lived longer, Terriss would havelost his throne. He died as a beautiful youth,a kind of Adonis, although he was fifty years oldwhen he was stabbed at the stage-door of the AdelphiTheater.

Terriss had a beautiful mouth. That predisposedme in his favor at once! I have always been “cracked”on pretty mouths! I remember that I used to say“Naughty Teddy!” to my own little boy justfor the pleasure of seeing him put out his under-lip,when his mouth looked lovely!

At the Court Terriss was still under thirty, but doingthe best work of his life. He never didanything finer than Squire Thornhill, although hewas clever as Henry VIII. His gravity as Flutterin “The Belle’s Stratagem” was veryfetching; as Bucklaw in “Ravenswood” helooked magnificent, and, of course, as the sailorhero in Adelphi melodrama he was as good as couldbe. But it is as Thornhill that I like best toremember him. He was precisely the handsome, reckless,unworthy creature that good women are fools enoughto love.

In the Court production of “Olivia,” bothmy children walked on to the stage for the first time.Teddy had such red cheeks that they made all the rougedcheeks look quite pale! Little Edy gave me a bunchof real flowers that she had picked in the countrythe day before.

Young Norman Forbes-Robertson was the Moses of theoriginal cast. He played the part again at theLyceum. How charming he was! And how very,very young! He at once gave promise of being agood actor and of having done the right thing in followinghis brother on to the stage. At the present dayI consider him the only actor on the stage who canplay Shakespeare’s fools as they should be played.

Among the girls “walking on” was KateRorke. This made me take a special interest inwatching what she did later on. No one who sawher fine performance in “The Profligate”could easily forget it, and I shall never understandwhy the London public ever let her go.

It was during the run of “Olivia” thatHenry Irving became sole lessee of the Lyceum Theater.For a long time he had been contemplating the step,but it was one of such magnitude that it could notbe done in a hurry. I daresay he found it difficultto separate from Mrs. Bateman and from her daughter,who had for such a long time been his “leadinglady.” He had to be a little cruel, notfor the last time, in a career devoted unremittinglyand unrelentingly to his art and his ambition.

It was said by an idle tongue in later years thatrich ladies financed Henry Irving’s ventures.The only shadow of foundation for this statement isthat at the beginning of his tenancy of the Lyceum,the Baroness Burdett-Coutts lent him a certain sumof money, every farthing of which was repaid duringthe first few months of his management.

The first letter that I ever received from Henry Irvingwas written on July 20, 1878, from 15A, Grafton Street,the house in which he lived during the entire periodof his Lyceum management.

“Dear Miss Terry,—

“I look forward to the pleasure of calling uponyou on Tuesday next at two o’clock.

“With every good wish, believe me, sincerely,

“HENRY IRVING.”

The call was in reference to my engagement as Ophelia.Strangely characteristic I see it now to have beenof Henry that he was content to take my powers asan actress more or less on trust. A mutual friend,Lady Pollock, had told him that I was the very personfor him; that “all London” was talkingof my Olivia; that I had acted well in Shakespearewith the Bancrofts; that I should bring to the LyceumTheater what players call “a personal following.”Henry chose his friends as carefully as he chose hiscompany and his staff. He believed in Lady Pollockimplicitly, and he did not—it is possiblethat he could not—come and see my Oliviafor himself.

I was living in Longridge Road when Henry Irving firstcame to see me.

Not a word of our conversation about the engagementcan I remember. I did notice, however, the greatchange that had taken place in the man since I hadlast met him in 1867. Then he was really almostordinary looking—with a mustache, an unwrinkledface, and a sloping forehead. The only wonderfulthing about him was his melancholy. When I wasplaying the piano once in the greenroom at the Queen’sTheater, he came in and listened. I rememberbeing made aware of his presence by his sigh—thedeepest, profoundest, sincerest sigh I ever heard fromany human being. He asked me if I would not playthe piece again.

The incident impressed itself on my mind, inseparablyassociated with a picture of him as he looked at thirty—apicture by no means pleasing. He looked conceited,and almost savagely proud of the isolation in whichhe lived. There was a touch of exaggeration inhis appearance—a dash of Werther, witha few flourishes of Jingle! Nervously sensitiveto ridicule, self-conscious, suffering deeply fromhis inability to express himself through his art,Henry Irving, in 1867, was a very different personfrom the Henry Irving who called on me at LongridgeRoad in 1878.

In ten years he had found himself, and so lost himself—lost,I mean, much of that stiff, ugly, self-consciousnesswhich had encased him as the shell encases the lobster.His forehead had become more massive, and the veryoutline of his features had altered. He was aman of the world, whose strenuous fighting now wasto be done as a general—not, as hitherto,in the ranks. His manner was very quiet and gentle.“In quietness and confidence shall be your strength,”says the Psalmist. That was always like HenryIrving.

And here, perhaps, is the place to say that I, ofall people, can perhaps appreciate Henry Irving leastjustly, although I was his associate on the stagefor a quarter of a century, and was on the terms ofthe closest friendship with him for almost as longa time. He had precisely the qualities that Inever find likable.

He was an egotist—an egotist of the greattype, never “a mean egotist,” ashe was once slanderously described—and allhis faults sprang from egotism, which is in one sense,after all, only another name for greatness. Somuch absorbed was he in his own achievements that hewas unable or unwilling to appreciate the achievementsof others. I never heard him speak in high termsof the great foreign actors and actresses who fromtime to time visited England. It would be easyto attribute this to jealousy, but the easy explanationis not the true one. He simply would not givehimself up to appreciation. Perhaps appreciationis a wasting though a generous quality of themind and heart, and best left to lookers-on, who haveplenty of time to develop it.

I was with him when he saw Sarah Bernhardt act forthe first time. The play was “Ruy Blas,”and it was one of Sarah’s bad days. Shewas walking through the part listlessly, and I wasangry that there should be any ground for Henry’sindifference. The same thing happened years later,when I took him to see Eleonora Duse. The playwas “La Locandiera,” in which to my mindshe is not at her very best. He was surprisedat my enthusiasm. There was an element of justicein his attitude towards the performance which infuriatedme, but I doubt if he would have shown more enthusiasmif he had seen her at her very best.

As the years went on he grew very much attached toSarah Bernhardt, and admired her as a colleague whosemanagerial work in the theater was as dignified ashis own, but of her superb powers as an actress, Idon’t believe he ever had a glimmering notion!

Perhaps it is not true, but, as I believe it to betrue, I may as well state it: It was neverany pleasure to him to see the acting of other actorsand actresses. All the same, Salvini’s OthelloI know he thought magnificent, but he would not speakof it.

How dangerous it is to write things that may not beunderstood! What I have written I have writtenmerely to indicate the qualities in Henry Irving’snature, which were unintelligible to me, perhaps becauseI have always been more woman than artist. Healways put the theater first. He lived in it,he died in it. He had none of what I may callmy bourgeois qualities—the loveof being in love, the love of a home, the dislikeof solitude. I have always thought it hard tofind my inferiors. He was sure of his high place.He was far simpler than I in some ways. He wouldtalk, for instance, in such an ingenuous way to paintersand musicians that I blushed for him. But I knownow that my blush was far more unworthy than his freedomfrom all pretentiousness in matters of art.

He never pretended. One of his biographershas said that he posed as being a French scholar.Such a thing, and all things like it, were impossibleto his nature. If it were necessary in one ofhis plays to say a few French words, he took infinitepains to learn them and said them beautifully.

Henry once told me that in the early part of his career,before I knew him, he had been hooted because of histhin legs. The first service I did him was totell him they were beautiful, and to make him giveup padding them.

“What do you want with fat, podgy, prize-fighterlegs!” I expostulated.

Praise to some people at certain stages of their careeris more developing than blame. I admired thevery things in Henry for which other people criticizedhim. I hope this helped him a little.

I brought help, too, in pictorial matters. HenryIrving had had little training in such matters—Ihad had a great deal. Judgment about colors,clothes and lighting must be trained. Ihad learned from Mr. Watts, from Mr. Godwin, and fromother artists, until a sense of decorative effecthad become second nature to me.

Before the rehearsals of “Hamlet” beganat the Lyceum I went on a provincial tour with CharlesKelly, and played for the first time in “Dora,”and “Iris,” besides doing a steady roundof old parts. In Birmingham I went to see Henry’sHamlet. (I have tried already, most inadequately,to say what it was to me.) I had also appeared forthe first time as Lady Teazle—a part whichI wish I was not too old to play now, for I couldplay it better. My performance in 1877 was notfinished enough, not light enough. I think Idid the screen scene well. When the screen wasknocked over I did not stand still and rigid with eyescast down. That seemed to me an attitude of guilt.Only a guilty woman, surely, in such a situationwould assume an air of conscious virtue. I shrankback, and tried to hide my face—a naturalmovement, so it seemed to me, for a woman who hadbeen craning forward, listening in increasing agitationto the conversation between Charles and Joseph Surface.

I shall always regret that we never did “TheSchool for Scandal,” or any of the other classiccomedies, at the Lyceum. There came a time whenHenry was anxious for me to play Lady Teazle, but Iopposed him, as I thought that I was too old.It should have been one of my best parts.

“Star” performances, for the benefit ofveteran actors retiring from the stage, were as commonin my youth as now. About this time I played in“Money” for the benefit of Henry Compton,a fine comedian who had delighted audiences at theHaymarket for many years. On this occasion Idid not play Clara Douglas as I had done during therevival at the Prince of Wales’s, but the comedypart, Georgina Vesey. John Hare, Mr. and Mrs.Kendal, Henry Neville, Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft, and,last but not least, Benjamin Webster, who came outof his retirement to play Graves—“hisoriginal part”—were in the cast.

I don’t think that Webster ever appeared onthe stage again, although he lived on for many yearsin an old-fashioned house near Kennington Church,and died at a great age. He has a descendant onthe stage in Mr. Ben Webster, who acted with us atthe Lyceum, and is now well known both in Englandand America.

Henry Compton’s son, Edward, was in this performanceof “Money.” He was engaged to thebeautiful Adelaide Neilson, an actress whose brilliantcareer was cut off suddenly when she was riding inthe Bois. She drank a glass of milk when shewas overheated, was taken ill, and died. I amtold that she commanded L700 a week in America, andin England people went wild over her Juliet.She looked like a child of the warm South, althoughshe was born, I think, in Manchester, and her lookswere much in her favor as Juliet. She belongedto the ripe, luscious, pomegranate type of woman.The only living actress with the same kind of beautyis Maxine Elliott.

Adelaide Neilson had a short reign, but a most triumphantone. It was easy to understand it when one sawher. She was so gracious, so feminine, so lovely.She did things well, but more from instinct than anythingelse. She had no science. Edward Comptonnow takes his own company round the provinces in anexcellent repertoire of old comedies. He hasdone as much to make country audiences familiar withthem as Mr. Benson has done to make them familiarwith Shakespeare.

I come now to the Lyceum rehearsals of November, 1878.Although Henry Irving had played Hamlet for over twohundred nights in London, and for I don’t knowhow many nights in the provinces, he always rehearsedin cloak and rapier. This careful attention todetail came back to my mind years afterwards, whenhe gave readings of Macbeth. He never gave apublic reading without first going through the entireplay at home—at home, that is to say, ina miserably uncomfortable hotel.

During the first rehearsal he read every one’spart except mine, which he skipped, and the powerthat he put into each part was extraordinary.He threw himself so thoroughly into it that his skincontracted and his eyes shone. His lips grewwhiter and whiter, and his skin more and more drawnas the time went on, until he looked like a livid thing,but beautiful.

He never got at anything easily, and oftenI felt angry that he would waste so much of his strengthin trying to teach people to do things in the rightway. Very often it only ended in his producingactors who gave colorless, feeble and unintelligentimitations of him. There were exceptions, ofcourse.

When it came to the last ten days before the datenamed for the production of “Hamlet,”and my scenes with him were still unrehearsed, I grewvery anxious and miserable. I was still a strangerin the theater, and in awe of Henry Irving personally;but I plucked up courage, and said:

“I am very nervous about my first appearancewith you. Couldn’t we rehearse ourscenes?”

“We shall be all right!” he answered,“but we are not going to run the risk of beingbottled up by a gas-man or a fiddler.”

When I spoke, I think he was conducting a band rehearsal.Although he did not understand a note of music, hefelt, through intuition, what the music ought to be,and would pull it about and have alterations made.No one was cleverer than Hamilton Clarke, Henry’sfirst musical director, and a most gifted composer,at carrying out his instructions. Hamilton Clarkeoften grew angry and flung out of the theater, sayingthat it was quite impossible to do what Mr. Irvingrequired.

“Patch it together, indeed!” he used tosay to me indignantly, when I was told off to smoothhim down. “Mr. Irving knows nothing aboutmusic, or he couldn’t ask me to do such a thing.”

But the next day he would return with the score alteredon the lines suggested by Henry, and would confessthat the music was improved. “Upon my soul,it’s better! The ‘Guv’nor’was perfectly right.”

His Danish march in “Hamlet,” his Brockenmusic in “Faust,” and his music for “TheMerchant of Venice” were all, to my mind, exactlyright. The brilliant gifts of Clarke, beforemany years had passed, “o’er-leaped”themselves, and he ended his days in a lunatic asylum.

The only person who did not profit by Henry’sceaseless labors was poor Ophelia. When the firstnight came, I did not play the part well, althoughthe critics and the public were pleased. To myselfI failed. I had not rehearsed enough.I can remember one occasion when I played Opheliareally well. It was in Chicago some ten yearslater. At Drury Lane, in 1896, when I playedthe mad scene for Nelly Farren’s benefit, andtook farewell of the part for ever, I was just damnable!

Ophelia only pervades the scenes in which sheis concerned until the mad scene. This was atremendous thing for me, who am not capable of sustainedeffort, but can perhaps manage a cumulativeeffort better than most actresses. I have beentold that Ophelia has “nothing to do”at first. I found so much to do! Little bitsof business which, slight in themselves, contributedto a definite result, and kept me always in the picture.

Like all Ophelias before (and after) me, I went tothe madhouse to study wits astray. I was disheartenedat first. There was no beauty, no nature, nopity in most of the lunatics. Strange as it maysound, they were too theatrical to teach meanything. Then, just as I was going away, I noticeda young girl gazing at the wall. I went betweenher and the wall to see her face. It was quitevacant, but the body expressed that she was waiting,waiting. Suddenly she threw up her hands and spedacross the room like a swallow. I never forgotit. She was very thin, very pathetic, very young,and the movement was as poignant as it was beautiful.

I saw another woman laugh with a face that had nogleam of laughter anywhere—a face of patheticand resigned grief.

My experiences convinced me that the actor must imaginefirst and observe afterwards. It is no good observinglife and bringing the result to the stage withoutselection, without a definite idea. The idea mustcome first, the realism afterwards.

Perhaps because I was nervous and irritable aboutmy own part from insufficient rehearsal, perhaps becausehis responsibility as lessee weighed upon him, HenryIrving’s Hamlet on the first night at the Lyceumseemed to me less wonderful than it had been at Birmingham.At rehearsals he had been the perfection of grace.On the night itself, he dragged his leg and seemedstiff from self-consciousness. He asked me lateron if I thought the ill-natured criticism of his walkwas in any way justified, and if he really said “Gud”for “God,” and the rest of it. Isaid straight out that he did say his vowelsin a peculiar way, and that he did drag hisleg.

I begged him to give up that dreadful, paralyzingwaiting at the side for his cue, and after a timehe took my advice. He was never obstinate insuch matters. His one object was to find out,to test suggestion, and follow it if it stoodhis test.

He was very diplomatic when he meant to have his ownway. He never blustered or enforced or threatened.My first acquaintance with this side of him was madeover my dresser for Ophelia. He had heard thatI intended to wear black in the mad scene, and heintended me to wear white. When he first mentionedthe subject, I had no idea that there would be anyopposition. He spoke of my dresses, and I toldhim that as I was very anxious not to be worried aboutthem at the last minute, they had been got on withearly and were now finished.

“Finished! That’s very interesting!Very interesting. And what—er—whatcolors are they?”

“In the first scene I wear a pinkish dress.It’s all rose-colored with her. Her fatherand brother love her. The Prince loves her—andso she wears pink.”

“Pink,” repeated Henry thoughtfully.

“In the nunnery scene I have a pale, gold, amberdress—the most beautiful color. Thematerial is a church brocade. It will ‘tonedown’ the color of my hair. In the lastscene I wear a transparent, black dress.”

Henry did not wag an eyelid.

“I see. In mourning for her father.”

“No, not exactly that. I think redwas the mourning color of the period. But blackseems to me right—like the character,like the situation.”

“Would you put the dresses on?” said Henrygravely.

At that minute Walter Lacy came up, that very WalterLacy who had been with Charles Kean when I was a child,and who now acted as adviser to Henry Irving in hisShakespearean productions.

“Ah, here’s Lacy. Would you mind,Miss Terry, telling Mr. Lacy what you are going towear?”

Rather surprised, but still unsuspecting, I told Lacyall over again. Pink in the first scene, yellowin the second, black—

You should have seen Lacy’s face at the word“black.” He was going to burst out,but Henry stopped him. He was more diplomaticthan that!

“They generally wear white, don’tthey?”

“I believe so,” I answered, “butblack is more interesting.”

“I should have thought you would look much betterin white.”

“Oh, no!” I said.

And then they dropped the subject for that day.It was clever of him!

The next day Lacy came up to me:

“You didn’t really mean that you are goingto wear black in the mad scene?”

“Yes, I did. Why not?”

“Why not! My God! Madam, there mustbe only one black figure in this play, and that’sHamlet!”

I did feel a fool. What a blundering donkey Ihad been not to see it before! I was very thriftyin those days, and the thought of having been thecause of needless expense worried me. So insteadof the crepe de Chine and miniver, which hadbeen used for the black dress, I had for the whitedress Bolton sheeting and rabbit, and I believe itlooked better.

The incident, whether Henry was right or not, ledme to see that, although I knew more of art and archaeologyin dress than he did, he had a finer sense of whatwas right for the scene. After this healways consulted me about the costumes, but if hesaid: “I want such and such a scene tobe kept dark and mysterious,” I knew better thanto try and introduce pale-colored dresses into it.

Henry always had a fondness for “the old actor,”and would engage him in preference to the tyro anyday. “I can trust them,” he explainedbriefly.

In the cast of “Hamlet” Mr. Forrester,Mr. Chippendale, and Tom Mead worthily repaid thetrust. Mead, in spite of a terrible excellencein “Meadisms”—he substitutedthe most excruciatingly funny words for Shakespeare’swhen his memory of the text failed—was aremarkable actor. His voice as the Ghost wasbeautiful, and his appearance splendid. Withhis deep-set eyes, hawklike nose, and clear brow, hereminded me of the Rameses head in the British Museum.

We had young men in the cast, too. There wasone very studious youth who could never be caughtloafing. He was always reading, or busy in thegreenroom studying by turns the pictures of past actor-humanitywith which the walls were peopled, or the presentrealities of actors who came in and out of the room.Although he was so much younger then, Mr. Pinero lookedmuch as he does now. He played Rosencrantz veryneatly. Consummate care, precision, and brainscharacterized his work as an actor always, but hischief ambition lay another way. Rosencrantz andthe rest were his school of stage-craft.

Kyrle Bellew, the Osric of the production, was anotherman of the future, though we did not know it.He was very handsome, a tremendous lady-killer!He wore his hair rather long, had a graceful figure,and a good voice, as became the son of a preacherwho had the reputation of saying the Lord’sPrayer so dramatically that his congregation sobbed.

Frank Cooper, a descendant of the Kembles, anotheractor who has risen to eminence since, played Laertes.It was he who first led me onto the Lyceum stage.Twenty years later he became my leading man on thefirst tour I took independently of Henry Irving sincemy tours with my husband, Charles Kelly.

VIII

WORK AT THE LYCEUM

When I am asked what I remember about the first tenyears at the Lyceum, I can answer in one word:Work. I was hardly ever out of the theater.What with acting, rehearsing, and studying—twenty-fivereference books were a “simple coming-in”for one part—I sometimes thought I shouldgo blind and mad. It was not only for my partsat the Lyceum that I had to rehearse. From Augustto October I was still touring in the provinces onmy own account. My brother George acted as mybusiness manager. His enthusiasm was not greaterthan his loyalty and industry. When we were playingin small towns he used to rush into my dressing-roomafter the curtain was up and say excitedly:

“We’ve got twenty-five more people inour gallery than the Blank Theater opposite!”

Although he was very delicate, he worked for me likea slave. When my tours with Mr. Kelly ended in1880 and I promised Henry Irving that in future Iwould go to the provincial towns with him, my brotherwas given a position at the Lyceum, where, I fear,his scrupulous and uncompromising honesty often gothim into trouble. “Perks,” as theyare called in domestic service, are one of the heaviestadditions to a manager’s working expenses, andGeorge tried to fight the system. He hurt noone so much as himself.

One of my productions in the provinces was an Englishversion of “Frou-Frou,” made for me bymy dear friend Mrs. Comyns Carr, who for many yearsdesigned the dresses that I wore in different Lyceumplays. “Butterfly,” as “Frou-Frou”was called when it was produced in English, went well;indeed, the Scots of Edinburgh received it with overwhelmingfavor, and it served my purpose at the time, but whenI saw Sarah Bernhardt play the part I wondered thatI had had the presumption to meddle with it.It was not a case of my having a different view ofthe character and playing it according to my imagination,as it was, for instance, when Duse played “LaDame aux Camelias,” and gave a performance thatone could not say was inferior to Bernhardt’s,although it was so utterly different. Nopeople in their right senses could have accepted my“Frou-Frou” instead of Sarah’s.What I lacked technically in it was pace.

Of course, it is partly the language. Englishcannot be phrased as rapidly as French. But Ihave heard foreign actors, playing in the Englishtongue, show us this rapidity, this warmth, this fury—callit what you will—and have just wonderedwhy we are, most of us, so deficient in it.

Fechter had it, so had Edwin Forrest. When stronglymoved, their passions and their fervor made them swift.The more Henry Irving felt, the more deliberate hebecame. I said to him once: “You seemto be hampered in the vehemence of passion.”“I am,” he answered. This iswhat crippled his Othello, and made his scene withTubal in “The Merchant of Venice” theleast successful to him. What it was tothe audience is another matter. But he had totake refuge in speechless rage when he would haveliked to pour out his words like a torrent.

In the company which Charles Kelly and I took roundthe provinces in 1880 were Henry Kemble and CharlesBrookfield. Young Brookfield was just beginninglife as an actor, and he was so brilliantly funny offthe stage that he was always a little disappointingon it. My old manageress, Mrs. Wigan,first brought him to my notice, writing in a charminglittle note that she knew him “to have a powerof personation very rare in an unpracticedactor,” and that if we could give him variedpractice, she would feel it a courtesy to her.

I had reason to admire Mr. Brookfield’s “powersof personation” when I was acting at Buxton.He and Kemble had no parts in one of our plays, sothey amused themselves during their “off”night by hiring bath-chairs and pretending to be paralytics!We were acting in a hall, and the most infirm of theinvalids visiting the place to take the waters werewheeled in at the back, and up the center aisle.In the middle of a very pathetic scene I caught sightof Kemble and Brookfield in their bath-chairs, andcould not speak for several minutes.

Mr. Brookfield does not tell this little story inhis “Random Reminiscences.” It isabout the only one that he has left out! To mymind he is the prince of storytellers. All thecleverness that he should have put into his actingand his play-writing (of which since those early dayshe has done a great deal) he seems to have put intohis life. I remember him more clearly as a delightfulcompanion than an actor, and he won my heart at onceby his kindness to my little daughter Edy, who accompaniedme on this tour. He has too great a sense of humorto resent my inadequate recollection of him.Did he not in his own book quote gleefully from anobituary notice published on a false report of hisdeath, the summary: “Never a great actor,he was invaluable in small parts. But after allit is at his club that he will be most missed!”

In the last act of “Butterfly,” as wecalled the English version of “Frou-Frou,”where the poor woman is dying, her husband shows hera locket with a picture of her child in it. Nightafter night we used a “property” locket,but on my birthday, when we happened to be playingthe piece, Charles Kelly bought a silver locket ofIndian work and put inside it two little colored photographsof my children, Edy and Teddy, and gave it to me onthe stage instead of the “property” one.When I opened it, I burst into very real tears!I have often wondered since if the audience that nightknew that they were seeing real instead ofassumed emotion! Probably the difference did nottell at all.

At Leeds we produced “Much Ado About Nothing.”I never played Beatrice as well again. When Ibegan to “take soundings” from life formy idea of her, I found in my friend Anne Codrington(now Lady Winchilsea) what I wanted. There wasbefore me a Beatrice—as fine a lady as everlived, a great-hearted woman—beautiful,accomplished, merry, tender. When Nan Codringtoncame into a room it was as if the sun came out.She was the daughter of an admiral, and always triedto make her room look as like a cabin as she could.“An excellent musician,” as Benedick hintsBeatrice was, Nan composed the little song that Isang at the Lyceum in “The Cup,” and verygood it was, too.

When Henry Irving put on “Much Ado About Nothing”—aplay which he may be said to have done for me, ashe never really liked the part of Benedick—Iwas not the same Beatrice at all. A great actorcan do nothing badly, and there was so very much toadmire in Henry Irving’s Benedick. Buthe gave me little help. Beatrice must be swift,swift, swift! Owing to Henry’s rather finicking,deliberate method as Benedick, I could never put theright pace into my part. I was also feeling unhappyabout it, because I had been compelled to give wayabout a traditional “gag” in the churchscene, with which we ended the fourth act. Inmy own production we had scorned this gag, and letthe curtain come down on Benedick’s line:“Go, comfort your cousin; I must say she isdead, and so farewell.” When I was toldthat we were to descend to the buffoonery of:

Beatrice: Benedick,kill him—kill him if you can.

Benedick: As sure asI’m alive, I will!

I protested, and implored Henry not to do it.He said that it was necessary: otherwise the“curtain” would be received in dead silence.I assured him that we had often had seven and eightcalls without it. I used every argument, artisticand otherwise. Henry, according to his custom,was gentle, would not discuss it much, but remainedobdurate. After holding out for a week, I gavein. “It’s my duty to obey your orders,and do it,” I said, “but I do it underprotest.” Then I burst into tears.It was really for his sake just as much as for mine.I thought it must bring such disgrace on him!Looking back on the incident, I find that the mosthumorous thing in connection with it was that thecritics, never reluctant to accuse Henry of “monkeying”with Shakespeare if they could find cause, never noticedthe gag at all!

Such disagreements occurred very seldom. In “TheMerchant of Venice” I found that Henry Irving’sShylock necessitated an entire revision of my conceptionof Portia, especially in the trial scene, but herethere was no point of honor involved. I had considered,and still am of the same mind, that Portia in thetrial scene ought to be very quiet. I sawan extraordinary effect in this quietness. Butas Henry’s Shylock was quiet, I had to giveit up. His heroic saint was splendid, but it wasn’tgood for Portia.

Of course, there were always injudicious friends tosay that I had not “chances” enough atthe Lyceum. Even my father said to me after “Othello”:

“We must have no more of these Ophelias andDesdemonas!”

“Father!” I cried out, really shocked.

“They’re second fiddle parts—notthe parts for you, duch*ess.”

“Father!” I gasped out again, for reallyI thought Ophelia a pretty good part, and was delightedat my success with it.

But granting these were “second fiddle”parts, I want to make quite clear that I had my turnof “first fiddle” ones. “Romeoand Juliet,” “Much Ado About Nothing,”“Olivia,” and “The Cup” allgave me finer opportunities than they gave Henry.In “The Merchant of Venice” and “CharlesI.” they were at least equal to his.

I have sometimes wondered what I should have accomplishedwithout Henry Irving. I might have had “bigger”parts, but it doesn’t follow that they wouldhave been better ones, and if they had been writtenby contemporary dramatists my success would have beenless durable. “No actor or actress whodoesn’t play in the ’classics’—inShakespeare or old comedy—will be heardof long,” was one of Henry Irving’s sayings,by the way, and he was right.

It was a long time before we had much talk with eachother. In the “Hamlet” days, HenryIrving’s melancholy was appalling. I rememberfeeling as if I had laughed in church when he cameto the foot of the stairs leading to my dressing-room,and caught me sliding down the banisters! Hesmiled at me, but didn’t seem able to get overit.

“Lacy,” he said some days later, “whatdo you think! I found her the other day slidingdown the banisters!”

Some one says—I think it is Keats, in aletter—that the poet lives not in one,but in a thousand worlds, and the actor has not one,but a hundred natures. What was the real HenryIrving? I used to speculate!

His religious upbringing always left its mark on him,though no one could be more “raffish”and mischievous than he when entertaining friendsat supper in the Beefsteak Room, or chaffing his valuedadjutants, Bram Stoker and Loveday. H.J.Loveday, our dear stage manager, was, I think, asabsolutely devoted to Henry as anyone except his fox-terrier,Fussie. Loveday’s loyalty made him agreewith everything that Henry said, however preposterous,and didn’t Henry trade on it sometimes!

Once while he was talking to me, when he was makingup, he absently took a white lily out of a bowl onthe table and began to stripe and dot the petals withthe stick of grease-paint in his hand. He pulledoff one or two of the petals, and held it out to me.

“Pretty flower, isn’t it?”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Henry!”I said.

“You wait!” he said mischievously.“We’ll show it to Loveday.”

Loveday was sent for on some business connected withthe evening’s performance. Henry held outthe flower obtrusively, but Loveday wouldn’tnotice it.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” said Henry carelessly.

“Very,” said Loveday. “I alwayslike those lilies. A friend of mine has his gardenfull of them, and he says they’re not so difficultto grow if only you give ’em enough water.”

Henry’s delight at having “taken in”Loveday was childish. But sometimes I think Lovedaymust have seen through these innocent jokes, only hewouldn’t have spoiled “the Guv’nor’s”bit of fun for the world.

When Henry first met him he was conducting an orchestra.I forget the precise details, but I know that he gaveup this position to follow Henry, that he was withhim during the Bateman regime at the Lyceum, and thatwhen the Lyceum became a thing of the past, he stillkept the post of stage manager. He was literally“faithful unto death,” for it was onlyat Henry’s death that his service ended.

Bram Stoker, whose recently published “Reminiscencesof Irving” have told, as well as it ever canbe told, the history of the Lyceum Theater under Irving’sdirection, was as good a servant in the front of thetheater as Loveday was on the stage. Like a trueIrishman, he has given me some lovely blarney in hisbook. He has also told all the storiesthat I might have told, and described every one connectedwith the Lyceum except himself. I can fill thatdeficiency to a certain extent by saying that he isone of the most kind and tender-hearted of men.He filled a difficult position with great tact, andwas not so universally abused as most business managers,because he was always straight with the company, andnever took a mean advantage of them.

Stoker and Loveday were daily, nay, hourly, associatedfor many years with Henry Irving; but, after all,did they or any one else really know him?And what was Henry Irving’s attitude. Ibelieve myself that he never wholly trusted his friends,and never admitted them to his intimacy, althoughthey thought he did, which was the same thing to them.

From his childhood up, Henry was lonely. Hischief companions in youth were the Bible and Shakespeare.He used to study “Hamlet” in the Cornishfields, when he was sent out by his aunt, Mrs. Penberthy,to call in the cows. One day, when he was inone of the deep, narrow lanes common in that partof England, he looked up and saw the face of a sweetlittle lamb gazing at him from the top of the bank.The symbol of the lamb in the Bible had always attractedhim, and his heart went out to the dear little creature.With some difficulty he scrambled up the bank, slippingoften in the damp, red earth, threw his arms roundthe lamb’s neck and kissed it.

The lamb bit him!

Did this set-back in early childhood influence him?I wonder! He had another such set-back when hefirst went on the stage, and for some six weeks inDublin was subjected every night to groans, hoots,hisses, and cat-calls from audiences who resentedhim because he had taken the place of a dismissedfavorite. In such a situation an actor is notlikely to take stock of reasons. HenryIrving only knew that the Dublin people made him theobject of violent personal antipathy. “Iplayed my parts not badly for me,” he said simply,“in spite of the howls of execration with whichI was received.”

The bitterness of this Dublin episode was never quiteforgotten. It colored Henry Irving’s attitudetowards the public. When he made his humble littlespeeches of thanks to them before the curtain, therewas always a touch of pride in the humility.Perhaps he would not have received adulation in quitethe same dignified way if he had never known whatit was to wear the martyr’s “shirt of flame.”

This is the worst of my trying to give a consecutivenarrative of my first years at the Lyceum. HenryIrving looms across them, reducing all events, allfeelings, all that happened, and all that was suggested,to pigmy size.

Let me speak generally of his method of procedurein producing a play.

First he studied it for three months himself, andnothing in that play would escape him. Some oneonce asked him a question about “Titus Andronicus.”“God bless my soul!” he said. “Inever read it, so how should I know!” The Shakespeareanscholar who had questioned him was a little shocked—afact which Henry Irving, the closest observer of men,did not fail to notice.

“When I am going to do ‘Titus Andronicus,’or any other play,” he said to me afterwards,“I shall know more about it than A——or any other student.”

There was no conceit in this. It was just a statementof fact. And it may not have been an admirablequality of Henry Irving’s, but all his lifehe only took an interest in the things which concernedthe work that he had in hand. When there wasa question of his playing Napoleon, his room at GraftonStreet was filled with Napoleonic literature.Busts of Napoleon, pictures of Napoleon, relics ofNapoleon were everywhere. Then, when anotherplay was being prepared, the busts, however fine,would probably go down to the cellar. It was notNapoleon who interested Henry Irving, but Napoleonfor his purpose—two very differentthings.

His concentration during his three months’ studyof the play which he had in view was marvelous.When, at the end of the three-months, he called thefirst rehearsal, he read the play exactly as it wasgoing to be done on the first night. He knewexactly by that time what he personally was goingto do on the first night, and the company did wellto notice how he read his own part, for never againuntil the first night, though he rehearsed with them,would he show his conception so fully and completely.

These readings, which took place sometimes in thegreenroom or Beefsteak Room at the Lyceum, sometimesat his house in Grafton Street, were wonderful.Never were the names of the characters said by thereader, but never was there the slightest doubt asto which was speaking. Henry Irving swiftly,surely, acted every part in the piece as he read.While he read, he made notes as to the position ofthe characters and the order of the crowds and processions.At the end of the first reading he gave out the parts.

The next day there was the “comparing”of the parts. It generally took place on thestage, and we sat down for it. Each person tookhis own character, and took up the cues to make surethat no blunder had been made in writing them out.Parts at the Lyceum were written, or printed, nottyped.

These first two rehearsals—the one devotedto the reading of the play, and the other to the comparingof the parts, were generally arranged for Thursdayand Friday. Then there was two days’ grace.On Monday came the first stand-up rehearsal on thestage.

We then did one act straight through, and, after that,straight through again, even if it took all day.There was no luncheon interval. People took abite when they could, or went without. Henry himselfgenerally went without. The second day exactlythe same method was pursued with the second act.All the time Henry gave the stage his personal direction,gave it keenly, and gave it whole. He was thesole superintendent of his rehearsals, with Mr. Lovedayas his working assistant, and Mr. Allen as his prompter.This despotism meant much less wasted time than whenactor-manager, “producer,” literary adviser,stage manager, and any one who likes to offer a suggestionare all competing in giving orders and advice to acompany.

Henry Irving never spent much time on the women inthe company, except in regard to position. Sometimeshe would ask me to suggest things to them, to do forthem what he did for the men. The men were asmuch like him when they tried to carry out his instructionsas brass is like gold; but he never grew weary of“coaching” them, down to the most minutedetail. Once during the rehearsals of “Hamlet”I saw him growing more and more fatigued with hisefforts to get the actors who opened the play to perceivehis meaning. He wanted the first voice to ringout like a pistol shot.

“Who’s there?”

“Do give it up,” I said. “It’sno better!”

“Yes, it’s a little better,” heanswered quietly, “and so it’s worth doing.”

From the first the scenery or substitute scenery wasput upon the stage for rehearsal, and the propertiesor substitute properties were to hand.

After each act had been gone through twice each day,it came to half an act once in a whole day, becauseof the development of detail. There was no detailtoo small for Henry Irving’s notice. Henever missed anything that was cumulative—thatwould contribute something to the whole effect.

The messenger who came in to announce something alwaysneeded a great deal of rehearsal. There wereprocessions, and half processions, quiet bits whenno word was spoken. There was timing.Nothing was left to chance.

In the master carpenter, Arnott, we had a splendidman. He inspired confidence at once through hisstrong, able personality, and, as time went on, deservedit through all the knowledge he acquired and throughhis excellence in never making a difficulty.

“You shall have it,” was no bluff fromArnott. You did “have it.”

We could not find precisely the right material forone of my dresses in “The Cup.” Atlast, poking about myself in quest of it, I came acrossthe very thing at Liberty’s—a saffronsilk with a design woven into it by hand with many-coloredthreads and little jewels. I brought a yard torehearsal. It was declared perfect, but I declaredthe price prohibitive.

“It’s twelve guineas a yard, and I shallwant yards and yards!”

In these days I am afraid they would not only putsuch material on to the leading lady, but on to thesupers too! At the Lyceum wanton extravagancewas unknown.

“Where can I get anything at all like it?”

“You leave it to me,” said Arnott.“I’ll get it for you. That’llbe all right.

“But, Arnott, it’s a hand-woven Indianmaterial. How can you get it?”

“You leave it to me,” Arnott repeatedin his slow, quiet, confident way. “Doyou mind letting me have this yard as a pattern?”

He went off with it, and before the dress rehearsalhad produced about twenty yards of silk, which onthe stage looked better than the twelve-guinea original.

“There’s plenty more if you want it,”he said dryly.

He had had some raw silk dyed the exact saffron.He had had two blocks made, one red and the otherblack, and the design had been printed, and a fewcheap spangles had been added to replace the real jewels.My toga looked beautiful.

This was but one of the many emergencies to whichArnott rose with talent and promptitude.

With the staff of the theater he was a bit of a bully—oneof those men not easily roused, but being vexed, “nastyin the extreme!” As a craftsman he had wonderfultaste, and could copy antique furniture so that onecould not tell the copy from the original.

The great aim at the Lyceum was to get everything“rotten perfect,” as the theatrical slanghas it, before the dress rehearsal. Father’stest of being rotten perfect was not a bad one.“If you can get out of bed in the middle ofthe night and do your part, you’re perfect.If you can’t, you don’t really know it!”

Henry Irving applied some such test to every one concernedin the production. I cannot remember any playat the Lyceum which did not begin punctually and endat the advertised time, except “Olivia,”when some unwise changes in the last act led to delay.

He never hesitated to discard scenery if it did notsuit his purpose. There was enough scenery rejectedin “Faust” to have furnished three productions,and what was finally used for the famous Brocken scenecost next to nothing.

Even the best scene-painters sometimes think moreof their pictures than of scenic effects. Henrywould never accept anything that was not right theatricallyas well as pictorially beautiful. His instinctin this was unerring and incomparable.

I remember that at one scene-rehearsal every one wasfatuously pleased with the scenery. Henry satin the stalls talking about everything butthe scenery. It was hard to tell what he thought.

“Well, are you ready?” he asked at last.

“Yes, sir.”

“My God! Is that what you think I am goingto give the public?”

Never shall I forget the astonishment of stage manager,scene-painter, and staff! It was never safe toindulge in too much self-satisfaction beforehand withHenry. He was always liable to drop such bombs!

He believed very much in “front” scenes,seeing how necessary they were to the swift progressof Shakespeare’s diverging plots. Thesecloths were sometimes so wonderfully painted and lightedthat they constituted scenes of remarkable beauty.The best of all were the Apothecary scene in “Romeoand Juliet” and the exterior of Aufidius’shouse in “Coriolanus.”

We never had electricity installed at the Lyceum untilDaly took the theater. When I saw the effecton the faces of the electric footlights, I entreatedHenry to have the gas restored, and he did. Weused gas footlights and gas limes there until we leftthe theater for good in 1902.

To this I attribute much of the beauty of our lighting.I say “our” because this was a branchof Henry’s work in which I was always his chiefhelper. Until electricity has been greatly improvedand developed, it can never be to the stage what gaswas. The thick softness of gaslight, with thelovely specks and motes in it, so like naturallight, gave illusion to many a scene which is now revealedin all its naked trashiness by electricity.

The artificial is always noticed and recognized asart by the superficial critic. I think this iswhat made some people think Irving was at his bestin such parts as Louis XI, Dubosc, and Richard III.He could have played Louis XI three times a day “onhis head,” as the saying is. In “TheLyons Mail,” Dubosc the wicked man was easyenough—strange that the unprofessional looker-onalways admires the actor’s art when it is employedon easy things!—but Lesurques, the goodman in the same play ("The Lyons Mail"), was difficult.Any actor, skillful in the tricks of the business,can play the drunkard; but to play a good man sincerely,as he did here, to show that double thing, the lookof guilt which an innocent man wears when accused ofcrime, requires great acting, for “the look”is the outward and visible sign of the inward andspiritual emotion—and this delicate emotioncan only be perfectly expressed when the actor’sheart and mind and soul and skill are in absoluteaccord.

In dual parts Irving depended little on make-up.Make-up was, indeed, always his servant, not his master.He knew its uselessness when not informed by the spirit.“The letter” (and in characterizationgrease-paint is the letter) “killeth—thespirit giveth life.” His Lesurques wasdifferent from his Dubosc because of the way he heldhis shoulders, because of his expression. Healways took a deep interest in crime (an interestwhich his sons have inherited), and often went to thepolice-court to study the faces of the accused.He told me that the innocent man generally lookedguilty and hesitated when asked a question, but thatthe round, wide-open eyes corrected the bad impression.The result of this careful watching was seen in hisexpression as Lesurques. He opened his eyes wide.As Dubosc he kept them half closed.

Our plays from 1878 to 1887 were “Hamlet,”“The Lady of Lyons,” “Eugene Aram,”“Charles I.,” “The Merchant of Venice,”“Iolanthe,” “The Cup,” “TheBelle’s Stratagem,” “Othello,”“Romeo and Juliet,” “Much Ado AboutNothing,” “Twelfth Night,” “Olivia,”“Faust,” “Raising the Wind,”and “The Amber Heart.” I give thislist to keep myself straight. My mental divisionof the years at the Lyceum is before “Macbeth,”and after. I divide it up like this, perhaps,because “Macbeth” was the most importantof all our productions, if I judge it by the amountof preparation and thought that it cost us and bythe discussion which it provoked.

Of the characters played by Henry Irving in the playsof the first division—before “Macbeth,”that is to say—I think every one knows thatI considered Hamlet to be his greatest triumph.Sometimes I think that was so because it was the onlypart that was big enough for him. It was moredifficult, and he had more scope in it than in anyother. If there had been a finer part than Hamlet,that particular part would have been his finest.

When one praises an actor in this way, one is alwaysopen to accusations of prejudice, hyperbole, uncriticalgush, unreasoned eulogy, and the rest. Must acareful and deliberate opinion always deny agreat man genius? If so, no careful and deliberateopinions from me!

I have no doubt in the world of Irving’s genius—nodoubt that he is with David Garrick and Edmund Kean,rather than with other actors of great talents andgreat achievements—actors who rightly wonhigh opinions from the multitude of their day, butwho have not left behind them an impression of thatinexplicable thing which we call genius.

Since my great comrade died I have read many biographiesof him, and nearly all of them denied what I assert.“Now, who shall arbitrate?” I find nocontradiction of my testimony in the fact that he wasnot appreciated for a long time, that some found himlike olives, an acquired taste, that others mockedand derided him.

My father, who worshiped Macready, put Irving abovehim because of Irving’s originality.The old school were not usually so generous.Fanny Kemble thought it necessary to write as followsof one who had had his share of misfortune and failurebefore he came into his kingdom and made her jealous,I suppose, for the dead kings among her kindred:

“I have seen some of the accountsand critics of Mr. Irving’s acting, andrather elaborate ones of his Hamlet, which, however,give me no very distinct idea of his performance,and a very hazy one indeed of the part itselfas seen from the point of view of his critics.Edward Fitzgerald wrote me word that he looked likemy people, and sent me a photograph to proveit, which I thought much more like Young thanmy father or uncle. I have not seen a play of Shakespeare’sacted I do not know when. I think I should findsuch an exhibition extremely curious as wellas entertaining.”

Now, shall I put on record what Henry Irving thoughtof Fanny Kemble! If there is a touch of malicein my doing so, surely the passage that I have quotedgives me leave.

Having lived with Hamlet nearly all his life, studiedthe part when he was a clerk, dreamed of a day whenhe might play it, the young Henry Irving saw thatMrs. Butler, the famous Fanny Kemble, was going togive a reading of the play. His heart throbbedhigh with anticipation, for in those days TRADITIONwas everything—the name of Kemble a beaconand a star.

The studious young clerk went to the reading.

An attendant came on to the platform, first, and madetrivial and apparently unnecessary alterations inthe position of the reading desk. A glass ofwater and a book were placed on it.

After a portentous wait, on swept a lady with an extraordinaryflashing eye, a masculine and muscular outside.Pounding the book with terrific energy, as if shewished to knock the stuffing out of it, she announcedin thrilling tones:

“‘HAM—A—LETTE.’

Will—y—amShak—es—peare.”

“I suppose this is all right,” thoughtthe young clerk, a little dismayed at the fierce andsectional enunciation.

Then the reader came to Act I, Sc. 2, which the oldactor (to leave the Kemble reading for a minute),with but a hazy notion of the text, used to begin:

“Although of Hamlet,our dear brother’s death,
The memory be—memorybe—(What is the color?) green"....

When Fanny Kemble came to this scene the future Hamletbegan to listen more intently.

Gertrude:Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Ham—a—lette.

Hamlet:I shall in all respects obey you, madam (obviouslywith
a fiery flashing eyeof hate upon the King).

When he heard this and more like it, Henry Irvingexercised his independence of opinion and refusedto accept Fanny Kemble’s view of the gentle,melancholy, and well-bred Prince of Denmark.

He was a stickler for tradition, and always studiedit, followed it, sometimes to his own detriment, buthe was not influenced by the Kemble Hamlet, exceptthat for some time he wore the absurd John Philipfeather, which he would have been much better without!

Let me pray that I, representing the old school, maynever look on the new school with the patronizingairs of “Old Fitz"[1] and Fanny Kemble.I wish that I could see the new school of actingin Shakespeare. Shakespeare must be kept up,or we shall become a third-rate nation!

[Footnote 1: Edward FitzGerald.]

Henry told me this story of Fanny Kemble’s readingwithout a spark of ill-nature, but with many a gleamof humor. He told me at the same time of thewonderful effect that Adelaide Kemble (Mrs. Sartoris)used to make when she recited Shelley’s lines,beginning:

“Good-night—Ah,no, the hour is ill
Which severs thoseit should unite.
Let us remain together still—
Then it will begood-night!”

I have already said that I never could cope with PaulineDeschapelles, and why Henry wanted to play Melnottewas a mystery. Claude Melnotte after Hamlet!Oddly enough, Henry was always attracted by fustian.He simply reveled in the big speeches. The playwas beautifully staged; the garden scene alone probablycost as much as the whole of “Hamlet.”The march past the window of the apparently unendingarmy—that good old trick which sends thesupers flying round the back-cloth to cross the stageagain and again—created a superb effect.The curtain used to go up and down as often as weliked and chose to keep the army marching! Theplay ran some time, I suppose because even at our worstthe public found something in our acting tolike.

As Ruth Meadowes I had very little to do, but whatthere was, was worth doing. The last act of “EugeneAram,” like the last act of “Ravenswood,”gave me opportunity. It was staged with a greatappreciation of grim and poetic effect. Henryalways thought that the dark, overhanging branch ofthe cedar was like the cruel outstretched hand of Fate.He called it the Fate Tree, and used it in “Hamlet,”in “Eugene Aram,” and in “Romeo andJuliet.”

In “Eugene Aram,” the Fate Tree droopedlow over the graves in the churchyard. On oneof them Henry used to be lying in a black cloak asthe curtain went up on the last act. Not untila moonbeam struck the dark mass did you see that itwas a man.

He played all such parts well. Melancholy andthe horrors had a peculiar fascination for him—especiallyin these early days. But his recitation of thepoem “Eugene Aram” was finer than anythingin the play—especially when he did it ina frock-coat. No one ever looked so well in afrock-coat! He was always ready to recite it—usedto do it after supper, anywhere. We had a talkabout it once, and I told him that it was too muchfor a room. No man was ever more willing to listento suggestion or less obstinate about taking advice.He immediately moderated his methods when recitingin a room, making it all the less theatrical.The play was a good repertoire play, and we did itlater on in America with success. There the partof Houseman was played by Terriss, who was quite splendidin it, and at Chicago my little boy Teddy made hissecond appearance on any stage as Joey, a gardener’sboy. He had, when still a mere baby, come onto the stage at the Court in “Olivia,”and this must be counted his first appearance,although the chroniclers, ignoring both that and Joeyin “Eugene Aram,” say he neverappeared at all until he played an important part in“The Dead Heart.”

It is because of Teddy that “Eugene Aram”is associated in my mind with one of the most beautifulsights upon the stage that I ever saw in my life.He was about ten or eleven at the time, and as he tiedup the stage roses, his cheeks, untouched by rouge,put the reddest of them to shame! He was so gracefuland natural; he spoke his lines with ease, and smiledall over his face! “A born actor!”I said, although Joey was my son. Whenever Ithink of him in that stage garden, I weep for pride,and for sorrow, too, because before he was thirtymy son had left the stage—he who had itall in him. I have good reason to be proud ofwhat he has done since, but I regret the lost actoralways.

Henry Irving could not at first keep away from melancholypieces. Henrietta Maria was another sad partfor me—but I used to play it well, exceptwhen I cried too much in the last act. The playhad been one of the Bateman productions, and I hadseen Miss Isabel Bateman as Henrietta Maria and likedher, although I could not find it possible to followher example and play the part with a French accent!I constantly catch myself saying of Henry Irving,“That is by far the best thing that he everdid.” I could say it of some things in “CharlesI.”—of the way he gave up his swordto Cromwell, of the way he came into the room in thelast act and shut the door behind him. It wasnot a man coming on to a stage to meet some one.It was a king going to the scaffold, quietly, unobtrusively,and courageously. However often I played thatscene with him, I knew that when he first came onhe was not aware of my presence nor of any earthlypresence: he seemed to be already in heaven.

Much has been said of his “make-up” asCharles I. Edwin Long painted him a triptych of Vandyckheads, which he always had in his dressing-room, andwhich is now in my possession. He used to comeon to the stage looking precisely like the Vandyckportraits, but not because he had been busy buildingup his face with wig-paste and similar atrocities.His make-up in this, as in other parts, was the processof assisting subtly and surely the expression fromwithin. It was elastic, and never hamperedhim. It changed with the expression. As Charles,he was assisted by Nature, who had given him the mostbeautiful Stuart hands, but his clothes most actorswould have consigned to the dust-bin! Beforewe had done with Charles I.—we played ittogether for the last time in 1902—theseclothes were really threadbare. Yet he lookedin them every inch a king.

His care of detail may be judged from the fact thatin the last act his wig was not only grayer, but hadfar less hair in it. I should hardly think itnecessary to mention this if I had not noticed howmany actors seem to think that age may be procuredby the simple expedient of dipping their heads, coveredwith mats of flourishing hair, into a flour-barrel!

Unlike most stage kings, he never seemed to be assumingdignity. He was very, very simple.

Wills has been much blamed for making Cromwell outto be such a wretch—a mean blackguard,not even a great bad man. But in plays the villainmust not compete for sympathy with the hero, or bothfall to the ground! I think that Wills showedhimself a true poet in his play, and in the last acta great playwright. He gave us both wonderfulopportunities, yet very few words were spoken.

Some people thought me best in the camp scene in thethird act, where I had even fewer lines to speak.I was proud of it myself when I found that it hadinspired Oscar Wilde to write me this lovely sonnet:

In the lone tent, waitingfor victory,
She stands with eyes marredby the mists of pain,
Like some wan lily overdrenchedwith rain;
The clamorous clang of arms,the ensanguined sky,
War’s ruin, and thewreck of chivalry
To her proud soul no commonfear can bring;
Bravely she tarrieth for herLord, the King,
Her soul aflame with passionateecstasy.
O, hair of gold! O, crimsonlips! O, face
Made for the luring and thelove of man!
With thee I do forget thetoil and stress,
The loveless road that knowsno resting place,
Time’s straitened pulse,the soul’s dread weariness,
My freedom, and my life republican!

That phrase “wan lily” represented perfectlywhat I had tried to convey, not only in this partbut in Ophelia. I hope I thanked Oscar enoughat the time. Now he is dead, and I cannot thankhim any more.... I had so much bad poetrywritten to me that these lovely sonnets from a realpoet should have given me the greater pleasure.“He often has the poet’s heart, who neverfelt the poet’s fire.” There is moregood heart and kind feeling in most of theverses written to me than real poetry.

“One must discriminate,” even if it soundsunkind. At the time that Whistler was havingone of his most undignified “rows” witha sitter over a portrait and wrangling over the price,another artist was painting frescoes in a cathedralfor nothing. “It is sad that it shouldbe so,” a friend said to me, “but onemust discriminate. The man haggling overthe sixpence is the great artist!”

How splendid it is that in time this is recognized.The immortal soul of the artist is in his work, thetransient and mortal one is in his conduct.

Another sonnet from Oscar Wilde—to Portiathis time—is the first document that Ifind in connection with “The Merchant,”as the play was always called by the theater staff.

“I marvel not Bassaniowas so bold
To peril all he had upon thelead,
Or that proud Aragon bentlow his head,
Or that Morocco’s fieryheart grew cold;
For in that gorgeous dressof beaten gold,
Which is more golden thanthe golden sun,
No woman Veronese looked upon
Was half so fair as thou whomI behold.
Yet fairer when with wisdomas your shield
The sober-suited lawyer’sgown you donned,
And would not let the lawsof Venice yield
Antonio’s heart to thataccursed Jew—
O, Portia! take my heart;it is thy due:
I think I will not quarrelwith the Bond.”

Henry Irving’s Shylock dress was designed bySir John Gilbert. It was never replaced, andonly once cleaned by Henry’s dresser and valet,Walter Collinson. Walter, I think, replaced “Doody,”Henry’s first dresser at the Lyceum, duringthe run of “The Merchant of Venice.”Walter was a wig-maker by trade—assistantto Clarkson the elder. It was Doody who, on beingasked his opinion of a production, said that it wasfine—“not a join[1] to be seenanywhere!” It was Walter who was asked by Henryto say which he thought his master’s best part.Walter could not be “drawn” for a longtime. At last he said Macbeth.

[Footnote 1: A “join” in theatricalwig-makers’ parlance is the point where thefront-piece of the wig ends and the actor’s foreheadbegins.]

This pleased Henry immensely, for, as I hope to showlater on, he fancied himself in Macbeth more thanin any other part.

“It is generally conceded to be Hamlet,”said Henry.

“Oh, no, sir,” said Walter, “Macbeth.You sweat twice as much in that.”

In appearance Walter was very like Shakespeare’sbust in Stratford Church. He was a most faithfuland devoted servant, and was the only person withHenry Irving when he died. Quiet in his ways,discreet, gentle, and very quick, he was the idealdresser.

The Lyceum production of “The Merchant of Venice”was not so strictly archaeological as the Bancrofts’had been, but it was very gravely beautiful and effective.If less attention was paid to details of costumesand scenery, the play itself was arranged and actedvery attractively and always went with a swing.To the end of my partnership with Henry Irving itwas a safe “draw” both in England and America.By this time I must have played Portia over a thousandtimes. During the first run of it the severeattack made on my acting of the part in Blackwood’sMagazine is worth alluding to. The suggestionthat I showed too much of a “coming-on”disposition in the Casket Scene affected me for years,and made me self-conscious and uncomfortable.At last I lived it down. Any suggestion of indelicacyin my treatment of a part always blighted me.Mr. Dodgson (Lewis Carroll, of the immortal “Alicein Wonderland”) once brought a little girl tosee me in “Faust.” He wrote and toldme that she had said (where Margaret begins to undress):“Where is it going to stop?” and that perhapsin consideration of the fact that it could affecta mere child disagreeably, I ought to alter my business!

I had known dear Mr. Dodgson for years and years.He was as fond of me as he could be of any one overthe age of ten, but I was furious. “Ithought you only knew nice children,”was all the answer that I gave him. “Itwould have seemed to me awful for a child tosee harm where harm is; how much more when she seesit where harm is not.”

But I felt ashamed and shy whenever I played thatscene. It was the Casket Scene over again.

The unkind Blackwood article also blamed mefor showing too plainly that Portia loves Bassaniobefore he has actually won her. This seemed tome unjust, if only because Shakespeare makes Portiasay before Bassanio chooses the right casket:

“One half of meis yours—the other half yours—Allyours!”

Surely this suggests that she was not concealing herfondness like a Victorian maiden, and that Bassaniohad most surely won her love, though not yet the rightto be her husband.

“There is a soul of goodness in things evil,”and the criticism made me alter the setting of thescene, and so contrive it that Portia was behind andout of sight of the men who made hazard for her love.

Dr. Furnivall, a great Shakespearean scholar, wasso kind as to write me the following letter aboutPortia:

“Being founder and director ofthe New Shakespeare Society, I venture to thankyou most heartily for your most charming and admirableimpersonation of our poet’s Portia, which I witnessedto-night with a real delight. You have givenme a new light on the character, and by yourso pretty by-play in the Casket Scene have madebright in my memory for ever the spot which almostall critics have felt dull, and I hope to saythis in a new edition of ‘Shakespeare.’”

(He did say it, in “The Leopold” edition.)

“Again those touches of the wife’slove in the advocate when Bassanio says he’dgive up his wife for Antonio, and when you kissedyour hand to him behind his back in the Ring bit—howpretty and natural they were! Your wholeconception and acting of the character are sotrue to Shakespeare’s lines that one longs hecould be here to see you. A lady graciousand graceful, handsome, witty, loving and wise,you are his Portia to the life.”

That’s the best of Shakespeare, I say.His characters can be interpreted in at least eightdifferent ways, and of each way some one will say:“That is Shakespeare!” The German actressplays Portia as a low comedy part. She wearsan eighteenth-century law wig, horn spectacles, acravat (this last anachronism is not confined to Germans),and often a mustache! There is something to besaid for it all, though I should not like to playthe part that way myself.

Lady Pollock, who first brought me to Henry Irving’snotice as a possible leading lady, thought my Portiabetter at the Lyceum than it had been at the Princeof Wales’s.

“Thanks, my dear Valentine andenchanting Portia,” she writes to me inresponse to a photograph that I had sent her, “butthe photographers don’t see you as youare, and have not the poetry in them to do youjustice.... You were especially admirable in theCasket Scene. You kept your by-play quieter,and it gained in effect from the addition ofrepose—and I rejoiced that you did notkneel to Bassanio at ‘My Lord, my governor,my King.’ I used to feel that toomuch like worship from any girl to her affianced, andPortia’s position being one of command,I should doubt the possibility of such an action....”

I think I received more letters about my Portia thanabout all my other parts put together. Many ofthem came from university men. One old playgoerwrote to tell me that he liked me better than my formerinstructress, Mrs. Charles Kean. “She mouthedit as she did most things.... She was not real—astaid, sentimental ‘Anglaise,’ and morethan a little stiffly pokerish.”

Henry Irving’s Shylock was generally concededto be full of talent and reality, but some of hiscritics could not resist saying that this was notthe Jew that Shakespeare drew! Now, who is ina position to say what is the Jew that Shakespearedrew? I think Henry Irving knew as well as most!Nay, I am sure that in his age he was the only personable to decide.

Some said his Shylock was intellectual, and appealedmore to the intellect of his audiences than to theiremotions. Surely this is talking for the sakeof talking. I recall so many things that touchedpeople to the heart! For absolute pathos, achievedby absolute simplicity of means, I never saw anythingin the theater to compare with his Shylock’sreturn home over the bridge to his deserted house afterJessica’s flight.

A younger actor, producing “The Merchant ofVenice” in recent years, asked Irving if hemight borrow this bit of business. “By allmeans,” said Henry. “With great pleasure.”

“Then, why didn’t you do it?” inquiredmy daughter bluntly when the actor was telling ushow kind and courteous Henry had been in allowinghim to use his stroke of invention.

“What do you mean?” asked the astonishedactor.

My daughter told him that Henry had dropped the curtainon a stage full of noise, and light, and revelry.When it went up again the stage was empty, desolate,with no light but a pale moon, and all sounds of lifeat a great distance—and then over the bridgecame the wearied figure of the Jew. This markedthe passing of the time between Jessica’s elopementand Shylock’s return home. It created anatmosphere of silence, and the middle of the night.

“You came back without dropping the curtain,”said my daughter, “and so it wasn’t abit the same.”

“I couldn’t risk dropping the curtainfor the business,” answered the actor, “becauseit needed applause to take it up again!”

Henry Irving never grew tired of a part, never ceasedto work at it, just as he never gave up the fightagainst his limitations. His diction, as theyears went on, grew far clearer when he was depictingrage and passion. His dragging leg dragged nomore. To this heroic perseverance he added analmost childlike eagerness in hearing any suggestionfor the improvement of his interpretations which commendeditself to his imagination and his judgment. Froma blind man came the most illuminating criticism ofhis Shylock. The sensitive ear of the sightlesshearer detected a fault in Henry Irving’s methodof delivering the opening line of his part:

“Three thousand ducats—well!”

“I hear no sound of the usurer in that,”the blind man said at the end of the performance.“It is said with the reflective air of a manto whom money means very little.”

The justice of the criticism appealed strongly toHenry. He revised his reading not only of thefirst line, but of many other lines in which he sawnow that he had not been enough of the money-lender.

In more recent years he made one change in his dress.He asked my daughter—whose cleverness insuch things he fully recognized—to putsome stage jewels on to the scarf that he wore roundhis head when he supped with the Christians.

“I have an idea that, when he went to that supper,he’d like to flaunt his wealth in the Christiandogs’ faces. It will look well, too—’likethe toad, ugly and venomous,’ wearing preciousjewels on his head!”

The scarf, witnessing to that untiring love of throwingnew light on his impersonations which distinguishedHenry to the last, is now in my daughter’s possession.She values no relic of him more unless it be the wreathof oak-leaves that she made him for “Coriolanus.”

We had a beautiful scene for this play—agarden with a dark pine forest in the distance.Henry was not good in it. He had a Romeopart which had not been written by Shakespeare.We played it instead of the last act of “TheMerchant of Venice.” I never liked it beingleft out, but people used to say, like parrots, that“the interest of the play ended with the TrialScene,” and Henry believed them—fora time. I never did. Shakespeare nevergives up in the last act like most dramatists.

Twice in “Iolanthe” I forgot that I wasblind! The first time was when I saw old TomMead and Henry Irving groping for the amulet, whichthey had to put on my breast to heal me of my infirmity.It had slipped on to the floor, and both of them weretoo short-sighted to see it! Here was a predicament!I had to stoop and pick it up for them.

The second time I put out my hand and cried:“Look out for my lilies,” when Henry nearlystepped on the bunch with which a little girl friendof mine supplied me every night I played the part.

Iolanthe was one of Helen Faucit’s great successes.I never saw this distinguished actress when she wasin her prime. Her Rosalind, when she came outof her retirement to play a few performances, appearedto me more like a lecture on Rosalind, thanlike Rosalind herself: a lecture all young actresseswould have greatly benefited by hearing, for it wasof great beauty. I remember being particularlystruck by her treatment of the lines in the scenewhere Celia conducts the mock marriage between Orlandoand Ganymede. Another actress, whom I saw as Rosalind,said the words, “And I do take thee, Orlando,to be my husband,” with a comical grimace tothe audience. Helen Faucit flushed up and saidthe line with deep and true emotion, suggesting thatshe was, indeed, giving herself to Orlando. Therewas a world of poetry in the way she drooped over hishand.

Mead distinguished himself in “Iolanthe”by speaking of “that immortal land where Godhath His—His—er—room?—no—lodging?—no—whereGod hath His apartments!”

The word he could not hit was, I think, “dwelling.”He used often to try five or six words before he gotthe right one or the wrong one—itwas generally the wrong one—in full hearingof the audience.

IX

LYCEUM PRODUCTIONS

“THE MERCHANT OF VENICE” TO “ROMEOAND JULIET”

“The Merchant of Venice” was acted twohundred and fifty consecutive nights on the occasionof the first production. On the hundredth nightevery member of the audience was presented with HenryIrving’s acting edition of the play bound inwhite velum—a solid and permanent souvenir,paper, print and binding all being of the best.The famous Chiswick Press did all his work of thiskind. On the title page was printed:

“I count myself in nothingelse so happy
As in a soul remembering mygood friends.”

At the close of the performance which took place onSaturday, February 14, 1880, Henry entertained a partyof 350 to supper on the stage. This was the firstof those enormous gatherings which afterwards becamean institution at the Lyceum.

It was at this supper that Lord Houghton surprisedus all by making a very sarcastic speech about thestage and actors generally. It was no doubt moreinteresting than the “butter” which isusually applied to the profession at such functions,but every one felt that it was rather rude to abuselong runs when the company were met to celebrate ahundredth performance!

Henry Irving’s answer was delightful. Hespoke with good sense, good humour and good breeding,and it was all spontaneous. I wish that a phonographhad been in existence that night, and that a recordhad been taken of the speech. It would be sogood for the people who have asserted that Henry Irvingalways employed journalists (when he could not getPoets Laureate!) to write his speeches for him!The voice was always the voice of Irving, if the handswere sometimes the hands of the professional writer.When Henry was thrown on his debating resources hereally spoke better than when he prepared a speech,and his letters prove, if proof were needed, how finelyhe could write! Those who represent him as dependentin such matters on the help of literary hacks arejust ignorant of the facts.

During the many years that I played Portia I seldomhad a Bassanio to my mind. It seems to be a mostdifficult part, to judge by the colorless and disappointingrenderings that are given of it. George Alexanderwas far the best of my Bassanio bunch! Mr. Barnes,“handsome Jack Barnes,” as we called him,was a good actor, is a good actor still, as every oneknows, but his gentility as Bassanio was overwhelming.It was said of him that he thought more of the roundingof his legs than the charms of his affianced wife,and that in the love-scenes he appeared to be takingorders for furniture! This was putting it unkindly,but there was some truth in it.

He was so very dignified! My sister Floss (Flosswas the first Lyceum Nerissa) and I once tried tomake him laugh by substituting two “almond rings”for the real rings. “Handsome Jack”lost his temper, which made us laugh the more.He was quite right to be angry. Such fooling onthe stage is very silly. I think it is one ofthe evils of long runs! When we had seen “handsomeJack Barnes” imperturbably pompous for two hundrednights in succession, it became too much for us, andthe almond rings were the result.

Mr. Tyars was the Prince of Morocco. Actors mightcome, and actors might go in the Lyceum company, butTyars went on for ever. He never left Henry Irving’smanagement, and was with him in that last performanceof “Becket” at Bradford on October 13,1905—the last performance ever given byHenry Irving who died the same night.

Tyars was the most useful actor that we ever had inthe company. I should think that the number ofparts he has played in the same piece would constitutea theatrical record.

I don’t remember when Tom Mead first playedthe Duke, but I remember what happened!

“Shylock, theworld thinks, and I think so too.”

He began the speech in the Trial Scene very slowly.

Between every word Henry was whispering: “Geton—get on!” Old Mead, whose memorywas never good, became flustered, and at the end ofthe line came to a dead stop.

“Get on, get on,” said Henry.

Mead looked round with dignity, opened his mouth andshut it, opened it again, and in his anxiety to obligeHenry, did get on indeed!—to the last lineof the long speech.

“We all expecta gentle answer, Jew.”

The first line and the last line were all that weheard of the Duke’s speech that night.It must have been the shortest version of it on record.

This was the play with which the Lyceum reopened inthe autumn of 1880. I was on the last of my provincialtours with Charles Kelly at the time, but I must havecome up to see the revival, for I remember Henry Irvingin it very distinctly. He had not played the dualrole of Louis and Fabien del Franchi before, and hehad to compete with old playgoers’ memoriesof Charles Kean and Fechter. Wisely enough hemade of it a “period” play, emphasizingits old-fashioned atmosphere. In 1891, when theplay was revived, the D’Orsay costumes were noticedand considered piquant and charming. In 1880I am afraid they were regarded with indifference asmerely antiquated.

The grace and elegance of Henry as the civilized brotherI shall never forget. There was something inhim to which the perfect style of the D’Orsayperiod appealed, and he spoke the stilted languagewith as much truth as he wore the cravat and the tight-waistedfull-breasted coats. Such lines as—

“’Tis she!Her footstep beats upon my heart!”

were not absurd from his lips.

The sincerity of the period, he felt, lay in its elegance.A rough movement, a too undeliberate speech, and theabsurdity of the thing might be given away. Itwas in fact given away by Terriss at Chateau-Renaud,who was not the smooth, graceful, courteous villainthat Alfred Wigan had been and that Henry wanted.He told me that he paid Miss Fowler, an actress whoin other respects was not very remarkable, an enormoussalary because she could look the high-bred lady ofelegant manners.

It was in “The Corsican Brothers” thattableau curtains were first used at the Lyceum.They were made of red plush, which suited the olddecoration of the theater. Those who only sawthe Lyceum after its renovation in 1881 do not realizeperhaps that before that date it was decorated indull gold and dark crimson, and had funny boxes withhigh fronts like old-fashioned church pews. Oneof these boxes was rented annually by the BaronessBurdett-Coutts. It was rather like the toy cardboardtheater which children used to be able to buy for sixpence.The effect was somber, but I think I liked it betterthan the cold, light, shallow, bastard Pompeian decorationof later days.

In Hallam Tennyson’s life of his father, I findthat I described “The Cup” as a “greatlittle play.” After thirty years (nearly)I stick to that. Its chief fault was that itwas not long enough, for it involved a tremendousproduction, tremendous acting, had all the heroic sizeof tragedy, and yet was all over so quickly that wecould play a long play like “The Corsican Brothers”with it in a single evening.

Tennyson read the play to us at Eaton Place.There were present Henry Irving, Ellen Terry, WilliamTerriss, Mr. Knowles, who had arranged the reading,my daughter Edy, who was then about nine, Hallam Tennyson,and a dog—I think Charlie, for thedays of Fussie were not yet.

Tennyson, like most poets, read in a monotone, rumblingon a low note in much the same way that Shelley issaid to have screamed in a high one. For thewomen’s parts he changed his voice suddenly,climbed up into a key which he could not sustain.In spite of this I was beginning to think how impressiveit all was, when I looked up and saw Edy, who wassitting on Henry’s knee, looking over his shoulderat young Hallam and laughing, and Henry, instead ofreproaching her, on the broad grin. There wasmuch discussion as to what the play should be called,and as to whether the names “Synorix”and “Sinnatus” would be confused.

“I don’t think they will,” I said,for I thought this was a very small matter for thepoet to worry about.

“I do!” said Edy in a loud clear voice,“I haven’t known one from the other allthe time!”

“Edy, be good!” I whispered.

Henry, mischievous as usual, was delighted at Edy’sindependence, but her mother was unutterably ashamed.

“Leave her alone,” said Henry, “she’sall right.”

Tennyson at first wanted to call the play “TheSenator’s Wife,” then thought of “Sinnatusand Synorix,” and finally agreed with us that“The Cup” was the best as it was the simplesttitle.

The production was one of the most beautiful thingsthat Henry Irving ever accomplished. It has beendescribed again and again, but none of the descriptionsare very successful. There was a vastness, aspaciousness of proportion about the scene in the Templeof Artemis which I never saw again upon the stageuntil my own son attempted something like it in theChurch Scene that he designed for my production of“Much Ado About Nothing” in 1903.

A great deal of the effect was due to the lighting.The gigantic figure of the many-breasted Artemis,placed far back in the scene-dock, loomed througha blue mist, while the foreground of the picture wasin yellow light. The thrilling effect alwaysto be gained on the stage by the simple expedientof a great number of people doing the same thing inthe same way at the same moment, was seen in “TheCup,” when the stage was covered with a crowdof women who raised their arms above their heads witha large, rhythmic, sweeping movement and then bowedto the goddess with the regularity of a regiment saluting.

At rehearsals there was one girl who did this movementwith peculiar grace. She wore a black velveteendress, although it was very hot weather, and I calledher “Hamlet.” I used to chaff herabout wearing such a grand dress at rehearsals, butshe was never to be seen in any other. The girlsat the theater told me that she was very poor, andthat underneath her black velveteen dress, which shewore summer and winter, she had nothing but a pairof stockings and a chemise. Not long after thefirst night of “The Cup” she disappeared.I made inquiries about her, and found that she wasdying in hospital. I went several times to seeher. She looked so beautiful in the little whitebed. Her great eyes, black, with weary whitelids, used to follow me as I left the hospital ward,and I could not always tear myself away from theirdumb beseechingness, but would turn back and sit downagain by the bed. Once she asked me if I wouldleave something belonging to me that she might lookat until I came again. I took off the amber andcoral beads that I was wearing at the time and gavethem to her. Two days later I had a letter fromthe nurse telling me that poor Hamlet was dead—thatjust before she died, with closed eyes, and gaspingfor breath, she sent her love to her “dear MissTerry,” and wanted me to know that the talllilies I had brought her on my last visit were to beburied with her, but that she had wiped the coraland amber beads and put them in cotton-wool, to bereturned to me when she was dead. Poor “Hamlet”!

Quite as wonderful as the Temple Scene was the settingof the first act, which represented the rocky sideof a mountain with a glimpse of a fertile table-landand a pergola with vines growing over it at the top.The acting in this scene all took place on differentlevels. The hunt swept past on one level; theentrance to the temple was on another. A goatherdplayed upon a pipe. Scenically speaking, it wasnot Greece, but Greece in Sicily, Capri, or some suchhilly region.

Henry Irving was not able to look like the full-lipped,full-blooded Romans such as we see in long lines inmarble at the British Museum, so he conceived hisown type of the blend of Roman intellect and sensualitywith barbarian cruelty and lust. Tennyson wasnot pleased with him as Synorix! How he failedto delight in it as a picture I can’t conceive.With a pale, pale face, bright red hair, gold armorand a tiger-skin, a diabolical expression and verythin crimson lips, Henry looked handsome and sickeningat the same time. Lechery was written acrosshis forehead.

The first act was well within my means; the secondwas beyond them, but it was very good for me to tryand do it. I had a long apostrophe to the goddesswith my back turned to the audience, and I never tackledanything more difficult. My dresses, designedby Mr. Godwin, one of them with the toga made of thatwonderful material which Arnott had printed, weresimple, fine and free.

I wrote to Tennyson’s son Hallam after the firstnight that I knew his father would be delighted withHenry’s splendid performance, but was afraidhe would be disappointed in me.

“Dear Camma,” he answered, “I havegiven your messages to my father, but believe me,who am not ‘common report,’ that he willthoroughly appreciate your noble, most beautifuland imaginative rendering of ‘Camma.’My father and myself hope to see you soon, but notwhile this detestable cold weather lasts. Wetrust that you are not now really the worse for thatnight of nights.

“With all our best wishes,

“Yours ever sincerely,

“HALLAM TENNYSON.”

“I quite agree with you as to H.I.’s Synorix.”

The music of “The Cup” was not up to thelevel of the rest. Lady Winchilsea’s settingof “Moon on the field and the foam,” writtenwithin the compass of eight notes, for my poor singingvoice, which will not go up high nor down low, waseffective enough, but the music as a whole was too“chatty” for a severe tragedy. Onenight when I was singing my very best:

“Moon, bring him home,bring him home,
Safe from the dark and thecold,”

some one in the audience sneezed. Everyone burst out laughing, and I had to laugh too.I did not even attempt the next line.

“The Cup” was called a failure, but itran 125 nights, and every night the house was crowded!On the hundredth night I sent Tennyson the Cup itself.I had it made in silver from Mr. Godwin’s design—athree-handled cup, pipkin-shaped, standing on threelegs.

“The Cup” and “The Corsican Brothers”together made the bill too heavy and too long, evenat a time when we still “rang up” at 7:30;and in the April following the production of Tennyson’sbeautiful tragedy—which I think in sheerpoetic intensity surpasses “Becket,” althoughit is not nearly so good a play—“TheBelle’s Stratagem” was substituted for“The Corsican Brothers.” This wasthe first real rollicking comedy that a Lyceum audiencehad ever seen, and the way they laughed did my heartgood. I had had enough of tragedy and the horrorsby this time, and I could have cried with joy at thatrare and welcome sight—an audience rockingwith laughter. On the first night the play openedpropitiously enough with a loud laugh due to the onlyaccident of the kind that ever happened at the Lyceum.The curtain went up before the staff had “cleared,”and Arnott, Jimmy and the rest were seen running fortheir lives out of the center entrance!

People said that it was so clever of me to play Cammaand Letitia Hardy (the comedy part in “The Belle’sStratagem”) on the same evening. They usedto say the same kind thing, “only more so,”when Henry played Jingle and Matthias in “TheBells.” But I never liked doing it.A tour de force is always more interestingto the looker-on than to the person who is takingpart in it. One feels no pride in such an achievement,which ought to be possible to any one calling himselfan actor. Personally, I never play comedy andtragedy on the same night without a sense that oneis spoiling the other. Harmonies are more beautifulthan contrasts in acting as in other things—andmore difficult, too.

Henry Irving was immensely funny as Doricourt.We had sort of Beatrice and Benedick scenes together,and I began to notice what a lot his face didfor him. There have only been two faces on thestage in my time—his and Duse’s.

My face has never been of much use to me, but my pacehas filled the deficiency sometimes, in comedy atany rate. In “The Belle’s Stratagem”the public had face and pace together, and they seemedto like it.

There was one scene in which I sang “Where areyou going to, my pretty maid?” I used to actit all the way through and give imitations of Doricourt—endingup by chucking him under the chin. The house roseat it!

I was often asked at this time when I went out toa party if I would not sing that dear little songfrom “The Cup.” When I said I didn’tthink it would sound very nice without the harp, asit was only a chant on two or three notes, some onewould say:

“Well, then, the song in ‘The Belle’sStratagem’! That has no accompaniment!”

“No,” I used to answer, “but itisn’t a song. It’s a look here, agesture there, a laugh anywhere, and Henry Irving’sface everywhere!”

Miss Winifred Emery came to us for “The Belle’sStratagem” and played the part that I had playedyears before at the Haymarket. She was bewitching,and in her white wig in the ball-room, beautiful aswell. She knew how to bear herself on the stageinstinctively, and could dance a minuet to perfection.The daughter of Sam Emery, a great comedian in a dayof comedians, and the granddaughter of the Emery,it was not surprising that she should show aptitudefor the stage.

Mr. Howe was another new arrival in the Lyceum company.He was at his funniest as Mr. Hardy in “TheBelle’s Stratagem.” It was not thefirst time that he had played my father in a piece(we had acted father and daughter in “The LittleTreasure"), and I always called him “Daddy.”The dear old man was much liked by every one.He had a tremendous pair of legs, was bluff and bustlingin manner, though courtly too, and cared more aboutgardening than acting. He had a little farm atIsleworth, and he was one of those actors who do notallow the longest theatrical season to interfere withdomesticity and horticulture! Because of hisstout gaitered legs and his Isleworth estate, Henrycalled him “the agricultural actor.”He was a good old port and whisky drinker, but hecould carry his liquor like a Regency man.

He was a walking history of the stage. “Yes,my dear,” he used to say to me, “I wasin the original cast of the first performance of ’TheLady of Lyons,’ which Lord Lytton gave Macreadyas a present, and I was the original Francois when‘Richelieu’ was produced. Lord Lyttonwrote this part for a lady, but at rehearsal it wasfound that there was a good deal of movement awkwardfor a lady to do, so I was put into it.”

“What year was it, Daddy?”

“God bless me, I must think.... It musthave been about a year after Her Majesty took thethrone.”

For forty years and nine months old Mr. Howe had actedat the Haymarket Theater! When he was first there,the theater was lighted with oil lamps, and when alamp smoked or went out, one of the servants of thetheater came on and lighted it up again during theaction of the play.

It was the acting of Edmund Kean in “RichardIII.” which first filled Daddy Howe with thedesire to go on the stage. He saw the great actoragain when he was living in retirement at Richmond—inthose last sad days when the Baroness Burdett-Coutts(then the rich young heiress, Miss Angela Burdett-Coutts),driving up the hill, saw him sitting huddled up onone of the public seats and asked if she could do anythingfor him.

“Nothing, I think,” he answered sadly.“Ah yes, there is one thing. You were kindenough the other day to send me some very excellentbrandy. Send me some more."[1]

[Footnote 1: This was a favorite story of HenryIrving’s, and for that reason alone I thinkit worth telling, although Sir Squire Bancroft assuresme that stubborn dates make it impossible that thetale should be true.]

Of Henry Irving as an actor Mr. Howe once said tome that at first he was prejudiced against him becausehe was so different from the other great actors thathe had known.

“‘This isn’t a bit like Iago,’I said to myself when I first saw him in ‘Othello.’That was at the end of the first act. But he hadcommanded my attention to his innovations. Inthe second act I found myself deeply interested inwatching and studying the development of his conception.In the third act I was fascinated by his originality.By the end of the play I wondered that I could everhave thought that the part ought to be played differently.”

Daddy Howe was the first member of the Lyceum companywho got a reception from the audience on his entranceas a public favorite. He remained with us untilhis death, which took place on our fourth Americantour in 1893.

Every one has commended Henry Irving’s kindlycourtesy in inviting Edwin Booth to come and playwith him at the Lyceum Theater. Booth was havinga wretched season at the Princess’s, which waswhen he went there a theater on the down-grade, andunder a thoroughly commercial management. Thegreat American actor, through much domestic troubleand bereavement, had more or less “given up”things. At any rate he had not the spirit whichcan combat such treatment as he received at the Princess’s,where the pieces in which he appeared were “thrown”on to the stage with every mark of assumption thathe was not going to be a success.

Yet, although he accepted with gratitude Henry Irving’ssuggestion that he should migrate from the Princess’sto the Lyceum and appear there three times a weekas Othello with the Lyceum company and its managerto support him, I cannot be sure that Booth’spride was not more hurt by this magnificent hospitalitythan it ever could have been by disaster. Itis always more difficult to receive than togive.

Few people thought of this, I suppose. I did,because I could imagine Henry Irving in America inthe same situation—accepting the hospitalityof Booth. Would not he too have been melancholy,quiet, unassertive, almost as uninterestingand uninterested as Booth was?

I saw him first at a benefit performance at DruryLane. I came to the door of the room where Henrywas dressing, and Booth was sitting there with hisback to me.

“Here’s Miss Terry,” said Henryas I came round the door. Booth looked up atme swiftly. I have never in any face, in any country,seen such wonderful eyes. There was a mysteryabout his appearance and his manner—a sortof pride which seemed to say: “Don’ttry to know me, for I am not what I have been.”He seemed broken, and devoid of ambition.

At rehearsal he was very gentle and apathetic.Accustomed to playing Othello with stock companies,he had few suggestions to make about the stage-management.The part was to him more or less of a monologue.

“I shall never make you black,” he saidone morning. “When I take your hand I shallhave a corner of my drapery in my hand. That willprotect you.”

I am bound to say that I thought of Mr. Booth’s“protection” with some yearning the nextweek when I played Desdemona to Henry’sOthello. Before he had done with me I was nearlyas black as he.

Booth was a melancholy, dignified Othello, but notgreat as Salvini was great. Salvini’s Hamletmade me scream with mirth, but his Othello was thegrandest, biggest, most glorious thing. We oftenprate of “reserved force.” Salvinihad it, for the simple reason that his was the giganticforce which may be restrained because of its immensity.Men have no need to dam up a little purling brook.If they do it in acting, it is tame, absurd and pretentious.But Salvini held himself in, and still his groan waslike a tempest, his passion huge.

The fact is that, apart from Salvini’s personalgenius, the foreign temperament is better fitted todeal with Othello than the English. Shakespeare’sFrench and Italians, Greeks and Latins, medievals andbarbarians, fancifuls and reals, all have a dash ofElizabethan English men in them, but not Othello.

Booth’s Othello was very helpful to my Desdemona.It is difficult to preserve the simple, heroic blindnessof Desdemona to the fact that her lord mistrusts her,if her lord is raving and stamping under her nose!Booth was gentle in the scenes with Desdemona untilthe scene where Othello overwhelms her withthe foul word and destroys her fool’s paradise.Love does make fools of us all, surely, butI wanted to make Desdemona out the fool who is thevictim of love and faith; not the simpleton, whosewant of tact in continually pleading Cassio’scause is sometimes irritating to the audience.

My greatest triumph as Desdemona was not gained withthe audience but with Henry Irving! He foundmy endeavors to accept comfort from Iago so patheticthat they brought the tears to his eyes. It wasthe oddest sensation when I said “Oh, good Iago,what shall I do to win my lord again?” to lookup—my own eyes dry, for Desdemona is pastcrying then—and see Henry’s eyesat their biggest, luminous, soft and full of tears!He was, in spite of Iago and in spite of his powerof identifying himself with the part, very deeplymoved by my acting. But he knew how to turn itto his purpose: he obtrusively took the tearswith his fingers and blew his nose with much feeling,softly and long (so much expression there is, by theway, in blowing the nose on the stage), so that theaudience might think his emotion a fresh stroke ofhypocrisy.

Every one liked Henry’s Iago. For the firsttime in his life he knew what it was to win unanimouspraise. Nothing could be better, I think, thanMr. Walkley’s[1] description: “DaringlyItalian, a true compatriot of the Borgias, or rather,better than Italians, that devil incarnate, an EnglishmanItalianate.”

[Footnote 1: Mr. A.B. Walkley, the gifteddramatic critic of The Times.]

One adored him, devil though he was. He was sofull of charm, so sincerely the “honest”Iago, peculiarly sympathetic with Othello, Desdemona,Roderigo, all of them—except hiswife. It was only in the soliloquies and in thescenes with his wife that he revealed his devil’snature. Could one ever forget those grapes whichhe plucked in the first act, and slowly ate, spittingout the seeds, as if each one represented a worthyvirtue to be put out of his mouth, as God, accordingto the evangelist, puts out the lukewarm virtues.His Iago and his Romeo in different ways proved hispower to portray Italian passions—thepassions of lovely, treacherous people, who will eithersing you a love sonnet or stab you in the back—youare not sure which!

We played “Othello” for six weeks, threeperformances a week, to guinea stalls, and could haveplayed it longer. Each week Henry and Booth changedparts. For both of them it was a change forthe worse.

Booth’s Iago seemed deadly commonplace afterHenry’s. He was always the snake in thegrass; he showed the villain in all the scenes.He could not resist the temptation of making polishedand ornate effects.

Henry Irving’s Othello was condemned almostas universally as his Iago was praised. For onceI find myself with the majority. He screamed andranted and raved—lost his voice, was slowwhere he should have been swift, incoherent wherehe should have been strong. I could not bear tosee him in the part. It was painful to me.Yet night after night he achieved in the speech tothe Senate one of the most superb and beautiful bitsof acting of his life. It was wonderful.He spoke the speech, beaming on Desdemona all thetime. The gallantry of the thing is indescribable.

I think his failure as Othello was one of the unspokenbitternesses of Henry’s life. When I say“failure” I am of course judging him byhis own standard, and using the word to describe whathe was to himself, not what he was to the public.On the last night, he rolled up the clothes that hehad worn as the Moor one by one, carefully laying onegarment on top of the other, and then, half-humorouslyand very deliberately said, “Never again!”Then he stretched himself with his arms above his headand gave a great sigh of relief.

Mr. Pinero was excellent as Roderigo in this production.He was always good in the “silly ass”type of part, and no one could say of him that hewas playing himself!

Desdemona is not counted a big part by actresses,but I loved playing it. Some nights I playedit beautifully. My appearance was right—Iwas such a poor wraith of a thing. But let therebe no mistake—it took strength to act thisweakness and passiveness of Desdemona’s.I soon found that, like Cordelia, she has plenty ofcharacter.

Reading the play the other day, I studied the openingscene. It is the finest opening to a play I know.

How many times Shakespeare draws fathers and daughters,and how little stock he seems to take of mothers!Portia and Desdemona, Cordelia, Rosalind and Miranda,Lady Macbeth, Queen Katherine and Hermione, Ophelia,Jessica, Hero, and many more are daughters of fathers,but of their mothers we hear nothing. My owndaughter called my attention to this fact quite recently,and it is really a singular fact. Of mothersof sons there are plenty of examples: Constance,Volumnia, the Countess Rousillon, Gertrude; but ifthere are mothers of daughters at all, they are poorexamples, like Juliet’s mother and Mrs. Page.I wonder if in all the many hundreds of books writtenon Shakespeare and his plays this point has been takenup? I once wrote a paper on the “Lettersin Shakespeare’s Plays,” and congratulatedmyself that they had never been made a separate study.The very day after I first read my paper before theBritish Empire Shakespeare League, a lady wrote tome from Oxford and said I was mistaken in thinkingthat there was no other contribution to the subject.She enclosed an essay of her own which had either beenpublished or read before some society. Probablysome one else has dealt with Shakespeare’s patronageof fathers and neglect of mothers! I often wonderwhat the mothers of Goneril, Regan, and Cordelia werelike! I think Lear must have married twice.

This was the first of Henry Irving’s great Shakespeareanproductions. “Hamlet” and “Othello”had been mounted with care, but, in spite of statementsthat I have seen to the contrary, they were not truereflections of Irving as a producer. In beautyI do not think that “Romeo and Juliet”surpassed “The Cup,” but it was very sumptuous,impressive and Italian. It was the most elaborateof all the Lyceum productions. In it Henry firstdisplayed his mastery of crowds. The brawlingof the rival houses in the streets, the processionof girls to wake Juliet on her wedding morning, themusicians, the magnificent reconciliation of the twohouses which closed the play, every one on the stageholding a torch, were all treated with a marveloussense of pictorial effect.

Henry once said to me: “‘Hamlet’could be played anywhere on its acting merits.It marches from situation to situation. But ‘Romeoand Juliet’ proceeds from picture to picture.Every line suggests a picture. It is a dramaticpoem rather than a drama, and I mean to treat it fromthat point of view.”

While he was preparing the production he revived “TheTwo Roses,” a company in which as Digby Granthe had made a great success years before. I rehearsedthe part of Lottie two or three times, but Henry releasedme because I was studying Juliet; and as he said, “You’vegot to do all you know with it.”

Perhaps the sense of this responsibility weighed onme. Perhaps I was neither young enough nor oldenough to play Juliet. I read everything thathad ever been written about her before I had myselfdecided what she was. It was a dreadful mistake.That was the first thing wrong with my Juliet—lackof original impulse.

As for the second and the third and the fourth—well,I am not more than common vain, I trust, but I seeno occasion to write them all down.

It was perhaps the greatest opportunity that I hadyet had at the Lyceum. I studied the part atmy cottage at Hampton Court in a bedroom looking outover the park. There was nothing wrong with that.By the way, how important it is to be careful aboutenvironment and everything else when one is studying.One ought to be in the country, but not all the time....It is good to go about and see pictures, hear music,and watch everything. One should be very muchalone, and should study early and late—allnight, if need be, even at the cost of sleep.Everything that one does or thinks or sees will havean effect upon the part, precisely as on an unbornchild.

I wish now that instead of reading how this and thatactress had played Juliet, and cracking my brain overthe different readings of her lines and making myselffamiliar with the different opinions of philosophersand critics, I had gone to Verona, and just imagined.Perhaps the most wonderful description of Juliet,as she should be acted, occurs in Gabriele d’Annunzio’s“Il Fuoco.” In the book an Italianactress tells her friend how she played the part whenshe was a girl of fourteen in an open-air theaternear Verona. Could a girl of fourteen play sucha part? Yes, if she were not youthful, only youngwith the youth of the poet, tragically old as someyouth is.

Now I understand Juliet better. Now I know howshe should be played. But time is inexorable.At sixty, know what one may, one cannot play Juliet.

I know that Henry Irving’s production of “Romeoand Juliet” has been attributed to my ambition.What nonsense! Henry Irving now had in view theproduction of all Shakespeare’s actable plays,and naturally “Romeo and Juliet” wouldcome as early as possible in the programme.

The music was composed by Sir Julius Benedict, andwas exactly right. There was no leit-motiv,no attempt to reflect the passionate emotion of thedrama, but a great deal of Southern joy, of flutesand wood and wind. At a rehearsal which had lastedfar into the night I asked Sir Julius, who was veryold, if he wasn’t sleepy.

“Sleepy! Good heavens, no! I neversleep more than two hours. It’s the endof my life, and I don’t want to waste it in sleep!”

There is generally some “old ’un”in a company now who complains of insufficient rehearsals,and says, perhaps, “Think of Irving’srehearsals! They were the real thing.”While we were rehearsing “Romeo and Juliet”I remember that Mrs. Stirling, a charming and ripeold actress whom Henry had engaged to play the nurse,was always groaning out that she had not rehearsedenough.

“Oh, these modern ways!” she used to say.“We never have any rehearsals at all. Howam I going to play the Nurse?”

She played it splendidly—indeed, she asthe Nurse and old Tom Mead as the Apothecary—thetwo “old ’uns” romped away with chiefhonors, had the play all to nothing.

I had one battle with Mrs. Stirling over “tradition.”It was in the scene beginning—

“The clock struck twelvewhen I did send the nurse,
And yet she is not here....”

Tradition said that Juliet must go on coquetting andclicking over the Nurse to get the news of Romeo outof her. Tradition said that Juliet must giveimitations of the Nurse on the line “Where’syour mother?” in order to get that cheap reward,“a safe laugh.” I felt that it waswrong. I felt that Juliet was angry with the Nurse.Each time she delayed in answering I lost my temper,with genuine passion. At “Where’syour mother?” I spoke with indignation, tearsand rage. We were a long time coaxing Mrs. Stirlingto let the scene be played on these lines, but thiswas how it was played eventually.

She was the only Nurse that I have ever seen who didnot play the part like a female pantaloon. Shedid not assume any great decrepitude. In the“Cords” scene, where the Nurse tells Julietof the death of Paris, she did not play for comedyat all, but was very emotional. Her parrot screamwhen she found me dead was horribly real and effective.

Years before I had seen Mrs. Stirling act at the Adelphiwith Benjamin Webster, and had cried out: “That’smy idea of an actress!” In those days she wasplaying Olivia (in a version of the “Vicar ofWakefield” by Tom Taylor), Peg Woffington, andother parts of the kind. She swept on to thestage and in that magical way, never, never to be learned,filled it. She had such breadth of style,such a lovely voice, such a beautiful expressive eye!When she played the Nurse at the Lyceum her voicehad become a little jangled and harsh, but her eyewas still bright and her art had not abated—notone little bit! Nor had her charm. Her smilewas the most fascinating, irresistible thing imaginable.

The production was received with abuse by the critics.It was one of our failures, yet it ran a hundred andfifty nights!

Henry Irving’s Romeo had more bricks thrownat it even than my Juliet! I remember that notlong after we opened, a well-known politician who hadenough wit and knowledge of the theater to have takena more original view, came up to me and said:

“I say, E.T., why is Irving playing Romeo?”

I looked at his distraught. “You shouldask me why I am playing Juliet! Why are we anyof us doing what we have to do?”

“Oh, you’re all right. ButIrving!”

“I don’t agree with you,” I said.I was growing a little angry by this time. “Besides,who would you have play Romeo?”

“Well, it’s so obvious. You’vegot Terriss in the cast.”

“Terriss!”

“Yes. I don’t doubt Irving’sintellectuality, you know. As Romeo he remindsme of a pig who has been taught to play the fiddle.He does it cleverly, but he would be better employedin squealing. He cannot shine in the part likethe fiddler. Terriss in this case is the fiddler.”

I was furious. “I am sorry you don’trealize,” I said, “that the worst thingHenry Irving could do would be better than the bestof any one else.”

When dear Terris did play Romeo at the Lyceum twoor three years later to the Juliet of Mary Anderson,he attacked the part with a good deal of fire.He was young, truly, and stamped his foot a great deal,was vehement and passionate. But it was so obviousthat there was no intelligence behind his reading.He did not know what the part was about, and all thefiner shades of meaning in it he missed. Yet themajority, with my political friend, would always prefera Terriss as Romeo to a Henry Irving.

X

LYCEUM PRODUCTIONS (continued)

“MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING” TO “FAUST”

Our success with “The Belle’s Stratagem”had pointed to comedy, to Beatrice and Benedick inparticular, because in Mrs. Cowley’s old comedywe had had some scenes of the same type. I havealready told of my first appearance as Beatrice atLeeds, and said that I never played the part so wellagain; but the Lyceum production was a great success,and Beatrice a great personal success for me.It is only in high comedy that people seem to knowwhat I am driving at!

The stage-management of the play was very good; thescenery nothing out of the ordinary except for theChurch Scene. There was no question that it wasa church, hardly a question that old Mead was a Friar.Henry had the art of making ceremonies seem very real.

This was the first time that we engaged a singer fromoutside. Mr. Jack Robertson came into the castto sing “Sigh no more, ladies,” and madean enormous success.

Johnston Forbes-Robertson made his first appearanceat the Lyceum as Claudio. I had not acted withhim since “The Wandering Heir,” and hisimprovement as an actor in the ten years that had goneby since then was marvelous. I had once saidto him that he had far better stick to his paintingand become an artist instead of an actor. HisClaudio made me “take it back.” Itwas beautiful. I have seen many young actors playthe part since then, but not one of them made it anywherenear as convincing. Forbes-Robertson put a touchof Leontes into it, a part which some years laterhe was to play magnificently, and through the subtleindication of consuming and insanely suspicious jealousymade Claudio’s offensive conduct explicableat least. On the occasion of the performanceat Drury Lane which the theatrical profession organizedin 1906 in honor of my Stage Jubilee, one of the itemsin the programme was a scene from “Much Adoabout Nothing.” I then played Beatrice forthe last time and Forbes-Robertson played his oldpart of Claudio.

During the run Henry commissioned him to paint a pictureof the Church Scene, which was hung in the BeefsteakRoom. The engravings printed from it were atone time very popular. When Johnston was askedwhy he had chosen that particular moment in the ChurchScene, he answered modestly that it was the only momentwhen he could put himself as Claudio at the “side”!Some of the other portraits in the picture are HenryIrving, Terriss, who played Don Pedro; Jessie Millwardas Hero, Mr. Glenny as Don John, Miss Amy Coleridge,Miss Harwood, Mr. Mead, and his daughter “Charley”Mead, a pretty little thing who was one of the pages.

The Lyceum company was not a permanent one. Peopleused to come, learn something, go away, and come backat a larger salary! Miss Emery left for a time,and then returned to play Hero and other parts.I liked her Hero better than Miss Millward’s.Miss Millward had a sure touch; strength, vitality,interest; but somehow she was commonplace in the part.

Henry used to spend hours and hours teaching people.I used to think impatiently: “Acting can’tbe taught.” Gradually I learned to modifythis conviction and to recognize that there are twoclasses of actors:

1. Those who can only do what they are taught.

2. Those who cannot be taught, but can be helpedby suggestion to work out things for themselves.

Henry said to me once: “What makes a popularactor? Physique! What makes a great actor?Imagination and sensibility.” I tried tobelieve it. Then I thought to myself: “Henryhimself is not quite what is understood by ‘anactor of physique,’ and certainly he is popular.And that he is a great actor I know. He certainlyhas both imagination and ’sense and sensibility.’”After the lapse of years I begin to wonder if Henrywas ever really popular. It was naturalto most people to dislike his acting—theyfound it queer, as some find the painting of Whistler—buthe forced them, almost against their will and nature,out of dislike into admiration. They had to comeup to him, for never would he go down to them.This is not popularity.

Brain allied with the instinct of the actortells, but stupidity allied with the instinct of theactor tells more than brain alone. I have sometimesseen a clever man who was not a born actor play a smallpart with his brains, and have felt that the clevernesswas telling more with the actors on the stage thanwith the audience.

Terriss, like Mrs. Pritchard, if we are to believewhat Dr. Johnson said of her, often did not know whaton earth he was talking about! One morning wewent over and over one scene in “Much Ado”—atleast a dozen times I should think—andeach time when Terriss came to the speech beginning:

“What needs thebridge much broader than the flood,”

he managed to give a different emphasis. Firstit would be:

“What! Needs the bridge much broaderthan the flood!” Then:

“What needs the bridge much broader thanthe flood.”

After he had been floundering about for some time,Henry said:

“Terriss, what’s the meaning of that?”

“Oh, get along, Guv’nor, you know!”

Henry laughed. He never could be angry with Terriss,not even when he came to rehearsal full of absurdexcuses. One day, however, he was so late thatit was past a joke, and Henry spoke to him sharply.

“I think you’ll be sorry you’vespoken to me like this, Guv’nor,” saidTerriss, casting down his eyes.

“Now no hanky-panky tricks, Terriss.”

“Tricks, Guv’nor! I think you’llregret having said that when you hear that my poormother passed away early this morning.”

And Terriss wept.

Henry promptly gave him the day off. A few weekslater, when Terriss and I were looking through thecurtain at the audience just before the play began,he said to me gaily:

“See that dear old woman sitting in the fourthrow of stalls—that’s my dear oldmother.”

The wretch had quite forgotten that he had killedher!

He was the only person who ever ventured to “cheek”Henry, yet he never gave offense, not even when hewrote a letter of this kind:

“My dear Guv.,—

“I hope you are enjoying yourself, and in thebest of health. I very much want to play ‘Othello’with you next year (don’t laugh). ShallI study it up, and will you do it with me on tourif possible? Say yes, and lighten thedrooping heart of yours sincerely,

“WILL TERRISS.”

I have never seen any one at all like Terriss, andmy father said the same. The only actor of myfather’s day, he used to tell me, who had atouch of the same insouciance and lawlessness was LeighMurray, a famous jeune premier.

One night he came into the theater soaked from headto foot.

“Is it raining, Terriss?” said some onewho noticed that he was wet.

“Looks like it, doesn’t it?” saidTerriss carelessly.

Later it came out that he had jumped off a penny steamboatinto the Thames and saved a little girl’s life.It was pretty brave, I think.

Mr. Pinero, who was no longer a member of the Lyceumcompany when “Much Ado” was produced,wrote to Henry after the first night that it was “asperfect a representation of a Shakespearean play asI conceive to be possible. I think,” headded, “that the work at your theater does somuch to create new playgoers—which is whatwe want, far more I fancy than we want new theatersand perhaps new plays.”

A playgoer whose knowledge of the English stage extendedover a period of fifty-five years, wrote another niceletter about “Much Ado” which was passedon to me because it had some ridiculously nice thingsabout me in it.

SAVILE CLUB, January 13, 1883.

“My dear Henry,—

“I were an imbecile ingrate if I did not hastento give you my warmest thanks for the splendid entertainmentof last night. Such a performance is not a grandentertainment merely, or a glorious pastime, althoughit was all that. It was, too, an artistic displayof the highest character, elevating in the vast audiencetheir art instinct—as well as purifyingany developed art in the possession of individuals.

“I saw the Kean revivals of 1855-57, and I suppose‘The Winter’s Tale’ was the bestof the lot. But it did not approach last night....

“I was impressed more strongly than ever withthe fact that the plays of Shakespeare were meantto be acted. The man who thinks that hecan know Shakespeare by reading him is a shallow ass.The best critic and scholar would have been carriedout of himself last night into the poet’s heart,his mind-spirit.... The Terry was glorious....The scenes in which she appeared—and shewas in eight out of the sixteen—remindedme of nothing but the blessed sun that not only beautifiesbut creates. But she never acts so well as whenI am there to see! That is a real lover’ssentiment, and all lovers are vain men.

“Terriss has ‘come on’ wonderfully,and his Don Pedro is princely and manful.

“I have thus set down, my dear Irving, one ortwo things merely to show that my gratitude to youis not that of a blind gratified idiot, but of onewhose intimate personal knowledge of the English stageentitles him to say what he owes to you.”

“I am

“Affectionately yours,

“A.J. DUFFIELD.”

In 1891, when we revived “Much Ado,” Henry’sBenedick was far more brilliant than it was at first.In my diary, January 5, 1891, I wrote:

“Revival of ‘Much Ado aboutNothing.’ Went most brilliantly. Henryhas vastly improved upon his old renderingof Benedick. Acts larger now—notso ‘finicking.’ His model (of manner)is the Duke of Sutherland. VERY good.I did some parts better, I think—made Beatricea nobler woman. Yet I failed to please myselfin the Cathedral Scene.”

Two days later.—“Playedthe Church Scene all right at last. More ofa blaze. The little scene in the garden,too, I did better (in the last act). Beatricehas confessed her love, and is now softer.Her voice should be beautiful now, breaking out intoplayful defiance now and again, as of old.The last scene, too, I made much more merry,happy, soft.”

January 8.—“Imust make Beatrice more flashing at first, andsofter afterwards. This will be animprovement upon my old reading of the part.She must be always merry and by turns scornful,tormenting, vexed, self-communing, absent, melting,teasing, brilliant, indignant, sad-merry,thoughtful, withering, gentle, humorous, andgay, Gay, Gay! Protecting (to Hero), motherly,very intellectual—a gallant creature andcomplete in mind and feature.”

After a run of two hundred and fifty nights, “MuchAdo,” although it was still drawing fine houses,was withdrawn as we were going to America in the autumn(of 1883) and Henry wanted to rehearse the plays thatwe were to do in the States by reviving them in Londonat the close of the summer season. It was duringthese revivals that I played Janette in “TheLyons Mail”—not a big part, and notwell suited to me, but I played it well enough tosupport my theory that whatever I have not been,I have been a useful actress.

I always associate “The Lyons Mail” withold Mead, whose performance of the father, JeromeLesurques, was one of the most impressive things thatthis fine actor ever did with us. (Before Henry wasever heard of, Mead had played Hamlet at Drury Lane!)Indeed when he “broke up,” Henry put aside“The Lyons Mail” for many years becausehe dreaded playing Lesurques’ scene with hisfather without Mead.

In the days just before the break-up, which came aboutbecause Mead was old, and—I hope thereis no harm in saying of him what can be said of manymen who have done finely in the world—toofond of “the wine when it is red,” Henryuse to suffer great anxiety in the scene, because henever knew what Mead was going to do or say next.When Jerome Lesurques is forced to suspect his sonof crime, he has a line:

“Am I mad, ordreaming? Would I were.”

Mead one night gave a less poetic reading:

“Am I mad or drunk?Would I were!”

It will be remembered by those who saw the play thatLesurques, an innocent man, will not commit the Romansuicide of honor at his father’s bidding, andrefuses to take up his pistol from the table.“What! you refuse to die by your own hands,do you?” says the elder Lesurques. “Thendie like a dog by mine!” (producing a pistolfrom his pocket).

One night, after having delivered the line with hisusual force and impressiveness, Mead, after prolongedfumbling in his coat-tail pockets, added another:

“D—–, b——!God bless my soul! Where’s the pistol?I haven’t got the pistol!”

The last scene in the eventful history of “Meadisms”in “’The Lyons Mail” was when Meadcame on to the stage in his own top-hat, went overto the sofa, and lay down, apparently for a nap!Not a word could Henry get from him, and Henry hadto play the scene by himself. He did it in thisway:

“You say, father, that I,” etc.“I answer you that it is false!”

Mead had a remarkable foot. Norman Forbescalled it an architectural foot. Bunionsand gout combined to give it a gargoyled effect!One night, I forget whether it was in this play oranother, Henry, pawing the ground with his foot beforean “exit”—one of the mannerismswhich his imitators delighted to burlesque—camedown on poor old Mead’s foot, bunion gargoylesand all! Hardly had Mead stopped cursing underhis breath than on came Tyars, and brought down hisweight heavily on the same foot. Directly Tyarscame off the stage he looked for Mead in the wingsand offered an apology.

“I beg your pardon—I’m reallyawfully sorry, Mead.”

“Sorry! sorry!” the old man snorted.“It’s a d——d conspiracy!”

It was the dignity and gravity of Mead which madeeverything he said so funny. I am afraid thatthose who never knew him will wonder where the jokecomes in.

I forget what year he left us for good, but in a letterof Henry’s dated September, 1888, written duringa provincial tour of “Faust,” when I wasill and my sister Marion played Margaret instead ofme, I find this allusion to him:

“Wenman does the Kitchen Witch now (I alteredit this morning) and Mead the old one—theclimber. Poor old chap, he’ll not climbmuch longer!”

This was one of the least successful of Henry’sShakespearean productions. Terriss looked allwrong as Orsino; many other people were miscast.Henry said to me a few years later when he thoughtof doing “The Tempest,” “I can’tdo it without three great comedians. I oughtnever to have attempted ‘Twelfth Night’without them.”

I don’t think that I played Viola nearly aswell as my sister Kate. Her “I am the man”was very delicate and charming. I overdid that.My daughter says: “Well, you were far betterthan any Viola that I have seen since, but you weretoo simple to make a great hit in it. I thinkthat if you had played Rosalind the public would havethought you too simple in that. Somehow peopleexpect these parts to be acted in a ‘principalboy’ fashion, with sparkle and animation.”

We had the curious experience of being “booed”on the first night. It was not a comedy audience,and I think the rollickings of Toby Belch and hisfellows were thought “low.” Then peoplewere put out by Henry’s attempt to reserve thepit. He thought that the public wanted it.When he found that it was against their wishes heimmediately gave in. His pride was the serviceof the public.

His speech after the hostile reception of “TwelfthNight” was the only mistake that I ever knewhim make. He was furious, and showed it.Instead of accepting the verdict, he trounced the first-nightaudience for giving it. He simply could not understandit!

My old friend Rose Leclercq, who was in Charles Kean’scompany at the Princess’s when I made my firstappearance upon the stage, joined the Lyceum companyto play Olivia. Strangely enough she had lostthe touch for the kind of part. She, who hadmade one of her early successes as the spirit of Astartein “Manfred,” was known to a later generationof playgoers as the aristocratic dowager of statelypresence and incisive repartee. Her son, FullerMellish, was also in the cast as Curio, and when weplayed “Twelfth Night” in America was promotedto the part of Sebastian, my double. In Londonmy brother Fred played it. Directly he walkedon to the stage, looking as like me as possible, yeta man all over, he was a success. I don’tthink that I have ever seen anything so unmistakableand instantaneous.

In America “Twelfth Night” was liked farbetter than in London, but I never liked it.I thought our production dull, lumpy and heavy.Henry’s Malvolio was fine and dignified, butnot good for the play, and I never could help associatingmy Viola with physical pain. On the first nightI had a bad thumb—I thought it was a whitlow—andhad to carry my arm in a sling. It grew worseevery night, and I felt so sick and faint from painthat I played most of my scenes sitting in a chair.One night Dr. Stoker, Bram Stoker’s brother,came round between the scenes, and, after lookingat my thumb, said:

“Oh, that’ll be all right. I’llcut it for you.”

He lanced it then and there, and I went on with mypart for that night. George Stoker, whowas just going off to Ireland, could not see the jobthrough, but the next day I was in for the worst illnessI ever had in my life. It was blood-poisoning,and the doctors were in doubt for a little as to whetherthey would not have to amputate my arm. Theysaid that if George Stoker had not lanced the thumbthat minute, I should have lost my arm.

A disagreeable incident in connection with my illnesswas that a member of my profession made it the occasionof an unkind allusion (in a speech at the Social ScienceCongress) to “actresses who feign illness andhave straw laid down before their houses, while behindthe drawn blinds they are having riotous supper-parties,dancing the can-can and drinking champagne.”Upon being asked for “name,” the speakerwould neither assert nor deny that it was Ellen Terry(whose poor arm at the time was as big as her waist,and that has never been very small!) that shemeant.

I think we first heard of the affair on our secondvoyage to America, during which I was still so illthat they thought I might never see Quebec, and Henrywrote a letter to the press—a “scorcher.”He showed it to me on the boat. When I had readit, I tore it up and threw the bits into the sea.

“It hasn’t injured me in any way,”I said. “Any answer would be undignified.”

Henry did what I wished in the matter, but, unlikeme, whose heart I am afraid is of wax—noimpression lasts long—he never forgot it,and never forgave. If the speech-maker chancedto come into a room where he was—he walkedout. He showed the same spirit in the last daysof his life, long after our partnership had come toan end. A literary club, not a hundred yardsfrom Hyde Park Corner, “blackballed"’ me(although I was qualified for election under the rules)for reasons with which I was never favored. Thecommittee, a few months later, wished Henry Irvingto be the guest of honor at one of the club dinners.The honor was declined.

The first night of “Olivia” at the Lyceumwas about the only comfortable first nightthat I have ever had! I was familiar with thepart, and two of the cast, Terriss and Norman Forbes,were the same as at the Court, which made me feelall the more at home. Henry left a great dealof the stage-management to us, for he knew that hecould not improve on Mr. Hare’s production.Only he insisted on altering the last act, and madea bad matter worse. The division into two sceneswasted time, and nothing was gained by it. Neverobstinate, Henry saw his mistake and restored theoriginal end after a time. It was weak and unsatisfactorybut not pretentious and bad like the last act he presentedat the first performance.

We took the play too slowly at the Lyceum. Thatwas often a fault there. Because Henry was slow,the others took their time from him, and the resultwas bad.

The lovely scene of the vicarage parlor, in whichwe used a harpsichord and were accused of pedantryfor our pains, did not look so well at the Lyceumas at the Court. The stage was too big for it.

The critics said that I played Olivia better at theLyceum, but I did not feel this myself.

At first Henry did not rehearse the Vicar at all well.One day when he was stamping his foot very much, asif he was Matthias in “The Bells,” mylittle Edy, who was a terrible child and a wonderfulcritic, said:

“Don’t go on like that, Henry. Whydon’t you talk as you do to me and Teddy?At home you are the Vicar.”

The child’s frankness did not offend Henry,because it was illuminating. A blind man hadchanged his Shylock; a little child changed his Vicar.When the first night came he gave a simple, lovableperformance. Many people now understood and likedhim as they had never done before. One of thethings I most admired in it was his sense of the period.

In this, as in other plays, he used to make his entrancein the skin of the part. No need for himto rattle a ladder at the side to get up excitementand illusion as Macready is said to have done.He walked on, and was the simple-minded old clergyman,just as he had walked on a prince in “Hamlet,”a king in “Charles I.,” and a saint in“Becket.”

A very handsome woman, descended from Mrs. Siddonsand looking exactly like her, played the gipsy in“Olivia.” The likeness was of no use,because the possessor of it had no talent. Whata pity!

“Olivia” has always been a family play.Edy and Ted walked on the stage for the first timein the Court “Olivia.” In later yearsTed played Moses and Edy made her first appearancein a speaking part as Polly Flamborough, and has sinceplayed both Sophia and the Gipsy. My brotherCharlie’s little girl Beatrice made her firstappearance as Bill, my sister Floss played Oliviaon a provincial tour, and my sister Marion playedit at the Lyceum when I was ill.

I saw Floss play it, and took from her a lovely andsincere bit of “business.” In thethird act, where the Vicar has found his erring daughterand has come to take her away from the inn, I had alwayshesitated at my entrance as if I were not quite surewhat reception my father would give me after whathad happened. Floss in the same situation camerunning in and went straight to her father, quite sureof his love if not of his forgiveness.

I did not take some business which Marion didon Terriss’s suggestion. Where Thornhilltells Olivia that she is not his wife, I used to thrusthim away with both hands as I said—“Devil!”

“It’s very good, Nell, very fine,”said Terriss to me, “but believe me, you missa great effect there. You play it grandly, ofcourse, but at that moment you miss it. As yousay ‘Devil!’ you ought to strike me fullin the face.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Terriss,” Isaid, “she’s not a pugilist.”

Of course I saw, apart from what was dramaticallyfit, what would happen.

However Marion, very young, very earnest, very dutiful,anxious to please Terriss, listened eagerly to thesuggestion during an understudy rehearsal.

“No one could play this part better than yoursister Nell,” said Terriss to the attentiveMarion, “but as I always tell her, she does missone great effect. When Olivia says ‘Devil!’she ought to hit me bang in the face.”

“Thank you for telling me,” said Mariongratefully.

“It will be much more effective,” saidTerriss.

It was. When the night came for Marion to playthe part, she struck out, and Terriss had to playthe rest of the scene with a handkerchief held tohis bleeding nose!

I think it was as Olivia that Eleonora Duse firstsaw me act. She had thought of playing the partherself some time, but she said: “Nevernow!” No letter about my acting ever gave methe same pleasure as this from her:

“Madame,—Avec Olivia vous m’avezdonne bonheur et peine. Bonheur part votreart qui est noble et sincere ... peine car jesens la tristesse au coeur quand je vois une belleet genereuse nature de femme, donner son ame a l’art—commevous le faites—quand c’est la viememe, votre coeur meme qui parle tendrement,douleureusem*nt, noblement sous votre jeu.Je ne puis me debarrasser d’une certaine tristessequand je vois des artistes si nobles et hauts telsque vous et Irving.... Si vous etes si fortsde soumettre (avec un travail continu) la vie a l’art,il faut done vous admirer comme des forces de la naturememe qui auraient pourtant le droit de vivre pourelles-memes et non pour la foule. Je n’osepas vous deranger, Madame, et d’ailleurs j’aitant a faire aussi qu’il m’est impossiblede vous dire de vive voix tout le grand plaisir quevous m’avez donne, mais puisque j’ai sentivotre coeur, veuillez, chere Madame, croire au mienqui ne demande pas mieux dans cet instant que de vousadmirer et de vous le dire tant bien que mal d’unemaniere quelconque. Bien a vous.

“E. DUSE.”

When I wrote to Madame Duse the other day to ask herpermission to publish this much-prized letter, sheanswered:

BUENOS AYRES, Septembre 11, 1907.

“Chere Ellen Terry,—

“Au milieu du travail en Amerique, je recoisvotre lettre envoyee a Florence.

“Vous me demandez de publier mon ancienne lettreamicale. Oui, chere Ellen Terry; ce que j’aidonne vous appartient; ce que j’ai dit, je lepeux encore, et je vous aime et admire comme toujours....

“J’espere que vous accepterez cette anciennelettre que j’ai rendue plus claire et un peumieux ecrite. Vous en serez contente avec moicar, ainsi faisant, j’ai eu le moyen de vousdire que je vous aime et de vous le dire deux fois.

“A vous de coeur,

“E. DUSE.”

Dear, noble Eleanora Duse, great woman, great artist—Ican never appreciate you in words, but I store thedelight that you have given me by your work, and thepersonal kindness that you have shown me, in the treasure-houseof my heart!

When I celebrated my stage jubilee you traveled allthe way from Italy to support me on the stage at DruryLane. When you stood near me, looking so beautifulwith wings in your hair, the wings of glory they seemedto me, I could not thank you, but we kissed each otherand you understood!

“Clap-trap” was the verdict passed bymany on the Lyceum “Faust,” yet Margaretwas the part I liked better than any other—outsideShakespeare. I played it beautifully sometimes.The language was often very commonplace—notnearly as poetic or dramatic as that of “CharlesI.”—but the character was all right—simple,touching, sublime.

The Garden Scene I know was unsatisfactory. Itwas a bad, weak love-scene, but George Alexander asFaust played it admirably. Indeed he always actedlike an angel with me; he was so malleable, ready todo anything. He was launched into the part atvery short notice, after H.B. Conway’sfailure on the first night. Poor Conway!It was Coghlan as Shylock all over again.

Henry called a rehearsal the next day—onSunday, I think. The company stood about in groupson the stage while Henry walked up and down, speechless,but humming a tune occasionally, always a portentoussign with him. The scene set was the BrockenScene, and Conway stood at the top of the slope asfar away from Henry as he could get! He lookedabject. His handsome face was very red, his eyesfull of tears. He was terrified at the thoughtof what was going to happen. The actor was summonedto the office, and presently Loveday came out and saidthat Mr. George Alexander would play Faust the followingnight. Alec had been wonderful as Valentine thenight before, and as Faust he more than justifiedHenry’s belief in him. After that he neverlooked back. He had come to the Lyceum for thefirst time in 1882, an unknown quantity from a stockcompany in Glasgow, to play Caleb Decie in “TheTwo Roses.” He then left us for a time,returned for “Faust,” and remained in theLyceum company for some years playing all Terriss’sparts.

Alexander had the romantic quality which was lackingin Terriss, but there was a kind of shy modesty abouthim which handicapped him when he played Squire Thornhillin “Olivia.” “Be more dashing,Alec!” I used to say to him. “Well,I do my best,” he said. “At the hotelsI chuck all the barmaids under the chin, and pretendI’m a dog of a fellow for the sake of this part!”Conscientious, dear, delightful Alec! No one everdeserved success more than he did and used it betterwhen it came, as the history of the St. James’sTheater under his management proves. He had thegood luck to marry a wife who was clever as well ascharming, and could help him.

The original cast of “Faust” was neverimproved upon. What Martha was ever so good asMrs. Stirling? The dear old lady’s sighthad failed since “Romeo and Juliet,” butshe was very clever at concealing it. When shelet Mephistopheles in at the door, she used to dropher work on the floor so that she could find her wayback to her chair. I never knew why she droppedit—she used to do it so naturally with astart when Mephistopheles knocked at the door—untilone night when it was in my way and I picked it up,to the confusion of poor Mrs. Stirling, who nearlywalked into the orchestra.

“Faust” was abused a good deal as a pantomime,a distorted caricature of Goethe, and a thoroughlyinartistic production. But it proved the greatestof all Henry’s financial successes. TheGermans who came to see it, oddly enough, did notscorn it nearly as much as the English who were sensitiveon behalf of the Germans, and the Goethe Society wrotea tribute to Henry Irving after his death, acknowledginghis services to Goethe!

It is a curious paradox in the theater that the playfor which every one has a good word is often the playwhich no one is going to see, while the play whichis apparently disliked and run down is crowded everynight.

Our preparations for the production of “Faust”included a delightful “grand tour” ofGermany. Henry, with his accustomed royal wayof doing things, took a party which included my daughterEdy, Mr. and Mrs. Comyns Carr, and Mr. Hawes Craven,who was to paint the scenery. We bought nearlyall the properties used in “Faust” in Nuremberg,and many other things which we did not use, that tookHenry’s fancy. One beautifully carved escutcheon,the finest armorial device I ever saw, he bought atthis time and presented it in after years to the famousAmerican connoisseur, Mrs. Jack Gardiner. Ithangs now in one of the rooms of her palace at Boston.

It was when we were going in the train along one ofthe most beautiful stretches of the Rhine that SallyHolland, who accompanied us as my maid, said:—

“Uncommon pretty scenery, dear, I must say!”

When we laughed uncontrollably, she added:

“Well, dear, I think so!”

During the run of “Faust” Henry visitedOxford and gave his address on “Four Actors”(Burbage, Betterton, Garrick, Kean). He met thereone of the many people who had recently been attackinghim on the ground of too long runs and too much spectacle.He wrote me an amusing account of the duel betweenthem:

“I had supperlast night at New College after the affair. A——was
there, and I had itout with him—to the delight of all.

“‘Toomuch decoration,’ etc., etc.

“I asked him whatthere was in ‘Faust’ in the matter of
appointments, etc.,that he would like left out?’

“Answer:Nothing.

“‘Too longruns.’

“‘You, sir,are a poet,’ I said. ’Perhaps it maybe my privilege
some day to producea play of yours. Would you like it to have a
long run or a shortone?’ (Roars of laughter.)

“Answer:’Well—er—well, of course,Mr. Irving, you—well—well, a
short run, of coursefor art, but—’

“‘Now, sir,you’re on oath,’ said I. ’Supposethat the fees were
rolling in L10 and morea night—would you rather the play were a
failure or a success?’

“’Well,well, as you put it—I must say—er—Iwould rather my
play had a longrun!’

“A——floored!

“He has all hislife been writing articles running down good work
and crying up the impossible,and I was glad to show him up a bit!

“The Vice-Chancellormade a most lovely speech after the
address—aneloquent and splendid tribute to the stage.

“Bourchier presentedthe address of the ‘Undergrads.’ Inever saw a
young man in a greaterfunk—because, I suppose, he had imitatedme
so often!

“From the address:

“’We have watched withkeen and enthusiastic interest the fine intellectualquality of all these representations from Hamlet toMephistopheles with which you have enriched thecontemporary stage. To your influence weowe deeper knowledge and more reverent study ofthe master mind of Shakespeare.’

“All very niceindeed!”

I never cared much for Henry’s Mephistopheles—atwopence colored part, anyway. Of course he hadhis moments—he had them in every part—butthey were few. One of them was in the Prologue,when he wrote in the student’s book, “Yeshall be as gods knowing good and evil.”He never looked at the book, and the nature of thespirit appeared suddenly in a most uncannyfashion. Another was in the Spinning-wheel Scenewhen Faust defies Mephistopheles, and he silenceshim with, “I am a spirit.”Henry looked to grow a gigantic height—tohover over the ground instead of walking on it.It was terrifying.

I made valiant efforts to learn to spin before I playedMargaret. My instructor was Mr. Albert Fleming,who, at the suggestion of Ruskin, had recently revivedhand-spinning and hand-weaving in the North of England.I had always hated that obviously “property”spinning-wheel in the opera, and Margaret’sunmarketable thread. My thread always broke, andat last I had to “fake” my spinning toa certain extent; but at least I worked my wheel right,and gave an impression that I could spin my poundof thread a day with the best.

Two operatic stars did me the honor to copy my Margaretdress—Madame Albani and Madame Melba.It was rather odd, by the way, that many mothers whotook their daughters to see the opera of “Faust”would not bring them to see the Lyceum play.One of these mothers was Princess Mary of Teck, aconstant patron of most of our plays.

Other people “missed the music.”The popularity of an opera will often kill a play,although the play may have existed before the musicwas ever thought of. The Lyceum “Faust”held its own against Gounod. I liked our incidentalmusic to the action much better. It was takenfrom many different sources and welded into an effectiveand beautiful whole by our clever musical director,Mr. Meredith Ball.

In many ways “Faust” was our heaviestproduction. About four hundred ropes were used,each rope with a name. The list of propertiesand instructions to the carpenters became a joke amongthe theater staff. When Henry first took “Faust”into the provinces, the head carpenter at Liverpool,Myers by name, being something of a humorist, copiedout the list on a long thin sheet of paper, whichrolled up like a royal proclamation. Insteadof “God save the Queen!” he wrote at thefoot, with many flourishes: “God help BillMyers!”

The crowded houses at “Faust” were largelycomposed of “repeaters,” as Americanscall those charming playgoers who come to see a playagain and again. We found favor with the artistsand musicians too, even in Faust! Here is a niceletter I got during the run (it was a long one)from that gifted singer and good woman, Madame AntoinetteSterling:—

“My dear Miss Terry,—

“I was quite as disappointed as yourself thatyou were not at St. James’s Hall last Mondayfor my concert.... Jean Ingelow said she enjoyedthe afternoon very much....

“I wonder if you would like to come to luncheonsome day and have a little chat with her? Butperhaps you already know her. I love her dearly.She has one fault—she never goes to thetheater. Oh my! What she misses, poor thing,poor thing! We have already seen ‘Faust’twice, and are going again soon, and shall take theGeorge Macdonalds this time. The Holman Huntswere delighted. He is one of the most interestingand clever men I have ever met, and she is very charmingand clever too. How beautifully plain you write!Give me the recipe.

“With many kind greetings,

“Believe me sincerely yours,

“ANTOINETTE STERLING MACKINLAY.”

My girl Edy was one of the angels in the vision inthe last act of “Faust,” an event whichHenry commemorated in a little rhyme that he sentme on Valentine’s Day with some beautiful flowers:

“White and red roses,
Sweet and fresh posies,
One bunch for Edy, Angelof mine—
One bunch for Nell, my dearValentine.”

Mr. Toole ran a burlesque on the Lyceum “Faust,”called “Faust-and-Loose.” Henry didnot care for burlesques as a rule. He thoughtFred Leslie’s exact imitation of him, face, spectacles,voice—everything was like Henry except theballet-skirt—in the worst taste. Buteverything that Toole did was to him adorable.Marie Linden gave a really clever imitation of meas Marguerite. She and her sister Laura bothhad the trick of taking me off. I recognized thetruth of Laura’s caricature in the burlesqueof “The Vicar of Wakefield” when as Oliviashe made her entrance, leaping impulsively over a stile!

There was an absurd chorus of girl “mashers”in “Faust-and-Loose,” dressed in tightblack satin coats, who besides dancing and singinghad lines in unison, such as “No, no!”“We will!” As one of these girls VioletVanbrugh made her first appearance on the stage.In her case “we will!” proved prophetic.It was her plucky “I will get on” whichfinally landed her in her present successful position.

Violet Barnes was the daughter of Prebendary Barnesof Exeter, who, when he found his daughter stage-struck,behaved far more wisely than most parents. Hegave her L100 and sent her to London with her old nurseto look after her, saying that if she really “meantbusiness” she would find an engagement beforethe L100 was gone. Violet had inherited sometalent from her mother, who was a very clever amateuractress, and the whole family were fond of gettingup entertainments. But Violet didn’t knowquite how far L100 would go, or wouldn’t go.I happened to call on her at her lodgings near BakerStreet one afternoon, and found her having her headwashed, and crying bitterly all the time! Shehad come to the end of the L100, she had not got anengagement, and thought she would have to go homedefeated. There was something funny in the tragicsituation. Vi was sitting on the floor, dryingher hair, crying, and drinking port wine to cure acold in her head!

I told her not to be a goose, but to cheer up andcome and stay with me until something turned up.We packed the old nurse back to Devonshire. Violetcame and stayed with me, and in due course somethingdid turn up. Mr. Toole came to dinner, and Violet,acting on my instructions to ask every one she sawfor an engagement, asked Mr. Toole! He said, “That’sall right, my dear. Of course. Come downand see me to-morrow.” Dear old Toole!The kindliest of men! Violet was with him forsome time, and played at his theater in Mr. Barrie’sfirst piece “Walker London.” Hersister Irene, Seymour Hicks, and Mary Ansell (now Mrs.Barrie) were all in the cast.

This was all I did to “help” Violet Vanbrugh,now Mrs. Arthur Bourchier and one of our best actresses,in her stage career. She helped herself, as mostpeople do who get on. I am afraid that I havediscouraged more stage aspirants than I have encouraged.Perhaps I have snubbed really talented people, sogreat is my horror of girls taking to the stage asa profession when they don’t realize what theyare about. I once told an elderly aspirant thatit was quite useless for any one to go on the stagewho had not either great beauty or great talent.She wrote saying that my letter had been a great reliefto her, as now she was not discouraged. “Ihave both.”

There is one actress on the English stage whom I diddefinitely encourage, of whose talent I was certain.

When my daughter was a student at the Royal Academyof Music, Dr. (now Sir Alexander) Mackenzie askedme to distribute the medals to the Elocution Classat the end of the term. I was quite “newto the job,” and didn’t understand theprocedure. No girl, I have learned since, canbe given the gold medal until she has won both thebronze and the silver medals—that is, untilshe has been at the Academy three years. I wasfor giving the gold medalists, who only wanted certificates,bronze medals; and of one young girl who wasin her first year and only entitled to a bronze medal,I said: “Oh, she must have the gold medal,of course!”

She was a queer-looking child, handsome, with a facesuggesting all manner of possibilities. Whenshe stood up to read the speech from “RichardII.” she was nervous, but courageously stoodher ground. She began slowly, and with a most“fetching” voice, to think out thewords. You saw her think them, heard her speakthem. It was so different from the intelligentelocution, the good recitation, but bad impersonationof the others! “A pathetic face, a passionatevoice, a brain,” I thought to myself.It must have been at this point that the girl flungaway the book and began to act, in an undisciplinedway, of course, but with such true emotion, such intensity,that the tears came to my eyes. The tears cameto her eyes too. We both wept, and then we embraced,and then we wept again. It was an easy victoryfor her. She was incomparably better than anyone. “She has to work,” I wrote inmy diary that day. “Her life must be givento it, and then she will—well, she willachieve just as high as she works.” LenaPoco*ck was the girl’s name, but she changedit to Lena Ashwell when she went on the stage.

In the days of the elocution class there was stillsome idea of her becoming a singer, but I stronglyadvised the stage, and wrote to my friend J. ComynsCarr, who was managing the Comedy Theater, that I knewa girl with “supreme talent” whom he oughtto engage. Lena was engaged. After thatshe had her fight for success, but she went steadilyforward.

Henry Irving has often been attacked for not preferringRobert Louis Stevenson’s “Macaire”to the version which he actually produced in 1883.It would have been hardly more unreasonable to complainof his producing “Hamlet” in preferenceto Mr. Gilbert’s “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.”Stevenson’s “Macaire” may have allthe literary quality that is claimed for it, althoughI personally think Stevenson was only making a delightfulidiot of himself in it. Anyhow, it is franklya burlesque, a skit, a satire on the real Macaire.The Lyceum was not a burlesque house!Why should Henry have done it?

It was funny to see Toole and Henry rehearsing togetherfor “Macaire.” Henry was always plottingto be funny. When Toole as Jacques Strop hidthe dinner in his pocket, Henry, after much labor,thought of his hiding the plate inside his waistcoat.There was much laughter later on when Macaire, playfullytapping Strop with his stick, cracked the plate, andthe pieces fell out! Toole hadn’t to botherabout such subtleties, and Henry’s deep-laidplans for getting a laugh must have seemed funny todear Toole, who had only to come on and say “Whoop!”and the audience roared!

Henry’s death as Macaire was one of a long listof splendid deaths. Macaire knows the game isup, and makes a rush for the French windows at theback of the stage. The soldiers on the stage shoothim before he gets away. Henry did not drop,but turned round, swaggered impudently down to thetable, leaned on it, then suddenly rolled over, dead.

Henry’s production of “Werner” forone matinee was to do some one a good turn, and whenHenry did a “good turn,” he did it magnificently.[1]We rehearsed the play as carefully as if we were infor a long run. Beautiful dresses were made forme by my friend Alice Carr. But when we had giventhat one matinee, they were put away for ever.The play may be described as gloom, gloom, gloom.It was worse than “The Iron Chest.”

[Footnote 1: From my Diary, June 1, 1887.—“Westland-MarstonBenefit at the Lyceum. A triumphant success entirelydue to the genius and admirable industry and devotionof H.I., for it is just the dullest play to read asever was! He made it intensely interesting.”]

While Henry was occupying himself with “Werner,”I was pleasing myself with “The Amber Heart,”a play by Alfred Calmour, a young man who was at thistime Wills’s secretary. I wanted to do it,not only to help Calmour, but because I believed inthe play and liked the part of Ellaline. I hadthought of giving a matinee of it at some other theater,but Henry, who at first didn’t like my doingit at all, said: “You must do it at theLyceum. I can’t let you, or it, go out ofthe theater.”

So we had the matinee at the Lyceum. Mr. Willardand Mr. Beerbohm Tree were in the cast, and it wasa great success. For the first time Henry sawme act—a whole part and from the “front”at least, for he had seen and liked scraps of my Julietfrom the “side.” Although he had knownme such a long time, my Ellaline seemed to come quiteas a surprise. “I wish I could tell youof the dream of beauty that you realized,” hewrote after the performance. He bought the playfor me, and I continued to do it “on and off”here and in America until 1902.

Many people said that I was good but the play wasbad. This was hard on Alfred Calmour. Hehad created the opportunity for me, and few playswith the beauty of “The Amber Heart” havecome my way since. “He thinks it’sall his doing!” said Henry. “If heonly knew!” “Well, that’s the wayof authors,” I answered. “They imagineso much more about their work than we put into it,that although we may seem to the outsider to be creating,to the author we are, at our best, only doing our dutyby him.”

Our next production was “Macbeth.”Meanwhile we had visited America three times.It is now my intention to give some account of my toursin America, of my friends there, and of some of theimpressions that the vast, wonderful country madeon me.

XI

AMERICA

THE FIRST OF EIGHT TOURS

The first time that there was any talk of my goingto America was, I think, in 1874, when I was playingin “The Wandering Heir.” Dion Boucicaultwanted me to go, and dazzled me with figures, but Iexpect the cautious Charles Reade influenced me againstaccepting the engagement.

When I did go in 1883, I was thirty-five and had anassured position in my profession. It was thefirst of eight tours, seven of which I went with HenryIrving. The last was in 1907 after his death.I also went to America one summer on a pleasure trip.The tours lasted three months at least, seven monthsat most. After a rough calculation, I find thatI have spent not quite five years of my life in America.Five out of sixty is not a large proportion, yet Ioften feel that I am half American. This saysa good deal for the hospitality of a people who canmake a stranger feel so completely at home in theirmidst. Perhaps it also says something for myadaptableness!

“When we do not speak of things with a partialityfull of love, what we say is not worth being repeated.”That was the answer of a courteous Frenchman who wasasked for his impressions of a country. In anycase it is imprudent to give one’s impressionsof America. The country is so vast and complexthat even those who have amassed mountains of impressionssoon find that there still are mountains more!I have lived in New York, Boston and Chicago for amonth at a time, and have felt that to know any ofthese great cities even superficially would take ayear. I have become acquainted with this and thatclass of American, but I realize that there are thousandsof other classes that remain unknown to me.

I set out in 1882 from Liverpool on board the Britannicwith the fixed conviction that I should never, neverreturn. For six weeks before we started, theword America had only to be breathed to me, and I burstinto floods of tears! I was leaving my children,my bullfinch, my parrot, my “aunt” Boo,whom I never expected to see alive again, just becauseshe said I never would; and I was going to face theunknown dangers of the Atlantic and of a strange,barbarous land. Our farewell performances inLondon had cheered me up a little—thoughI wept copiously at every one—by showingus that we should be missed. Henry Irving’sposition seemed to be confirmed and ratified by allthat took place before his departure. The dinnershe had to eat, the speeches that he had to make andto listen to, were really terrific!

One speech at the Rabelais Club had, it was said,the longest peroration on record. It was thiskind of thing: Where is our friend Irving going?He is not going like Nares to face the perils of thefar North. He is not going like A——to face something else. He is not going to China,etc.,—and so on. After about thehundredth “he is not going,” Lord Houghton,who was one of the guests, grew very impatient andinterrupted the orator with: “Of coursehe isn’t! He’s going to New Yorkby the Cunard Line. It’ll take him abouta week!”

Many people came to see us off at Liverpool, but Ionly remember seeing Mrs. Langtry and Oscar Wilde.It was at this time that Oscar Wilde had begun tocurl his hair in the manner of the Prince Regent.“Curly hair to match the curly teeth,”said some one. Oscar Wilde had ugly teeth,and he was not proud of his mouth. He used toput his hand to his mouth when he talked so that itshould not be noticed. His brow and eyes werevery beautiful.

Well, I was not “disappointed in the Atlantic,”as Oscar Wilde was the first to say, though many peoplehave said it since without acknowledging its source.

My first voyage was a voyage of enchantment to me.The ship was laden with pig-iron, and she rolled androlled and rolled. She could never roll too muchfor me! I have always been a splendid sailor,and I feel jolly at sea. The sudden leap fromhome into the wilderness of waves does not give meany sensation of melancholy.

What I thought I was going to see when I arrived inAmerica I hardly remember. I had a vague ideathat all American women wore red flannel shirts andcarried bowie knives and that I might be sandbaggedin the street! From somewhere or other I hadderived an impression that New York was an ugly, noisyplace.

Ugly! When I first saw that marvelous harborI nearly cried—it was so beautiful.Whenever I come now to the unequaled approach to NewYork I wonder what Americans must think of the approachfrom the sea to London! How different are themean, flat, marshy banks of the Thames and the woodentoy lighthouse at Dungeness to the vast, spreadingHudson with its busy multitude of steamboats, andferryboats, its wharf upon wharf, and its tall statueof Liberty dominating all the racket and bustle ofthe sea traffic of the world!

That was one of the few times in America when I didnot miss the poetry of the past. The poetry ofthe present, gigantic, colossal and enormous, mademe forget it. The “sky-scrapers”—whata brutal name it is when one comes to think of it!—sosplendid in the landscape now, did not exist in 1883,but I find it difficult to divide my early impressionsfrom my later ones. There was Brooklyn Bridgethough, hung up high in the air like a vast spider’sweb.

Between 1883 and 1893 I noticed a great change inNew York and other cities. In ten years theyseemed to have grown with the energy of tropical plants.But between 1893 and 1907 I saw no evidence of suchfeverish increase. It is possible that the Americansare arriving at a stage when they can no longer beatthe records! There is a vast difference betweenone of the old New York brownstone houses and one ofthe fourteen-storied buildings near the river, butbetween this and the Times Square Building or thestill more amazing Flat Iron Building, which is saidto oscillate at the top—it is so far fromthe ground—there is very little difference.I hear that they are now beginning to build downwardsinto the earth, but this will not change the appearanceof New York for a long time.

I had not to endure the wooden shed in which mostpeople landing in America have to struggle with theCustom-house officials—a struggle as brutalas a “round in the ring,” as Paul Bourgetdescribes it. We were taken off the Britannicin a tug, and Mr. Abbey, Laurence Barrett, and manyother friends met us—including the much-dreadedreporters.

They were not a bit dreadful, but very quick to seewhat kind of a man Henry was. In a minute hewas on the best of terms with them. He had onwhat I used to call his best “Jingle” manner—amanner full of refinement, bonhomie, elegance andgeniality.

“Have a cigar—have a cigar.”That was the first remark of Henry’s, whichput every one at ease. He also wanted to be atease and have a good smoke. It was just the rightmerry greeting to the press representatives of a nationwhose sense of humor is far more to be relied on thanits sense of reverence.

“Now come on, all of you!” he said tothe interviewers. He talked to them all in amass and showed no favoritism. It says much forhis tact and diplomacy that he did not “puthis foot in it.” The Americans are suspiciousof servile adulation from a stranger, yet are verysensitive to criticism.

“These gentlemen want to have a few words withyou,” said Henry to me when the reporters haddone with him. Then with a mischievous expressionhe whispered: “Say something pleasant!Merry and bright!”

Merry and bright! I felt it! The sense ofbeing a stranger entering a strange land, the rushingsense of loneliness and foreignness was overpoweringmy imagination. I blew my nose hard and triedto keep back my tears, but the first reporter said:“Can I send any message to your friends in England?”

I answered: “Tell them I never loved ’emso much as now,” and burst into tears!No wonder that he wrote in his paper that I was “awoman of extreme nervous sensibility.”Another of them said that “my figure was sparealmost to attenuation.” America soon remediedthat. I began to put on flesh before I had beenin the country a week, and it was during my fifthAmerican tour that I became really fat for the firsttime in my life.

When we landed I drove to the Hotel Dam, Henry tothe Brevoort House. There was no Diana on thetop of the Madison Square Building then. Thebuilding did not exist, to cheer the heart of a newarrival as the first evidence of beauty inthe city. There were horse trams instead of cablecars, but a quarter of a century has not altered thepeculiarly dilapidated carriages in which one drivesfrom the dock, the muddy side-walks, and the cavernousholes in the cobble-paved streets. Had the elevatedrailway, the first sign of power that one noticesafter leaving the boat, begun to thunder through thestreets? I cannot remember New York without it.

I missed then, as I miss now, the numberless hansomsof London plying in the streets for hire. Peoplein New York get about in the cars, unless they havetheir own carriages. The hired carriage has noreason for existing, and when it does, it celebratesits unique position by charging two dollars (8_s._)for a journey which in London would not cost fiftycents (2_s._)!

I cried for two hours at the Hotel Dam! Thenmy companion, Miss Harries, came bustling in with:“Never mind! here’s a piano!” andsat down and played “Annie Laurie” verybadly until I screamed with laughter. Beforethe evening came my room was like a bower of roses,and my dear friends in America have been throwingbouquets at me in the same lavish way ever since.I had quite cheered up when Henry came to take meto see some minstrels who were performing at the StarTheater, the very theater where in a few days we wereto open. I didn’t understand many of thejokes which the American comedians made that night,but I liked their dry, cool way of making them.They did not “hand a lemon” or “skiddoo”in those days; American slang changes as quickly asthieves’ slang, and only “Gee!”and “Gee-whiz!” seem to be permanent.

There were very few theaters in New York when we firstwent there. All that part of the city which isnow “up town” did not exist, and what wasthen “up” is now more than “down”town. The American stage has changed almost asmuch. In those days their most distinguished actorswere playing Shakespeare or old comedy, and theirnew plays were chiefly “imported” goods.Even then there was a liking for local plays whichshowed the peculiarities of the different States, butthey were more violent and crude than now. Theoriginal American genius and the true dramatic pleasureof the people is, I believe, in such plays, where verycomplete observation of certain phases of Americanlife and very real pictures of manners are combinedwith comedy almost childlike in its naivete.The sovereignty of the young girl which is such a markedfeature in social life is reflected in American plays.

This is by the way.

What I want to make clear is that in 1883 there wasno living American drama as there is now, that suchproductions of romantic plays and Shakespeare as HenryIrving brought over from England were unknown, andthat the extraordinary success of our first tours wouldbe impossible now. We were the first and we werepioneers, and we were new. To be new iseverything in America.

Such palaces as the Hudson Theater, New York, werenot dreamed of when we were at the Star, which was,however, quite equal to any theater in London in frontof the footlights. The stage itself, the lightingappliances, and the dressing-rooms were inferior.

Henry made his first appearance in America in “TheBells.” He was not at his best on the firstnight, but he could be pretty good even when he wasnot at his best. I watched him from a box.Nervousness made the company very slow. The audiencewas a splendid one—discriminating and appreciative.We felt that the Americans wanted to like us.We felt in a few days so extraordinarily at home.The first sensation of entering a foreign city wasquickly wiped out.

The difference in atmosphere disappears directly oneunderstands it. I kept on coming across duplicatesof “my friends in England.” “Howthis girl reminds me of Alice.” “Howlike that one is to Gill!” We had transportedthe Lyceum three thousand miles—that wasall.

On the second night in New York it was my turn.“Command yourself—this is the timeto show you can act!” I said to myself as I wenton to the stage of the Star Theater, dressed as HenriettaMaria. But I could not command myself. Iplayed badly and cried too much in the last act.But the people liked me, and they liked the play,perhaps because it was historical; and of historythe Americans are passionately fond. The audiencetook many points which had been ignored in London.I had always thought Henry as Charles I. most movingwhen he made that involuntary effort to kneel to hissubject, Moray, but the Lyceum audiences never seemedto notice it. In New York the audience burst outinto the most sympathetic spontaneous applause thatI have ever heard in a theater.

I know that there are some advanced stage reformerswho prefer to think applause “vulgar,”and would suppress it in the theater if they could.If they ever succeed they will suppress a great dealof good acting. It is said that the Americanactor, Edwin Forrest, once walked down to the footlightsand said to the audience very gravely and sincerely:“If you don’t applaud, I can’t act,”and I do sympathize with him. Applause is aninstinctive, unconscious act expressing the sympathybetween actors and audience. Just as our artdemands more instinct than intellect in its exercise,so we demand of those who watch us an appreciationof the simple unconscious kind which finds an outletin clapping rather than the cold, intellectual approvalwhich would self-consciously think applause derogatory.I have yet to meet the actor who was sincerein saying that he disliked applause.

My impression of the way the American women dressedin 1883 was not favorable. Some of them woreIndian shawls and diamond earrings. They dressedtoo grandly in the street and too dowdily in the theater.All this has changed. The stores in New Yorkare now the most beautiful in the world, and the womenare dressed to perfection. They are as cleverat the demi-toilette as the Parisian, and theextreme neatness and smartness of their walking-gownsare very refreshing after the floppy, blowsy, trailingdresses, accompanied by the inevitable feather boaof which English girls, who used to be so tidy and“tailor-made,” now seem so fond.The universal white “waist” is very prettyand trim on the American girl. It is one of thedistinguishing marks of a land of the free, a landwhere “class” hardly exists. The girlin the store wears the white waist; so does the richgirl on Fifth Avenue. It costs anything fromseventy-five cents to fifty dollars!

London when I come back from America always seemsat first like an ill-lighted village, strangely tame,peaceful and backward. Above all, I miss thesunlight of America, and the clear blue skies of anevening.

“Are you glad to get back?” said an Englishfriend.

“Very.”

“It’s a land of vulgarity, isn’tit?”

“Oh yes, if you mean by that a wonderful land—aland of sunshine and light, of happiness, of faithin the future!” I answered. I saw no miseryor poverty there. Every one looked happy.What hurts me on coming back to England is the hopelesslook on so many faces; the dejection and apathy ofthe people standing about in the streets. Of coursethere is poverty in New York, but not among the Americans.The Italians, the Russians, the Poles—allthe host of immigrants washed in daily on the bosomof the Hudson—these are poor, but you don’tsee them unless you go Bowery-ways, and even thenyou can’t help feeling that in their sufferingsthere is always hope. The barrow man of to-dayis the millionaire of to-morrow! Vulgarity?I saw little of it. I thought that the peoplewho had amassed large fortunes used their wealth beautifully.

When a man is rich enough to build himself a big newhouse, he remembers some old house which he once admired,and he has it imitated with all the technical skilland care that can be had in America. This accountsfor the odd jumble of styles in Fifth Avenue, alongthe lakeside in Chicago, in the new avenues in St.Louis and elsewhere. One millionaire’shouse is modeled on a French chateau, another on anold Colonial house in Virginia, another on a monasteryin Mexico, another is like an Italian palazzo.And their imitations are never weak or pretentious.The architects in America seem to me to be far moreable than ours, or else they have a freer hand andmore money. It is sad to remember that Mr. StanfordWhite was one of the best of these splendid architects.

It was Stanford White with Saint-Gaudens—thatgreat sculptor, whose work dignifies nearly all thegreat cities in America—who had most todo with the Exhibition buildings of the World’sFair in Chicago in 1893. It was odd to see thatfair dream city rising out of the lake, so far morebeautiful in its fleeting beauty than the Chicago ofthe stock-yards and the Pit which had provided themoney for its beauty. The millionaires did notinterfere with the artists at all. They gave theirthousands—and stood aside. The resultwas one of the loveliest things conceivable.Saint-Gaudens and the rest did their work as well asthough the buildings were to endure for centuriesinstead of being burned in a year to save the troubleof pulling down! The World’s Fair alwaysrecalled to me the story of Michael Angelo, who carveda figure in snow which, says the chronicler who sawit, “was superb.”

Saint-Gaudens gave me a cast of his medallion of Bastien-Lepage,and wrote to a friend of mine that “Bastienhad ‘le coeur au metier.’ Sohas Miss Terry, and I will place that saying in theframe that is to replace the present unsatisfactoryone.” He was very fastidious about thisframe, and took such a lot of trouble to get it right.It must have been very irritating to Saint-Gaudenswhen he fell a victim to that extraordinary officialpuritanism which sometimes exercises a petty censorshipover works of art in America. The medal that hemade for the World’s Fair was rejected at Washingtonbecause it had on it a beautiful little nude figureof a boy holding an olive branch, emblematical ofyoung America. I think a commonplace wreath andsome lettering were substituted.

Saint-Gaudens did the fine bas-relief of Robert LouisStevenson which was chosen for the monument in St.Gile’s Cathedral, Edinburgh. He gave mydaughter a medallion cast from this, because he knewthat she was a great lover of Stevenson. Thebas-relief was dedicated to his friend Joe Evans.I knew Saint-Gaudens first through Joe Evans, an artistwho, while he lived, was to me and to my daughterthe dearest of all in America. His characterwas so fine and noble—his nature so perfect.Many were the birthday cards he did for me, originalin design, beautiful in execution. Whatever hedid he put the best of himself into it. I wroteto my daughter soon after his death:—

“I heard on Saturday that ourdear Joe Evans is dangerously ill. Yesterdaycame the worst news. Joe was not happy, but hewas just heroic, and this world wasn’thalf good enough for him. I keep on gettingletters about him. He seems to have been so gladto die. It was like a child’s funeral,I am told, and all his American friends seemto have been there—Saint-Gaudens, Taber,etc. A poem about the dear fellow byMr. Gilder has one very good line in which he saysthe grave ‘might snatch a brightness from hispresence there.’ I thought that wasvery happy, the love of light and gladness being themost remarkable thing about him, the dear sad Joe.”

Robert Taber, dear, and rather sad too, was a greatfriend of Joe’s. They both came to me firstin the shape of a little book in which was inscribed,“Never anything can be amiss when simplenessand duty tender it.” “Upon this hintI spake,” the book began. It was all thework of a few boys and girls who from the galleryof the Star Theater, New York, had watched Irving’sproductions and learned to love him and me. JoeEvans had done a lovely picture by way of frontispieceof a group of eager heads hanging over the gallery’sedge, his own and Taber’s among them. EventuallyTaber came to England and acted with Henry Irving in“Peter the Great” and other plays.

Like his friend Joe, he too was heroic. His healthwas bad and his life none too happy—buthe struggled on. His career was cut short byconsumption, and he died in the Adirondacks in 1904.

I cannot speak of all my friends in America, or anywhere,for the matter of that, individually.My personal friends are so many, and they are allwonderful—wonderfully staunch to me!I have “tried” them so, and they havenever given me up as a bad job.

My first friends of all in America were Mr. Bayard,afterwards the American Ambassador in London, andhis sister, Mrs. Benoni Lockwood, her husband andtheir children. Now after all these years theyare still my friends, and I can hope for none betterto the end.

William Winter, poet, critic and exquisite man, wasone of the first to write of Henry with whole-heartedappreciation. But all the criticism in America,favorable and unfavorable, surprised us by the scholarlyknowledge it displayed. In Chicago the noticeswere worthy of the Temps or the Journaldes Debats. There was no attempt to forcethe personality of the writer into the foregroundnor to write a style that should attract attentionto the critic and leave the thing criticized to takecare of itself. William Winter, and, of late years,Allan Dale, have had their personalities associatedwith their criticisms, but they are exceptions.Curiously enough the art of acting appears to boremost dramatic critics, the very people who might beexpected to be interested in it. The Americancritics, however, at the time of our early visits,were keenly interested, and showed it by their observationof many points which our English critics had passedover. For instance, writing of “Much Adoabout Nothing,” one of the Americans said ofHenry in the Church Scene that “something ofhim as a subtle interpreter of doubtful situationswas exquisitely shown in the early part of this finescene by his suspicion of Don John—feltby him alone, and expressed only by a quick covertlook, but a look so full of intelligence as to proclaimhim a sharer in the secret with his audience.”

“Wherein does the superiority lie?” wroteanother critic in comparing our productions with thosewhich had been seen in America up to 1884. “Notin the amount of money expended, but in the amountof brains;—in the artistic intelligenceand careful and earnest pains with which every detailis studied and worked out. Nor is there any reasonwhy Mr. Irving or any other foreigner should havea monopoly of either intelligence or pains. Theyare common property, and one man’s money canbuy them as well as another’s. The defectin the American manager’s policy heretoforehas been that he has squandered his money upon highsalaries for a few of his actors and costly, becauseunintelligent, expenditure for mere dazzle and show.”

William Winter soon became a great personal friendof ours, and visited us in England. He was oneof the few sad people I met in America.He could have sat upon the ground and told “sadstories of the deaths of kings” with the best.He was very familiar with the poetry of the immediatepast—Cowper, Coleridge, Gray, Wordsworth,Shelley, Keats, and the rest. He likedus, so everything we did was right to him. Hecould not help being guided entirely by his feelings.If he disliked a thing, he had no use for it.Some men can say, “I hate this play, but ofits kind it is admirable.” Willie Wintercould never take that unemotional point of view.In England he loved going to see graveyards, and knewwhere every poet was buried.

His children came to stay with me in London.When we were all coming home from the theater onenight after “Faust” (the year must havebeen 1886) I said to little Willie:

“Well, what do you think of the play?”

“Oh my!” said he, “it takes thecake.”

“Takes the cake!” said his littlesister scornfully, “it takes the ice-cream!”

“Won’t you give me a kiss?” saidHenry to the same young miss one night. “No,I won’t with all that blue stuff on yourface.” (He was made up for Mephistopheles.)Then, after a pause, “But why—whydon’t you take it!” She was onlyfive years old at the time!

I love the American papers, especially the Sundayones, although they do weigh nearly half a ton!As for the interviewers, I never cease to marvel attheir cleverness. I tell them nothing, and thenext day I read their “story” and findthat I have said the most brilliant things! Thefollowing delightful “skit” on one of theseinterviews suggested itself to my clever friend MissAimee Lowther:—

WHAT CONSTITUTES CHARM

AN ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEW WITH MISS ELLEN TERRY

“Yes, I know that I am very charming,”said Miss Ellen Terry, “a perfectly delightfulcreature, a Queen of Hearts, a regular witch!”she added thoughtfully, at the same time projectinga pip of the orange she was chewing, with inimitablegrace and accurate aim into

THE REPORTER’S EYE.

“You know, at all events, that you have charm?”I said.

“What do you think, you idiot! I exerciseabsolute power over my audiences—I castover them an irresistible spell—I do withthem what I will.... I am omnipotent, enthralling—andno wonder!”

I looked at her across the table, wondering at somuch simple modesty.

“But feeling your power, you must often be temptedto experiment with it,” I ventured.

“Yes, now and then I am,” replied MissTerry. “Once, I remember, when I was toappear as Ophelia, on making my entrance and seeingthe audience waiting breathlessly—as theyalways do—for what I was going to do next,I said to myself, ’You silly fools, you shallhave a treat to-night—I will give you somethingyou will appreciate more than Shakespeare!’Hastily slipping on a

FALSE NOSE

which I always carry in my pocket, I struck an attitude,and then turned

A SOMERSAULT.

“Ah! the applause, the delirious, intoxicatingapplause! That night I felt my power, that nightI knew that I had wished I could have held them indefinitely!But I am only one of several gifted beings on thestage who are blessed with this mysterious quality.Dan Leno, Herbert Campbell, and Little Tich all haveit. Dan Leno, in particular, rivets the attentionof his audience by his entrancing by-play, even whenhe doesn’t speak. And yet it is

NOT HIS BEAUTY

precisely that does it.”

At that moment Miss Terry’s little grandchild,who was playing about the room,

BEGAN TO HOWL

most dismally.

“Here is a little maid who was a charmer fromher cradle,” said the delightful actress, pickingup the child and

PLAYFULLY TOSSING

it out of the third-floor window. Seeing me lookrelieved, though somewhat surprised, she said merrily:“I have plenty more of them at home, and theyare

ALL CHARMING,

every one of them! If you want to be charmingyou must be natural—I always am. Evenin my cradle I was

QUITE NATURAL.

And now, please go. Your conversation bores meinexpressibly, and your countenance, which is at oncevacuous and singularly plain, disagrees with me thoroughly.Go! or I shall

BE SICK!”

So saying the great actress gave me a

VIGOROUS KICK

which landed me outside her room, considerably shaken,and entirely under the spell of her matchless charm.

* * * * *

For “quite a while” during the first tourI stayed in Washington with my friend Miss Olive Seward,and all the servants of that delightful householdwere colored. This was my first introduction tothe negroes, whose presence more than anything elsein the country, makes America seem foreign to Europeaneyes. They are more sharply divided into highand low types than white people, and are not in theleast alike in their types. It is safe to callany colored man “George.” They alllove it, perhaps because of George Washington, andmost of them are really named George. I nevermet such perfect service as they can give. Someof them are delightful. The beautiful, full voiceof the “darkey” is so attractive, so soothing,and they are so deft and gentle. Some of thewomen are beautiful, and all the young appeared tome to be well-formed. As for the babies!I washed two or three little piccaninnies when I wasin the South, and the way they rolled their gorgeouseyes at me was “too cute,” which meansin British-English “fascinating.”

At the Washington house, the servants danced a cake-walkfor me—the colored cook, a magnificenttype, who “took the cake,” saying, “thatwas because I chose a good handsome boy to dance with,Missie.”

They sang too. Their voices were beautiful—withsuch illimitable power, yet as sweet as treacle.

The little page-boy had a pet of a wooly head.Henry once gave him a tip—“fee,”as they call it in America—and said:“There, that’s for a new wig when thisone is worn out,” gently pulling the astrakhan-likehair. The tip would have bought him many wigs,I think!

“Why, Uncle Tom, how your face shines to-night!”said my hostess to one of the very old servants.

“Yes, Missie, glycerine and rose-water, Missie!”

He had taken some from her dressing-table to shineup his face in honor of me! A shiny complexionis considered to be a great beauty among the negroes!The dear old man! He was very bent and very old;and looked like one of the logs that he used to bringin for the fire—a log from some hoary,lichened tree whose life was long since past.He would produce a pin from his head when you wantedone; he had them stuck in his pad of white wooly hair:“Always handy then, Missie,” he would say.

“Ask them to sing ‘Sweet Violets,’Uncle Tom.”

He was acting as a sort of master of the ceremoniesat the entertainment the servants were giving me.

“Don’t think they know dat, Miss Olly.”

“Why, I heard them singing it the other night!”And she hummed the tune.

“Oh, dat was ‘Sweet Vio-letts,’Miss Olly!”

Washington was the first city I had seen in Americawhere the people did not hurry, and where the sociallife did not seem entirely the work of women.The men asserted themselves here as something morethan machines in the background untiringly turningout the dollars, while their wives and daughters giveluncheons and teas at which only women are present.

Beautifully as the women dress, they talk very littleabout clothes. I was much struck by their culture—bythe evidences that they had read far more and developeda more fastidious taste than most young Englishwomen.Yet it is all mixed up with extraordinary naivete.The vivacity, the appearance, at least, of reality,the animation, the energy of American women delightedme. They are very sympathetic, too, in spiteof a certain callousness which comes of regarding everythingin life, even love, as “lots of fun.”I did not think that they, or the men either, hadmuch natural sense of beauty. They admire beautyin a curious way through their intellect. Nearlyevery American girl has a cast of the winged Victoryof the Louvre in her room. She makes it a pointof her education to admire it.

There! I am beginning to generalize—thevery thing I was resolute to avoid. How sillyto generalize about a country which embraces suchextremes of climate as the sharp winters of Bostonand New York and the warm winds of Florida which blowthrough palms and orange groves!

XII

SOME LIKES AND DISLIKES

It is only human to make comparisons between Americanand English institutions, although they are likelyto turn out as odious as the proverb says! Thefirst institution in America that distressed me wasthe steam heat. It is far more manageable nowthan it was both in hotels and theaters, because thereare more individual heaters. But how I sufferedfrom it at first I cannot describe! I used tofeel dreadfully ill, and when we could not turn theheat off at the theater, the plays always went badly.My voice was affected too. At Toledo once, itnearly went altogether. Then the next night,after a good fight for it, we got the theater cool,and the difference that it made to the play was extraordinary.I was in my best form, feeling well and jolly!

No wonder the Americans drink ice-water and wear verythin clothes indoors. Their rooms are hotterthan ours ever are, even in the height of the summer—whenwe have a summer! But no wonder, either, thatAmericans in England shiver at our cold, draughty rooms.They are brought up in hot-houses.

If I did not like steam heat, I loved the ice whichis such a feature at American meals. Everythingis served on ice, and the ice-water, however perniciousthe European may consider it as a drink, looks charmingand cool in the hot rooms.

I liked the traveling; but then we traveled in a veryprincely fashion. The Lyceum company and baggageoccupied eight cars, and Henry’s private parlorcar was lovely. The only thing that we found wasbetter understood in England, so far as railway travelingis concerned, was privacy. You may havea private car in America, but all the conductorson the train, and there is one to each car, can walkthrough it. So can any official, baggage manor newsboy who has the mind!

The “parlor car” in America is more luxuriousthan our first class, but you travel in it (if youhave no “private” car) with thirty otherpeople.

“What do you want to be private for?”asked an American, and you don’t know how toanswer, for you find that with them that privacy meansconcealment. For this reason, I believe, theydon’t have hedges or walls round their estatesand gardens. “Why should we? We havenothing to hide!”

In the cars, as in the rooms at one’s hotel,the “cuspidor” is always with you as athing of beauty! When I first went to Americathe “Ladies’ Entrance” to the hotelwas really necessary, because the ordinary entrancewas impassable! Since then very severe laws againstspitting in public places have been passed, and thereis a great improvement. But the habit,I suppose due to the dryness of the climate, or tothe very strong cigars smoked, or to chronic catarrh,or to a feeling of independence—“Thisis a free country and I can spit if I choose!”—remainssufficiently disgusting to a stranger visiting thecountry.

The American voice is the one thing in the countrythat I find unbearable; yet the truly terrible varietyonly exists in one State, and is not widely distributed.I suppose it is its very assertiveness that makesone forget the very sweet voices that also exist inAmerica. The Southern voice is very low in toneand soothing, like the “darkey” voice.It is as different from Yankee as the Yorkshire burris from the co*ckney accent.

This question of accent is a very funny one.I had not been in America long when a friend saidto me:

“We like your voice. You have so littleEnglish accent!”

This struck me as rather cool. Surely Englishshould be spoken with an English accent, notwith a French, German, or double-dutch one! ThenI found that what they meant by an English accentwas an English affectation of speech—adrawl with a tendency to “aw” and “ah”everything. They thought that every one in Englandwho did not miss out aspirates where they should be,and put them in where they should not be, talked of“the rivah,” “ma brothar,”and so on. Their conclusion was, after all, quiteas well founded as ours about their accent.The American intonation, with its freedom from violentemphasis, is, I think, rather pretty when the qualityof the voice is sweet.

Of course the Americans would have their jokes aboutHenry’s method of speech. Ristori followedus once in New York, and a newspaper man said he wasnot sure whether she or Mr. Irving was the more difficultfor an American to understand.

“He pronounces the English tongue as it is pronouncedby no other man, woman or child,” wrote thecritic, and proceeded to give a phonetically spelledversion of Irving’s delivery of Shylock’sspeech of Antonio.

“Wa thane, ett no eperes
Ah! um! yo ned m’clp
Ough! ough! Gaw too thane!Ha! um!
Yo com’n say
Ah! Shilok, um! ouch!we wode hev moanies!”

I wonder if the clever American reporter stopped tothink how his delivery of the same speech wouldlook in print! As for the ejacul*tions, the interjectionsand grunts with which Henry interlarded the text,they often helped to reveal the meaning of Shakespeareto his audience—a meaning which many aperfect elocutionist has left perfectly obscure.The use of “m’” or “me”for “my” has often been hurled in my faceas a reproach, but I never contracted “my”without good reason. I had a line in Olivia whichI began by delivering as—

“My sorrows and my shameare my own.”

Then I saw that the “mys” sounded ridiculous,and abbreviated the two first ones into “me’s.”

There were of course people ready to say that theAmericans did not like Henry Irving as an actor, andthat they only accepted him as a manager—thathe triumphed in New York as he had done in London,through his lavish spectacular effects. Thisis all moonshine. Henry made his first appearancein “The Bells,” his second in “CharlesI.,” his third in “Louis XI.”By that time he had conquered, and without the aidof anything at all notable in the mounting of theplays. It was not until we did “The Merchantof Venice” that he gave the Americans anythingof a “production.”

My first appearance in America in Shakespeare wasas Portia, and I could not help feeling pleased bymy success. A few weeks later I played Opheliaat Philadelphia. It is in Shakespeare that I havebeen best liked in America, and I consider that Beatricewas the part about which they were most enthusiastic.

During our first tour we visited in succession NewYork, Philadelphia, Boston, Baltimore, Brooklyn, Chicago,Cincinnati, St. Louis, Detroit, and Toronto.To most of these places we paid return visits.

“To what do you attribute your success, Mr.Irving?”

“To my acting,” was the simple reply.

We never had poor houses except in Baltimore and St.Louis. Our journey to Baltimore was made in ablizzard. They were clearing the snow beforeus all the way from New Jersey, and we took forty-twohours to reach Baltimore! The bells of trainsbefore us and behind us sounded very alarming.We opened in Baltimore on Christmas day. The audiencewas wretchedly small, but the poor things who werethere had left their warm firesides to drive or trampthrough the slush of melting snow, and each one whomanaged to reach the theater was worth a hundred onan ordinary night.

At the hotel I put up holly and mistletoe, and producedfrom my trunks a real Christmas pudding that my motherhad made. We had it for supper, and it was verygood.

It never does to repeat an experiment. Next yearat Pittsburg my little son Teddy brought me out anotherpudding from England. For once we were in anuncomfortable hotel, and the Christmas dinner was deplorable.It began with burned hare soup.

“It seems to me,” said Henry, “thatwe aren’t going to get anything to eat, butwe’ll make up for it by drinking!”

He had brought his own wine out with him from England,and the company took him at his word and didmake up for it!

“Never mind!” I said, as the soup wasfollowed by worse and worse. “There’smy pudding!”

It came on blazing, and looked superb. Henrytasted a mouthful.

“Very odd,” he said, “but I thinkthis is a camphor pudding.”

He said it so politely, as if he might easily be mistaken!

My maid in England had packed the pudding with myfurs! It simply reeked of camphor.

So we had to dine on Henry’s wine and L.F.Austin’s wit. This dear, brilliant man,now dead, acted for many years as Henry’s secretary,and one of his gifts was the happy knack of hittingoff people’s peculiarities in rhyme. Thisdreadful Christmas dinner at Pittsburg was enlivenedby a collection of such rhymes, which Mr. Austin calleda “Lyceum Christmas Play.”

Every one roared with laughter until it came to theverse of which he was the victim, when suddenly hefound the fun rather labored!

The first verse was spoken by Loveday, who announcesthat the “Governor” has a new play whichis “Wonderful!” a great word ofLoveday’s.

George Alexander replies:

“But I say, Loveday,have I got a part in it,
That I can wear a cloak inand look smart in it?
Not that I care a fig forgaudy show, dear boy—
But juveniles must lookwell, don’t you know, dear boy.
And shall I lordly hall andtuns of claret own?
And may I murmur love in dulcetbaritone?
Tell me at least, this simplefact of it—
Can I beat Terriss hollowin one act of it?[1]
Pooh for Wenman’s bass![2]Why should he make a boast of it?”

[Footnote 1: Alexander had just succeeded Terrissas our leading young man.]

[Footnote 2: Wenman had a rolling bass voiceof which he was very proud. He was a valuableactor, yet somehow never interesting. Young NormanForbes-Robertson played Sir Andrew Ague Cheak withus on our second American tour.]

Norman Forbes:

“If he has a voice, I have gotthe ghost of it! When I pitch it low, youmay say how weak it is, When I pitch it high,heavens! what a squeak it is! But I nevermind; for what does it signify? See my gracefulhands, they’re the things that dignify; Allthe rest is froth, and egotism’s dizziness—Have I not played with Phelps? (To Wenman)I’ll teach you all the business!”

T. Mead:

(Of whom much has already been written in these pages.)

“What’s this abouta voice? Surely you forget it, or
Wilfully conceal that Ihave no competitor!
I do not know the play, oreven what the title is,
But safe to make success acharnel-house recital is!
So please to bear in mind,if I am not to fail in it,
That Hamlet’s father’sghost must rob the Lyons Mail in it!
No! that’s not correct!But you may spare your charity—
A good sepulchral groan’sthe thing for popularity!”

H. Howe:

(The “agricultural” actor, as Henry calledhim.)

“Boys, take my advice,the stage is not the question,
But whether at three scoreyou’ll all have my digestion.
Why yearn for plays, to poseas Brutuses or Catos in,
When you may get a gardento grow the best potatoes in?
You see that at my age byNature’s shocks unharmed I am!
Tho’ if I sneeze butthrice, good heavens, how alarmed I am!
But act your parts like men,and tho’ you all great sinners are,
You’re sure to act likemen wherever Irving’s dinners are!”

J.H. Allen (our prompter):

“Whatever be the play, Imust have a hand in it, For won’t I teachthe supers how to stalk and stand in it? Tho’that blessed Shakespeare never gives a ray to them,I explain the text, and then it’sclear as day to them![1] Plain as A B C is a plothistorical, When I overhaul allusions allegorical!Shakespeare’s not so bad; he’d havemore pounds and pence in him, If actors stoodaside, and let me show the sense in him!”

[Footnote 1: Once when Allen was rehearsing thesupers in the Church Scene in “Much Ado aboutNothing,” we overheard him show the sense inShakespeare like this:

“This ’Ero let me tell you is a perfectlady, a nice, innercent young thing, and when thefeller she’s engaged to calls ’er an ’approvedwanton,’ you naturally claps yer ’andsto yer swords. A wanton is a kind of—well,you know she ain’t what she ought to be!”

Allen would then proceed to read the part of Claudio:

“... not to knitmy soul to an approved wanton.”

Seven or eight times the supers clapped their “’andsto their swords” without giving Allen satisfaction.

“No, no, no, that’s not a bit like it,not a bit! If any of your sisters was ’ereand you ’eard me call ‘er a ——,would yer stand gapin’ at me as if this wasa bloomin’ tea party!”]

Louis Austin’s little “Lyceum Play”was presented to me with a silver water-jug, a souvenirfrom the company, and ended up with the followingpretty lines spoken by Katie Brown, a clever littlegirl who played all the small pages’ parts atthis time:

“Although I’mbut a little page,
Who waits forPortia’s kind behest,
Mine is the part upon thisstage
To tell the plotyou have not guessed.

“Dear lady, oft in Belmont’shall,
Whose mistressis so sweet and fair,
Your humble slaves would gladlyfall
Upon their knees,and praise you there.

“To offer you this littlegift,
Dear Portia, nowwe crave your leave,
And let it have the graceto lift
Our hearts toyours this Christmas eve.

“And so we pray thatyou may live
Thro’ many,many, happy years,
And feel what you so oftengive—
The joy that isakin to tears!”

How nice of Louis Austin! It quite made up formy mortification over the camphor pudding!

Pittsburg has been called “hell with the lidoff,” and other insulting names. I havealways thought it beautiful, especially at night whenits furnaces make it look like a city of flame.The lovely park that the city has made on the heightsthat surround it is a lesson to Birmingham, Sheffield,and our other black towns. George Alexander saidthat Pittsburg reminded him of his native town ofSheffield. “Had he said Birmingham, nowinstead of Sheffield,” wrote a Pittsburg newspaperman, “he would have touched our tender spotexactly. As it is, we can be as cheerful as theChicago man was who boasted that his sweetheart ’camepretty near calling him “honey,"’ whenin fact she had called him ’Old Beeswax’!”

When I played Ophelia for the first time in Chicago,I played the part better than I had ever played itbefore, and I don’t believe I ever played itso well again. Why, it is almost impossibleto say. I had heard a good deal of the crimeof Chicago, that the people were a rough, murderous,sand-bagging crew. I ran on to the stage in themad scene, and never have I felt such sympathy!This frail wraith, this poor demented thing, couldhold them in the hollow of her hand.... It wassplendid! “How long can I hold them?”I thought: “For ever!” Then I laughed.That was the best Ophelia laugh of my life—mylife that is such a perfect kaleidoscope with thepeople and the places turning round and round.

At the risk of being accused of indiscriminate flatteryI must say that I liked all the American cities.Every one of them has a joke at the expense of theothers. They talk in New York of a man who lostboth his sons—“One died and the otherwent to live in Philadelphia.” Pittsburgis the subject of endless criticism, and Chicago is“the limit.” To me, indeed, it seemed“the limit”—of the industry,energy, and enterprise of man. In 1812 this vastcity was only a frontier post—Fort Dearborn.In 1871 the town that first rose on these great plainswas burned to the ground. The growth of the presentChicago began when I was a grown woman. I havecelebrated my jubilee. Chicago will not do thatfor another fifteen years!

I never visited the stock-yards. Somehow I hadno curiosity to see a live pig turned in fifteen minutesinto ham, sausages, hair-oil, and the binding fora Bible! I had some dread of being made sad bythe spectacle of so much slaughter—of hatingthe Chicago of the “abattoir” as much asI had loved the Chicago of the Lake with the whitebuildings of the World’s Fair shining on it,the Chicago built on piles in splendid isolation inthe middle of the prairie, the Chicago of MarshallField’s beautiful palace of a store, the Chicagoof my dear friends, the Chicago of my son’sfirst appearance on the stage! Was it not a Chicagoman who wrote of my boy, tending the roses in thestage garden in “Eugene Aram,” that hewas “a most beautiful lad”!

“His eyes are full of sparkle,his smile is a ripple over his face, and hislaugh is as cherry and natural as a bird’s song....This Joey is Miss Ellen Terry’s son, andthe apple of her eye. On this Wednesdaynight, January 14, 1885, he spoke his first lines uponthe stage. His mother has high hopes of thischild’s dramatic future. He has theinstinct and the soul of art in him. Already thetheater is his home. His postures and hisplayfulness with the gardener, his natural andgraceful movement, had been the subject of muchdrilling, of study and practice. He acquittedhimself beautifully and received the wise congratulationsof his mother, of Mr. Irving, and of the company.”

That is the nicest newspaper notice I have ever read!

At Chicago I made my first speech. The HaverleyTheater, at which we first appeared in 1884, was alteredand rechristened the “Columbia” in 1885.I was called upon for a speech after the special performancein honor of the occasion, consisting of scenes from“Charles I.,” “Louis XI,”“The Merchant of Venice,” and “TheBells,” had come to an end. I think itmust be the shortest speech on record:

“Ladies and Gentlemen,I have been asked to christen your beautiful
theater. ‘HailColumbia!’”

When we acted in Brooklyn we used to stay in New Yorkand drive over that wonderful bridge every night.There were no trolley cars on it then. I shallnever forget how it looked in winter, with the snowand ice on it—a gigantic trellis of dazzlingwhite, as incredible as a dream. The old stonebridges were works of art. This bridge,woven of iron and steel for a length of over 500 yards,and hung high in the air over the water so that greatships can pass beneath it, is the work of science.It looks as if it had been built by some power, notby men at all.

It was during our week at Brooklyn in 1885 that Henrywas ill, too ill to act for four nights. Alexanderplayed Benedick, and got through it wonderfully well.Then old Mr. Mead did (did is the word) Shylock.There was no intention behind his words or what hedid.

I had such a funny batch of letters on my birthdaythat year. “Dear, sweet Miss Terry, etc.,etc. Will you give me a piano?"!! etc.,etc. Another: “Dear Ellen.Come to Jesus. Mary.” Another, a lovelyletter of thanks from a poor woman in the most ghastlydistress, and lastly an offer of a two years’engagement in America. There was a simple comingin for one woman acting at Brooklyn on her birthday!

Brooklyn is as sure a laugh in New York as the mother-in-lawin a London music hall. “All cities beginby being lonesome,” a comedian explained, “andBrooklyn has never gotten over it.”

My only complaint against Brooklyn was that they wouldnot take Fussie in at the hotel there. Fussie,during these early American tours, was still mydog. Later on he became Henry’s. Hehad his affections alienated by a course of chops,tomatoes, strawberries, “ladies’ fingers”soaked in champagne, and a beautiful fur rug of hisvery own presented by the Baroness Burdett-Coutts!

How did I come by Fussie? I went to Newmarketwith Rosa Corder, whom Whistler painted. Shewas one of those plain-beautiful women who are sofar more attractive than some of the pretty ones.She had wonderful hair—like a fair, paleveil, a white, waxen face, and a very good figure;and she wore very odd clothes. She had a studioin Southampton Row, and another at Newmarket whereshe went to paint horses. I went to Cambridgeonce and drove back with her across the heath to herstudio.

“How wonderfully different are the expressionson terriers’ faces,” I said to her, lookingat a painting of hers of a fox-terrier pup. “That’sthe only sort of dog I should like to have.”

“That one belonged to Fred Archer,” RosaCorder said. “I daresay he could get youone like it.”

We went out to find Archer. Curiously enoughI had known the famous jockey at Harpenden when hewas a little boy, and I believe used to come roundwith vegetables.

“I’ll send you a dog, Miss Terry, thatwon’t be any trouble. He’s got avery good head, a first-rate tail, stuck in splendidly,but his legs are too long. He’d followyou to America!”

Prophetic words! On one of our departures forAmerica, Fussie was left behind by mistake at Southampton.He could not get across the Atlantic, but he did thenext best thing. He found his way back from thereto his own theater in the Strand, London!

Fred Archer sent him originally to the stage-doorat the Lyceum. The man who brought him out fromthere to my house in Earl’s Court said:

“I’m afraid he gives tongue, Miss.He don’t like music, anyway. There wasa band at the bottom of your road, and he started hollering.”

We were at luncheon when Fussie made his debut intothe family circle, and I very quickly saw his stomachwas his fault. He had a great dislike to “CharlesI.”; we could never make out why. Perhapsit was because Henry wore armor in one act—andFussie may have barked his shins against it.Perhaps it was the firing off of the guns; but moreprobably it was because the play once got him intotrouble. As a rule Fussie had the most wonderfulsense of the stage, and at rehearsal would skirt theedge of it, but never cross it. But at Brooklynone night when we were playing “Charles I.”—thelast act, and that most pathetic part of it whereCharles is taking a last farewell of his wife andchildren—Fussie, perhaps excited by hisrun over the bridge from New York, suddenly boundedon to the stage! The good children who were playingPrincess Mary and Prince Henry didn’t even smile;the audience remained solemn, but Henry and I nearlywent into hysterics. Fussie knew directly thathe had done wrong. He lay down on his stomach,then rolled over on his back, whimpering an apology—whilecarpenters kept on whistling and calling to him fromthe wings. The children took him up to the windowat the back of the scene, and he stayed there coweringbetween them until the end of the play.

America seems to have been always fatal to Fussie.Another time when Henry and I were playing in somecharity performance in which John Drew and Maude Adamswere also acting, he disgraced himself again.Henry having “done his bit” and put onhat and coat to leave the theater, Fussie thoughtthe end of the performance must have come; the stagehad no further sanctity for him, and he ran acrossit to the stage door barking! John Drew and MaudeAdams were playing “A Pair of Lunatics.”Maude Adams, sitting looking into the fire, did notsee Fussie, but was amazed to hear John Drew departingmadly from the text:

“Is this a dog I seebefore me,
His tail towards my hand?
Come, let me clutch thee.”

She began to think that he had really gone mad!

When Fussie first came, Charlie was still alive, andI have often gone into Henry’s dressing-roomand seen the two dogs curled up in both the availablechairs, Henry standing while he made up, ratherthan disturb them!

When Charlie died, Fussie had Henry’s idolatryall to himself. I have caught them often sittingquietly opposite each other at Grafton Street, justadoring each other! Occasionally Fussie wouldthump his tail on the ground to express his pleasure.

Wherever we went in America the hotel people wantedto get rid of the dog. In the paper they hadit that Miss Terry asserted that Fussie was a littleterrier, while the hotel people regarded him as a pointer,and funny caricatures were drawn of a very big mewith a very tiny dog, and a very tiny me with a dogthe size of an elephant! Henry often walked straightout of an hotel where an objection was made to Fussie.If he wanted to stay, he had recourse to strategy.At Detroit the manager of the hotel said that dogswere against the rules. Being very tired Henrylet Fussie go to the stables for the night, and sentWalter to look after him. The next morning hesent for the manager.

“Yours is a very old-fashioned hotel, isn’tit?”

“Yes, sir, very old and ancient.”

“Got a good chef? I didn’t thinkmuch of the supper last night; but still—thebeds are comfortable enough—I am afraidyou don’t like animals?”

“Yes, sir, in their proper place.”

“It’s a pity,” said Henry meditatively,“because you happen to be overrun by rats!”

“Sir, you must have made a mistake. Sucha thing couldn’t—”

“Well, I couldn’t pass another night herewithout my dog,” Henry interrupted. “Butthere are, I suppose, other hotels?”

“If it will be any comfort to you to have yourdog with you, sir, do by all means, but I assure youthat he’ll catch no rat here.”

“I’ll be on the safe side,” saidHenry calmly.

And so it was settled. That very night Fussiesupped off, not rats, but terrapin and other delicaciesin Henry’s private sitting-room.

It was the 1888 tour, the great blizzard year, thatFussie was left behind by mistake at Southampton.He jumped out at the station just before Southampton,where they stop to collect tickets. After thislong separation, Henry naturally thought that thedog would go nearly mad with joy when he saw him again.He described to me the meeting in a letter.

“My dear Fussie gave me a terribleshock on Sunday night. When we got in, J——,Hatton, and I dined at the Cafe Royal. I toldWalter to bring Fussie there. He did, andFussie burst into the room while the waiter wascutting some mutton, when, what d’ye think—onebound at me—another instantaneous boundat the mutton, and from the mutton nothing wouldget him until he’d got his plateful.

“Oh, what a surpriseit was indeed! He never now will leave my
side, my legs, or mypresence, but I cannot but think, alas, of
that seductive pieceof mutton!”

Poor Fussie! He met his death through the sameweakness. It was at Manchester, I think.A carpenter had thrown down his coat with a ham sandwichin the pocket, over an open trap on the stage.Fussie, nosing and nudging after the sandwich, fellthrough and was killed instantly. When they broughtup the dog after the performance, every man took hishat off.... Henry was not told until the end ofthe play.

He took it so very quietly that I was frightened,and said to his son Laurence who was on that tour:

“Do let’s go to his hotel and see howhe is.”

We drove there and found him sitting eating his supperwith the poor dead Fussie, who would never eat supperany more, curled up in his rug on the sofa. Henrywas talking to the dog exactly as if it were alive.The next day he took Fussie back in the train withhim to London, covered with a coat. He is buriedin the dogs’ cemetery, Hyde Park.

His death made an enormous difference to Henry.Fussie was his constant companion. When he died,Henry was really alone. He never spoke of whathe felt about it, but it was easy to know.

We used to get hints how to get this and that fromwatching Fussie! His look, his way of walking!He sang, whispered eloquently and low—thenbarked suddenly and whispered again! Such a lessonin the law of contrasts!

The first time that Henry went to the Lyceum afterFussie’s death, every one was anxious and distressed,knowing how he would miss the dog in his dressing-room.Then an odd thing happened. The wardrobe cat,who had never been near the room in Fussie’slifetime, came down and sat on Fussie’s cushion!No one knew how the “Governor” would takeit. But when Walter was sent out to buy somemeat for it, we saw that Henry was not going to resentit! From that night onwards the cat always satnight after night in the same place, and Henry likedits companionship. In 1902, when he left thetheater for good, he wrote to me:

“The place isnow given up to the rats—all light cut off,and only
Barry[1] and a foremanleft. Everything of mine I’ve moved away,
including the Cat!”

[Footnote 1: The stage-door keeper.]

I have never been to America yet without going toNiagara. The first time I saw the great fallsI thought it all more wonderful than beautiful.I got away by myself from my party, and looked andlooked at it, and I listened—and at lastit became dreadful and I was frightened atit. I wouldn’t go alone again, for I feltqueer and wanted to follow the great flow of it.But at twelve o’clock, with the “sun uponthe topmost height of the day’s journey,”most of Nature’s sights appear to me to be attheir plainest. In the evening, when the shadowsgrow long and all hard lines are blurred, how soft,how different, everything is! It was noontide,that garish cruel time of day, when I first came insight of the falls. I’m glad I went againin other lights—but one should live bythe side of all this greatness to learn to love it.Only once did I catch Niagara in beauty, withpits of color in its waters, no one color definite—allwas wonderment, allurement, fascination. Thelast time I was there it was wonderful, butnot beautiful any more. The merely stupendous,the merely marvelous, have always repelled me.I cannot realize, and become terribly weakand doddering. No terrific scene gives me pleasure.The great canons give me unrest, just as the longlow lines of my Sussex marshland near Winchelsea giveme rest.

At Niagara William Terriss slipped and nearly losthis life. At night when he appeared as Bassanio,he shrugged his shoulders, lowered his eyelids, andsaid to me—

“Nearly gone, dear,”—he wouldcall everybody “dear”—“ButBill’s luck! Tempus fugit!”

What tempus had to do with it, I don’t quiteknow!

When we were first in Canada I tobogganed at Rosedale.I should say it was like flying! The start!Amazing! “Farewell to this world,”I thought, as I felt my breath go. Then I shutmy mouth, opened my eyes, and found myself at thebottom of the hill in a jiffy—“overhill, over dale, through bush, through briar!”I rolled right out of the toboggan when we stopped.A very nice Canadian man was my escort, and he helpedme up the hill afterwards. I didn’t likethat part of the affair quite so much.

Henry Irving would not come, much to my disappointment.He said that quick motion through the air always gavehim the ear-ache. He had to give up swimming(his old Cornish Aunt Penberthy told me he delightedin swimming as a boy) just because it gave him mostviolent pains in the ear.

Philadelphia, as I first knew it, was the most old-worldplace I saw in America, except perhaps Salem.Its redbrick side-walks, the trees in the streets,the low houses with their white marble cuffs and collars,the pretty design of the place, all give it a characterof its own. The people, too, have a characterof their own. They dress, or at least diddress, very quietly. This was the only sign oftheir Quaker origin, except a very fastidious taste—inplays as in other things.

Mrs. Gillespie, the great-grandchild of Benjamin Franklin,was one of my earliest Philadelphia friends—asplendid type of the independent woman, a bit of themartinet, but immensely full of kindness and humor.She had a word to say in all Philadelphian matters.It would be difficult to imagine a greater contrastto Mrs. Gillespie of Philadelphia than Mrs. Fieldsof Boston, that other great American lady whom to knowis a liberal education.

Mrs. Fields reminded me of Lady Tennyson, Mrs. TomTaylor, and Miss Hogarth (Dickens’s sister-in-law)all rolled into one. Her house is full of relicsof the past. There is a portrait of Dickens asa young man with long hair. He had a feminineface in those days, for all its strength. Hardby is a sketch of Keats by Severn, with a lock of thepoet’s hair. Opposite is a head of Thackeray,with a note in his handwriting fastened below.“Good-bye, Mrs. Fields; good-bye, my dear Fields;good-bye to all. I go home.”

Thackeray left Boston abruptly because a sudden desireto see his children had assailed him at Christmastime!

As you sit in Mrs. Field’s spacious room overlookingthe Bay, you realize suddenly that before you evercame into it, Dickens and Thackeray were both here,that this beautiful old lady who so kindly smileson you has smiled on them and on many other great menof letters long since dead. It is here that theyseem most alive. This is the house where theculture of Boston seems no fad to make a joke about,but a rare and delicate reality.

This—and Fen Court, the home of that wonderfulwoman Mrs. Jack Gardiner, who represents the presentworship of beauty in Boston as Mrs. Fields representsits former worship of literary men. Fen Courtis a house of enchantment, a palace, and Mrs. Gardineris like a great princess in it. She has “greatpossessions” indeed, but her best, to my mind,is her most beautiful voice, even though I rememberher garden by moonlight with the fountain playing,her books and her pictures, the Sargent portrait ofherself presiding over one of the most splendid ofthose splendid rooms, where everything great in oldart and new art is represented. What a portraitit is! Some one once said of Sargent that “behindthe individual he finds the real, and behind the real,a whole social order.”

He has painted “Mrs. Jack” in a tight-fittingblack dress with no ornament but her world-famed pearlnecklace round her waist, and on her shoes rubieslike drops of blood. The daring, intellectualface seems to say: “I have possessed everythingthat is worth possession, through the energy and effortand labor of the country in which I was born.”

Mrs. Gardiner represents all the poetry ofthe millionaire.

Mrs. Gardiner’s house filled me with admiration,but if I want rest and peace I just think of the housesof Mrs. James Fields and Oliver Wendell Holmes.He was another personage in Boston life when I firstwent there. Oh, the visits I inflicted on him—yethe always seemed pleased to see me, the cheery, kindman. It was generally winter when I called onhim. At once it was “four feet upon a fender!”Four feet upon a fender was his idea of happiness,he told me, during one of these lengthy visits ofmine to his house in Beacon Street.

He came to see us in “Much Ado about Nothing”and, next day sent me some little volumes of his workwith a lovely inscription on the front page.I miss him very much when I go to Boston now.

In New York, how much I miss Mrs. Beecher I couldnever say. The Beechers were the most wonderfulpair. What an actor he would have made!He read scenes from Shakespeare to Henry and me atluncheon one day. He sat next to his wife, andthey held hands nearly all the while; I thought ofthat time when the great preacher was tried, and allthrough the trial his wife showed the world her faithin his innocence by sitting by his side and holdinghis hand.

He was indeed a great preacher. I have a littlefaded card in my possession now: “Mrs.Henry W. Beecher.” “Will ushers ofPlymouth Church please seat the bearer in the Pastor’spew.” And in the Pastor’s pew I sat,listening to that magnificent bass-viol voice withits persuasive low accent, its torrential scorn!After the sermon I went to the Beechers’ home.Mr. Beecher sat with a saucer of uncut gems by himon the table. He ran his hand through them fromtime to time, held them up to the light, admiringthem and speaking of their beauty and color as eloquentlyas an hour before he had spoken of sin and death andredemption.

He asked me to choose a stone, and I selected an aquamarine,and he had it splendidly mounted for me in Venetianstyle to wear in “The Merchant of Venice.”Once when he was ill, he told me, his wife had somefew score of his jewels set up in lead—akind of small stained-glass window—andhung up opposite his bed. “It did me moregood than the doctor’s visits,” he laughedout!

Mrs. Beecher was very remarkable. She had a wayof lowering her head and looking at you with a strangeintentness—gravely—kindly andquietly. At her husband she looked a world oflove, of faith, of undying devotion. She wasfond of me, although I was told she disliked womengenerally and had been brought up to think all actresseschildren of Satan. Obedience to the iron ruleswhich had always surrounded her had endowed her withextraordinary self-control. She would not allowherself ever to feel heat or cold, and could standany pain or discomfort without a word of complaint.

She told me once that when she and her sister werechildren, a friend had given them some lovely brightblue silk, and as the material was so fine they thoughtthey would have it made up a little more smartly thanwas usual in their somber religious home. In spiteof their father’s hatred of gaudy clothes, theyventured on a little “V” at the neck,hardly showing more than the throat; but still, ina household where blue silk itself was a crime, itwas a bold venture. They put on the dresses forthe first time for five o’clock dinner, stoledownstairs with trepidation, rather late, and tooktheir seats as usual one on each side of their father.He was eating soup and never looked up. The littlesisters were relieved. He was not going to sayanything.

No, he was not going to say anything, but suddenlyhe took a ladleful of the hot soup and dashed it overthe neck of one sister; another ladleful followedquickly on the neck of the other.

“Oh, father, you’ve burned my neck!”

“Oh, father, you’ve spoiled my dress!”

“Oh, father, why did you do that?”

“I thought you might be cold,” said thesevere father significantly—malevolently.

That a woman who had been brought up like this shouldform a friendship with me naturally caused a gooddeal of talk. But what did she care! Sheremained my true friend until her death, and wroteto me constantly when I was in England—suchloving, wise letters, full of charity and simple faith.In 1889, after her husband’s death, I wrote toher and sent my picture, and she replied:

“My darling Nellie,—

“You cannot know how it soothes my extreme heart-lonelinessto receive a token of remembrance, and word of cheerfrom those I have faithfully loved, and who knew andreverenced my husband.... Ellen Terry is verysweet as Ellaline, but dearer far as my Nellie.”

The Daly players were a revelation to me of the pitchof excellence which American acting had reached.My first night at Daly’s was a night of enchantment.I wrote to Mr. Daly and said: “You’vegot a girl in your company who is the most lovely,humorous darling I have ever seen on the stage.”It was Ada Rehan! Now of course I didn’t“discover” her or any rubbish of thatkind; the audience were already mad about her, butI did know her for what she was, even in that brilliant“all-star” company and before she hadplayed in the classics and won enduring fame.The audacious, superb, quaint, Irish creature!Never have I seen such splendid high comedy!Then the charm of her voice—a little likeEthel Barrymore’s when Miss Ethel is speakingvery nicely—her smiles and dimples, andprovocative, inviting coquetterie! HerRosalind, her Country Wife, her Helena, her performancein “The Railroad of Love”! And aboveall, her Katherine in “The Taming of the Shrew”!I can only exclaim, not explain! Directly shecame on I knew how she was going to do the part.She had such shy, demure fun. She understood,like all great comedians, that you must not pretendto be serious so sincerely that no one in the audiencesees through it!

As a woman off the stage Ada Rehan was even more wonderfulthan as a shrew on. She had a touch of dignity,of nobility, of beauty, rather like Eleonora Duse’s.The mouth and the formation of the eye were lovely.Her guiltlessness of make-up off the stage was so attractive!She used to come in to a supper with a lovely shiningface which scorned a powder puff. The only thingone missed was the red hair which seemed such a partof her on the stage.

Here is a dear letter from the dear, written in 1890:

“My dear Miss Terry,—

“Of course the first thing I was to do whenI reached Paris was to write and thank you for yourlovely red feathers. One week is gone. To-dayit rains and I am compelled to stay at home, and atlast I write. I thought you had forgotten meand my feathers long ago. So imagine my delightwhen they came at the very end. I liked it so.It seemed as if I lived all the time in your mind:and they came as a good-bye.

“I saw but little of you, but in that littleI found no change. That was gratifying to me,for I am over-sensitive, and would never trouble youif you had forgotten me. How I shall prize thosefeathers—Henry Irving’s, presentedby Ellen Terry to me for my Rosalind Cap. I shallwear them once and then put them by as treasures.Thank you so much for the pretty words you wrote meabout ‘As You Like It.’ I was hardlyfit on that matinee. The great excitement I wentthrough during the London season almost killed me.I am going to try and rest, but I fear my nerves andheart won’t let me.

“You must try and read between the lines allI feel. I am sure you can if any one ever did,but I cannot put into words my admiration for you—andthat comes from deep down in my heart. Good-bye,with all good wishes for your health and success.

“I remain

“Yours most affectionately,

“ADA REHAN.”

I wish I could just once have played with Ada Rehan.When Mr. Tree could not persuade Mrs. Kendal to comeand play in “The Merry Wives of Windsor”a second time, I hoped that Ada Rehan would come androllick with me as Mrs. Ford—but it wasnot to be.

Mr. Daly himself interested me greatly. He wasan excellent manager, a man in a million. Buthe had no artistic sense. The productions ofShakespeare at Daly’s were really bad from thepictorial point of view. But what pace and “ensemble”he got from his company!

May Irwin was the low comedian who played the servants’parts in Daly’s comedies from the German.I might describe her, except that she was far moregenial, as a kind of female Rutland Barrington.On and off the stage her geniality distinguished herlike a halo. It is a rare quality on the stage,yet without it the comedian has uphill work. Ishould say that May Irwin and J.B. Buckstone(the English actor and manager of the Haymarket Theaterduring the ’sixties) had it equally. GenerousMay Irwin! Lucky those who have her warm friendshipand jolly, kind companionship!

John Drew, the famous son of a famous mother, wasanother Daly player whom I loved. With what loyaltyhe supported Ada Rehan! He never played for hisown hand but for the good of the piece. His mother,Mrs. John Drew, had the same quiet methods as Mrs.Alfred Wigan. Everything that she did told.I saw Mrs. Drew play Mrs. Malaprop, and it was a lessonto people who overact. Her daughter, GeorgieDrew, Ethel Barrymore’s mother, was also a charmingactress. Maurice Barrymore was a brilliantlyclever actor. Little Ethel, as I still call her,though she is a big “star,” is carryingon the family traditions. She ought to play LadyTeazle. She may take it from me that she wouldmake a success in it.

Modjeska, who, though she is a Polish actress, livesin America and is associated with the American stage,made a great impression on me. She was exquisitein many parts, but in none finer than in “AdrienneLecouvreur.” Her last act electrified me.I have never seen it better acted, although I haveseen all the great ones do it since. Her MarieStuart, too, was a beautiful and distinguished performance.Her Juliet had lovely moments, but I did not so muchcare for that, and her broken English interfered withthe verse of Shakespeare. Some years ago I metModjeska and she greeted me so warmly and sweetly,although she was very ill.

During my more recent tours in America Maude Adamsis the actress of whom I have seen most, and “tosee her is to love her!” In “The LittleMinister” and in “Quality Street”I think she is at her best, but above all parts sheherself is most adorable. She is just worshipedin America, and has an extraordinary effect—aneducational effect upon all American girlhood.

I never saw Mary Anderson act. That seems a strangeadmission, but during her wonderful reign at the LyceumTheater, which she rented from Henry Irving, I wasin America, and another time when I might have seenher act I was very ill and ordered abroad. I have,however, had the great pleasure of meeting her, andshe has done me many little kindnesses. Hearingher praises sung on all sides, and her beauties spokenof everywhere, I was particularly struck by her modestevasion of publicity off the stage. Ipersonally only knew her as a most beautiful woman—askind as beautiful—constantly working forher religion—always kind, a gooddaughter, a good wife, a good woman.

She cheered me before I first sailed for America bysaying that her people would like me.

“Since seeing you in Portia and Letitia,”she wrote, “I am convinced you will take Americaby storm.” Certainly she took Englandby storm! But she abandoned her triumphs almostas soon as they were gained. They never madeher happy, she once told me, and I could understandher better than most since I had had success too,and knew that it did not mean happiness. I havea letter from her, written from St. Raphael soon afterher marriage. It is nice to think that she isjust as happy now as she was then—thatshe made no mistake when she left the stage, whereshe had such a brief and brilliant career.

“GRAND HOTEL DE VALESCURE,
“ST. RAPHAEL, FRANCE.

“Dear Miss Terry,—

“I am saying all kinds of fine things aboutyour beautiful work in my book—which willappear shortly; but I cannot remember the name of thesmall part you made so attractive in the ‘LyonsMail.’ It was the first one I had seenyou in, and I wish to write my delightful impressionsof it.

“Will you be so very kind as to tell me thename of your character and the two Mr. Irving actedso wonderfully in that play?

“There is a brilliant blue sea before my windows,with purple mountains as a background and silver-toppedolives and rich green pines in the middle distance.I wish you could drop down upon us in this golden landfor a few days’ holiday from your weary work.

“I would like to tell you what a big darlingmy husband is, and how perfectly happy he makes mylife—but there’s no use trying.

“The last time we met I promised you a photo—hereit is! One of my latest! And won’tyou send me one of yours in private dress? DO!

“Forgive me for troubling you, and believe meyour admirer

“MARY ANDERSON DE NAVARRO.”

Henry and I were so fortunate as to gain the friendshipand approval of Dr. Horace Howard Furness, perhapsthe finest Shakespearean scholar in America, and editorof the “Variorum Shakespeare,” which Henryconsidered the best of all editions—“theone which counts.” It was in Boston, Ithink, that I disgraced myself at one of Dr. Furness’slectures. He was discussing “As You LikeIt” and Rosalind, and proving with much elaborationthat English in Shakespeare’s time was pronouncedlike a broad country dialect, and that Rosalind spokeWarwickshire! A little girl who was sitting inthe row in front of me had lent me her copy of theplay a moment before, and now, absorbed in Dr. Furness’sargument, I forgot the book wasn’t mine and beganscrawling controversial notes in it with my very thickand blotty fountain pen.

“Give me back my book! Give me my book!”screamed the little girl. “How dare youwrite in my book!” She began to cry with rage.

Her mother tried to hush her up: “Don’t,darling. Be quiet! It’s Miss EllenTerry.”

“I don’t care! She’s spoiltmy nice book!”

I am glad to say that when the little girl understood,she forgave me; and the spoilt book is treasured verymuch by a tall Boston young lady of eighteen who hasreplaced the child of seven years ago! Still,it was dreadful of me, and I did feel ashamed at thetime.

I saw “As You Like It” acted in New Yorkonce with every part (except the man who let downthe curtain) played by a woman, and it was extraordinarilywell done. The most remarkable bit of acting wasby Janauschek, who played Jacques. I have neverheard the speech beginning “All the world’sa stage” delivered more finely, not even by Phelps,who was fine in the part.

Mary Shaw’s Rosalind was good, and the Silvius(who played it, now?) was charming.

Unfortunately that one man, poor creature (no wonderhe was nervous!), spoiled the end of the play by failingto ring down the curtain, at which the laughter wasimmoderate! Janauschek used to do a little sketchfrom the German called “Come Here!” whichI afterwards did in England.

In November, 1901, I wrote in my diary: “Philadelphia.—Supperat Henry’s. Jefferson there, sweeter andmore interesting than ever—and younger.”

Dear Joe Jefferson—actor, painter, courteousgentleman, profound student of Shakespeare!When the Bacon-Shakespeare controversy was ragingin America (it really did rage there!) Jeffersonwrote the most delicious doggerel about it. Heridiculed, and his ridicule killed the Bacon enthusiastsall the more dead because it was barbed with erudition.

He said that when I first came into the box to seehim as “Rip” he thought I did not likehim, because I fidgeted and rustled and moved my place,as is my wicked way. “But I’ll gether, and I’ll hold her,” he said to himself.I was held indeed—enthralled.

In manner Jefferson was a little like Norman Forbes-Robertson.Perhaps that was why the two took such a fancy toeach other. When Norman was walking with Jeffersonone day, some one who met them said:

“Your son?”

“No,” said Jefferson, “but I wishhe were! The young man has such good manners!”

Our first American tours were in 1883 and 1884; thethird in 1887-88, the year of the great blizzard.Henry fetched us at half-past ten in the morning!His hotel was near the theater where we were to playat night. He said the weather was stormy, andwe had better make for his hotel while there was time!The German actor Ludwig Barnay was to open in NewYork that night, but the blizzard affected his nervesto such an extent that he did not appear at all, andreturned to Germany directly the weather improved!

Most of the theaters closed for three days, but weremained open, although there was a famine in thetown and the streets were impassable. The coldwas intense. Henry sent Walter out to buy someviolets for Barnay, and when he brought them in tothe dressing room—he had only carried thema few yards—they were frozen so hard thatthey could have been chipped with a hammer!

We rang up on “Faust” three-quarters ofan hour late! This was not bad considering allthings. Although the house was sold out, therewas hardly any audience, and only a harp and two violinsin the orchestra. Discipline was so strong inthe Lyceum company that every member of it reachedthe theater by eight o’clock, although some ofthem had had to walk from Brooklyn Bridge.

The Mayor of New York and his daughter managed toreach their box somehow. Then we thought it wastime to begin. Some members of Daly’s company,including John Drew, came in, and a few friends.It was the oddest, scantiest audience! But theenthusiasm was terrific!

Five years went by before we visited America again.Five years in a country of rapid changes is a longtime, long enough for friends to forget! Butthey didn’t forget. This time we made newfriends, too, in the Far West. We went to SanFrancisco, among other places. We attended partof a performance at the Chinese theater. Oh, thoserows of impenetrable faces gazing at the stage withtheir long, shining, inexpressive eyes! Whata look of the everlasting the Chinese have! “Wehave been before you—we shall be after you,”they seem to say.

Just as we were getting interested in the play, theinterpreter rose and hurried us out. Somethingthat was not for the ears of women was being said,but we did not know it!

The chief incident of the fifth American tour wasour production at Chicago of Laurence Irving’sone-act play “Godefroi and Yolande.”I regard that little play as an inspiration.By instinct the young author did everything right.The Chicago folk, in spite of the unpleasant themeof the play, recognized the genius of it, and receivedit splendidly.

In 1901 I was ill, and hated the parts I was playingin America. The Lyceum was not what it had been.Everything was changed.

In 1907—only the other day—Itoured in America for the first time on my own account—playingmodern plays for the first time. I made new friendsand found my old ones still faithful.

But this tour was chiefly momentous to me becauseat Pittsburg I was married for the third time, andmarried to an American. My marriage was my ownaffair, but very few people seemed to think so, andI was overwhelmed with “inquiries,” kindand otherwise. Kindness and loyalty won the day.“If any one deserves to be happy, you do,”many a friend wrote. Well, I am happy, and whileI am happy, I cannot feel old.

XIII

THE MACBETH PERIOD

Perhaps Henry Irving and I might have gone on withShakespeare to the end of the chapter if he had notbeen in such a hurry to produce “Macbeth.”

We ought to have done “As You Like It”in 1888, or “The Tempest.” Henrythought of both these plays. He was much attractedby the part of Caliban in “The Tempest,”but, he said, “the young lovers are everything,and where are we going to find them?” He wouldhave played Touchstone in “As You Like It,”not Jacques, because Touchstone is in the vital partof the play.

He might have delayed both “Macbeth” and“Henry VIII.” He ought to have addedto his list of Shakespearean productions “JuliusCaesar,” “King John,” “AsYou Like It,” “Antony and Cleopatra,”“Richard II.,” and “Timon of Athens.”There were reasons “against,” of course.In “Julius Caesar” he wanted to play Brutus.“That’s the part for the actor,”he said, “because it needs acting. Butthe actor-manager’s part is Antony—Antonyscores all along the line. Now when the actorand actor-manager fight in a play, and when thereis no part for you in it, I think it’s wiserto leave it alone.”

Every one knows when the luck first began to turnagainst Henry Irving. It was in 1896 when herevived “Richard III.” On the firstnight he went home, slipped on the stairs in GraftonStreet, broke a bone in his knee, aggravated the hurtby walking on it, and had to close the theater.It was that year, too, that his general health beganto fail. For the ten years preceding his deathhe carried on an indomitable struggle against ill-health.Lungs and heart alike were weak. Only the spiritin that frail body remained as strong as ever.Nothing could bend it, much less break it.

But I have not come to that sad time yet.

“We all know when we do our best,” saidHenry once. “We are the only people whoknow.” Yet he thought he did better in “Macbeth”than in “Hamlet”!

Was he right after all?

His view of “Macbeth,” though attackedand derided and put to shame in many quarters, isas clear to me as the sunlight itself. To me itseems as stupid to quarrel with the conception asto deny the nose on one’s face. But thecarrying out of the conception was unequal. Henry’simagination was sometimes his worst enemy.

When I think of his “Macbeth,” I rememberhim most distinctly in the last act after the battlewhen he looked like a great famished wolf, weak withthe weakness of a giant exhausted, spent as one whoseexertions have been ten times as great as those ofcommoner men of rougher fiber and coarser strength.

“Of all men elseI have avoided thee.”

Once more he suggested, as he only could suggest,the power of Fate. Destiny seemed to hang overhim, and he knew that there was no hope, no mercy.

The rehearsals for “Macbeth” were veryexhausting, but they were splendid to watch.In this play Henry brought his manipulation of crowdsto perfection. My acting edition of the play isriddled with rough sketches by him of different groups.Artists to whom I have shown them have been astonishedby the spirited impressionism of these sketches.For his “purpose” Henry seems to have beenable to do anything, even to drawing, and composingmusic! Sir Arthur Sullivan’s music at firstdid not quite please him. He walked up and downthe stage humming, and showing the composer what hewas going to do at certain situations. Sullivan,with wonderful quickness and open-mindedness, caughthis meaning at once.

“Much better than mine, Irving—muchbetter—I’ll rough it out at once!”

When the orchestra played the new version, based onthat humming of Henry’s, it was exactly whathe wanted!

Knowing what a task I had before me, I began to getanxious and worried about “Lady Mac.”Henry wrote me such a nice letter about this:

“To-night, if possible, the lastact. I want to get these great multitudinousscenes over and then we can attack our scenes....Your sensitiveness is so acute that you must suffersometimes. You are not like anybody else—seethings with such lightning quickness and unerringinstinct that dull fools like myself grow irritableand impatient sometimes. I feel confusedwhen I’m thinking of one thing, and disturbedby another. That’s all. But I do feelvery sorry afterwards when I don’t seemto heed what I so much value....

“I think things are going well,considering the time we’ve been at it,but I see so much that is wanting that it seems almostimpossible to get through properly. ’To-nightcommence, Matthias. If you sleep, you arelost!’"[1]

[Footnote 1: A quotation from “The Bells.”]

At this time we were able to be of the right use toeach other. Henry could never have worked witha very strong woman. I might have deteriorated,in partnership with a weaker man whose ends were lessfine, whose motives were less pure. I had thetaste and artistic knowledge that his upbringing hadnot developed in him. For years he did thingsto please me. Later on I gave up asking him.In “King Lear” Mrs. Nettleship made hima most beautiful cloak, but he insisted on wearinga brilliant purple velvet cloak with spangles allover it which swamped his beautiful make-up and hisbeautiful acting. Poor Mrs. Nettleship was almostin tears.

“I’ll never make you anything again—never!”

One of Mrs. “Nettle’s” greatesttriumphs was my Lady Macbeth dress, which she carriedout from Mrs. Comyns Carr’s design. I amglad to think it is immortalized in Sargent’spicture. From the first I knew that picture wasgoing to be splendid. In my diary for 1888 I wasalways writing about it:

“The picture ofme is nearly finished, and I think it magnificent.
The green and blue ofthe dress is splendid, and the expression as
Lady Macbeth holds thecrown over her head is quite wonderful.

“Henschel is sittingto Sargent. His concerts, I hear, can’tbe
carried on another yearfor want of funds. What a shame!

“Mr. Sargent ispainting a head of Henry—very good, butmean about
the chin at present.

“Sargent’spicture is talked of everywhere and quarreled aboutas
much as my way of playingthe part.

“Sargent’s ‘LadyMacbeth’ in the New Gallery is a great success.The picture is the sensation of the year.Of course opinions differ about it, but thereare dense crowds round it day after day. Thereis talk of putting it on exhibition by itself.”

Since then it has gone over nearly the whole of Europe,and now is resting for life at the Tate Gallery.Sargent suggested by this picture all that I shouldhave liked to be able to convey in my acting as LadyMacbeth.

My Diary.—“Everybodyhates Sargent’s head of Henry. Henry also.I like it, but not altogether. I think itperfectly wonderfully painted and like him, onlynot at his best by any means. There sat Henryand there by his side the picture, and I could scarcetell one from t’other. Henry lookedwhite, with tired eyes, and holes in his cheeksand bored to death! And there was the picturewith white face, tired eyes, holes in the cheeksand boredom in every line. Sargent triedto paint his smile and gave it up.”

Sargent said to me, I remember, upon Henry Irving’sfirst visit to the studio to see the Macbeth pictureof me, “What a Saint!” This to my mindpromised well—that Sargent should see thatside of Henry so swiftly. So then I never leftoff asking Henry to sit to Sargent, who wanted topaint him too, and said to me continually, “Whata head!”

From my Diary.—“Sargent’spicture is almost finished, and it is reallysplendid. Burne-Jones yesterday suggested twoor three alterations about the color which Sargentimmediately adopted, but Burne-Jones raves aboutthe picture.

“It (’Macbeth’) isa most tremendous success, and the last three days’advance booking has been greater than ever was known,even at the Lyceum. Yes, it is a success,and I am a success, which amazes me, for neverdid I think I should be let down so easily. Somepeople hate me in it; some, Henry among them,think it my best part, and the critics differ,and discuss it hotly, which in itself is my bestsuccess of all! Those who don’t like mein it are those who don’t want, and don’tlike to read it fresh from Shakespeare, and whohold by the ‘fiend’ reading of the character....One of the best things ever written on the subject,I think, is the essay of J. Comyns Carr.That is as hotly discussed as the new ’LadyMac’—all the best people agreeingwith it. Oh, dear! It is an excitingtime!”

From a letter I wrote to my daughter, who was in Germanyat the time:

“I wish you could see my dresses.They are superb, especially the first one:green beetles on it, and such a cloak! The photographsgive no idea of it at all, for it is in colorthat it is so splendid. The dark red hairis fine. The whole thing is Rossetti—richstained-glass effects, I play some of it well, but,of course, I don’t do what I want to doyet. Meanwhile I shall not budge an inchin the reading of it, for that I know is right.Oh, it’s fun, but it’s precious hardwork for I by no means make her a ‘gentle,lovable woman’ as some of ’em say.That’s all pickles. She was nothingof the sort, although she was not a fiend, anddid love her husband. I have to whatis vulgarly called ‘sweat at it,’ eachnight.”

The few people who liked my Lady Macbeth, liked itvery much. I hope I am not vain to quote thisletter from Lady Pollock:

“... Burne-Jones has beenwith me this afternoon: he was at ‘Macbeth’last night, and you filled his whole soul with yourbeauty and your poetry.... He says you werea great Scandinavian queen; that your presence,your voice, your movement made a marvelouslypoetic harmony; that your dress was grandly imaginedand grandly worn—and that he cannotcriticize—he can only remember.”

But Burne-Jones by this time had become one of ourmost ardent admirers, and was prejudiced in my favorbecause my acting appealed to his eye.Still, the drama is for the eye as well as for theear and the mind.

Very early I learned that one had best be ambitiousmerely to please oneself in one’s work a little—quietly.I coupled with this the reflection that one “getsnothing for nothing, and damned little for sixpence!”

Here I was in the very noonday of life, fresh fromLady Macbeth and still young enough to play Rosalind,suddenly called upon to play a rather uninterestingmother in “The Dead Heart.” However,my son Teddy made his first appearance in it, andhad such a big success that I soon forgot that forme the play was rather “small beer.”

It had been done before, of course, by Benjamin Websterand George Vining. Henry engaged Bancroft forthe Abbe, a part of quite as much importance as hisown. It was only a melodrama, but Henry couldalways invest a melodrama with life, beauty, interest,mystery, by his methods of production.

“I’m full of French Revolution,”he wrote to me when he was preparing the playfor rehearsal, “and could pass an examination.In our play, at the taking of the Bastile we musthave a starving crowd—hungry, eager,cadaverous faces. If that can be well carriedout, the effect will be very terrible, and thecontrast to the other crowd (the red and fatcrowd—the blood-gorged ones who look asif they’d been all drinking wine—redwine, as Dickens says) would be striking....It’s tiresome stuff to read, because it dependsso much on situations. I have been touching thebook up though, and improved it here and there,I think.

“A letter this morning from theillustrious Blank offering me his prompt bookto look at.... I think I shall borrow the treasure.Why not? Of course he will say that he hasproduced the play and all that sort of thing;but what does that matter, if one can only get onehint out of it?

“The longer welive, the more we see that if we only do our own
work thoroughly well,we can be independent of everything else or
anything that may besaid....

“I see in Landrya great deal of Manette—that same vacantgaze
into years gone by whenhe crouched in his dungeon nursing his
wrongs....

“I shall send you another booksoon to put any of your alterations and additionsin. I’ve added a lot of little things witha few lines for you—very good, I think,though I say it as shouldn’t—I knowyou’ll laugh! They are perhaps not startlingoriginal, but better than the original, anyhow!Here they are—last act!

“’Ah, Robert,pity me. By the recollections of our youth, Iimplore
you to save my boy!’(Now for ’em!)

“’If myvoice recalls a tone that ever fell sweetly upon yourear,
have pity on me!If the past is not a blank, if you once loved,
have pity on me!’(Bravo!)

“Now I call thatvery good, and if the ’If and the ‘pitys’don’t
bring down the house,well it’s a pity! I pity the pittites!

“... I’ve just beencopying out my part in an account book—alittle more handy to put in one’s pocket.It’s really very short, but difficult toact, though, and so is yours. I like this ’pilingup’ sort of acting, and I am sure you will,when you play the part. It’s restful.‘The Bells’ is that sort of thing.”

The crafty old Henry! All this was to put mein conceit with my part!

Many people at this time put me in conceit with myson, including dear Burne-Jones with his splendidgift of impulsive enthusiasm.

“THE GRANGE,
“WEST KENSINGTON, W.
“Sunday.

“Most Dear Lady,—

“I thought all went wonderfully last night,and no sign could I see of hitch or difficulty; andas for your boy, he looked a lovely little gentleman—andin his cups was perfect, not overdoing by the leasttouch a part always perilously easy to overdo.I too had the impertinence to be a bit nervous foryou about him, but not when he appeared—soaltogether I was quite happy.

“... Irving was very noble—Ithought I had never seen his face so beautified before—no,that isn’t the word, and to hunt for the rightone would be so like judicious criticism that I won’t.Exalted and splendid it was—and you wereyou—YOU—and so all was well.I rather wanted more shouting and distant roar inthe Bastille Scene—since the walls fell,like Jericho, by noise. A good dreadful growlalways going on would have helped, I thought—andthat was the only point where I missed anything.

“And I was very glad you got your boy back againand that Mr. Irving was ready to have his head cutoff for you; so it had what I call a good ending,and I am in bright spirits to-day, and ever

“Your real friend,

“E.B.-J.”

“I would come and growl gladly.”

There were terrible strikes all over England whenwe were playing “The Dead Heart.”I could not help sympathizing with the strikers ...yet reading all about the French Revolution as I didthen, I can’t understand how the French nationcan be proud of it when one remembers how they butcheredtheir own great men, the leaders of the movement—CamilleDesmoulins, Danton, Robespierre and the others.My man is Camille Desmoulins. I just love him.

Plays adapted from novels are generally unsatisfactory.A whole story cannot be conveyed in three hours, andevery reader of the story looks for something notin the play. Wills took from “The Vicarof Wakefield” an episode and did it right well,but there was no episode in “The Brideof Lammermoor” for Merivale to take. Hetried to traverse the whole ground, and failed.But he gave me some lovely things to do in Lucy Ashton.I had to lose my poor wits, as in Ophelia, in the lastact, and with hardly a word to say I was able to makean effect. The love scene at the well I did nicelytoo.

Seymour Lucas designed splendid dresses for this play.My “Ravenswood” riding dress set a fashionin ladies’ coats for quite a long time.Mine was copied by Mr. Lucas from a leather coat ofLord Mohun’s. He is said to have had iton when he was killed. At any rate there was alarge stab in the back of the coat, and a blood-stain.

This was my first speculation in play-buying!I saw it acted, and thought I could do something withit. Henry would not buy it, so I did! Helet me do it first in front of a revival of “TheCorsican Brothers” in 1891. It was a greatsuccess, although my son and I did not know a wordon the first night and had our parts written out andpinned all over the furniture on the stage! Dearold Mr. Howe wrote to me that Teddy’s performancewas “more than creditable; it was exceedinglygood and full of character, and with your own charmingperformance the piece was a great success.”Since 1891 I must have played “Nance Oldfield”hundreds of times, but I never had an Alexander Oldworthyso good as my own son, although such talented youngactors as Martin Harvey, Laurence Irving and, morerecently, Harcourt Williams have all played it withme.

Henry’s pride as Cardinal Wolsey seemed to eathim. How wonderful he looked (though not fatand self-indulgent like the pictures of the real Wolsey)in his flame-colored robes! He had the silk dyedspecially by the dyers to the Cardinal’s Collegein Rome. Seymour Lucas designed the clothes.It was a magnificent production, but not very interestingto me. I played Katherine much better ten yearslater at Stratford-on-Avon at the Shakespeare MemorialFestival. I was stronger then, and more reposeful.This letter from Burne-Jones about “Henry VIII.”is a delightful tribute to Henry Irving’s treatmentof the play:

“My Dear Lady,—

“We went last night to the play (at my theater)to see Henry VIII.—Margaret and Mackailand I. It was delicious to go out again and see mankind,after such evil days. How kind they were to meno words can say—I went in at a privatedoor and then into a cosy box and back the same way,swiftly, and am marvelously the better for the adventure.No YOU, alas!

“I have written to Mr. Irving just to thankhim for his great kindness in making the path of pleasureso easy, for I go tremblingly at present. ButI could not say to him what I thought of the Cardinal—asort of shame keeps one from saying to an artist whatone thinks of his work—but to you I cansay how nobly he warmed up the story of the old religionto my exacting mind in that impersonation. I shallthink always of dying monarchy in his Charles—andalways of dying hierarchy in his Wolsey. HowProtestant and dull all grew when that noble type hadgone!

“I can’t go to church till red cardinalscome back (and may they be of exactly that red) norto Court till trumpets and banners come back—norto evening parties till the dances are like that dance.What a lovely young Queen has been found. Butthere was no YOU.... Perhaps it was as well.I couldn’t have you slighted even in a play,and put aside. When I go back to see you, asI soon will, it will be easier. Mr. Irving letme know you would not act, and proposed that I shouldgo later on—wasn’t that like him?So I sat with my children and was right happy; and,as usual, the streets looked dirty, and all the peoplemuddy and black as we came away. Please not toanswer this stuff.

“Ever yours affectionately,

“E.B.-J.

“—I wish that Cardinal could havebeen made Pope, and sat with his foot on the Earlof Surrey’s neck. Also I wish to be a Cardinal;but then I sometimes want to be a pirate. Wecan’t have all we want.

“Your boy was very kind—I thoughtthe race of young men who are polite and attentiveto old fading ones had passed away with antique pageants—butit isn’t so.”

When the Duke and duch*ess of Devonshire gave the famousfancy dress ball at Devonshire House, Henry attendedit in the robes which had appealed so strongly toBurne-Jones’s imaginative eye. I was toldby one who was present at this ball that as the Cardinalswept up the staircase, his long train held magnificentlyover his arm, a sudden wave of reality seemed to sweepupstairs with him, and reduce to the prettiest make-believeall the aristocratic masquerade that surrounded him.

I renewed my acquaintance with “Henry VIII.”in 1902, when I played Queen Katherine for Mr. Bensonduring the Shakespeare Memorial performances in April.I was pretty miserable at the time—the Lyceumreign was dying, and taking an unconscionably longtime about it, which made the position all the moredifficult. Henry Irving was reviving “Faust”—awise step, as it had been his biggest “money-maker”—andit was impossible that I could play Margaret.There are some young parts that the actress can stillplay when she is no longer young: Beatrice, Portia,and many others come to mind. But I think thatwhen the character is that of a young girl the betrayalof whose innocence is the main theme of the play,no amount of skill on the part of the actress canmake up for the loss of youth.

Suggestions were thrown out to me (not by Henry Irving,but by others concerned) that although I was too oldfor Margaret, I might play Martha! Well!well! I didn’t quite see that.So I redeemed a promise given in jest at the Lyceumto Frank Benson twenty years earlier, and went offto Stratford-upon-Avon to play in Henry VIII.

Mr. Benson was wonderful to work with. “Iam proud to think,” he wrote me just beforeour few rehearsals began, “that I have trainedmy folk (as I was taught by my elders and bettersat the Lyceum) to be pretty quick at adapting themselvesto anything that may be required of them, so thatyou need not be uneasy as to their not fitting in withyour business.”

“My folk,” as Mr. Benson called them,were excellent, especially Surrey (Harcourt Williams),Norfolk (Matheson Lang), Caperius (Fitzgerald), andGriffith (Nicholson). “Harcourt Williams,”I wrote in my diary on the day of the dress-rehearsal,“will be heard of very shortly. He playedEdgar in ‘Lear’ much better than Terriss,although not so good an actor yet.”

I played Katherine on Shakespeare’s Birthday—sucha lovely day, bright and sunny and warm. Theperformance went finely—and I made a littlespeech afterwards which was quite a success. Iwas presented publicly on the stage with the Certificateof Governorship of the Memorial Theater.

During these pleasant days at Stratford, I went aboutin between the performances of “Henry VIII.”—whichwas, I think, given three times a week for three weeks—seeingthe lovely country and lovely friends who live there.A visit to Broadway and to beautiful Madame de Navarro(Mary Anderson) was particularly delightful.To see her looking so handsome, robust and fresh—sohappy in her beautiful home, gave me the keenest pleasure.I also went to Stanways—the Elchos’home—a fascinating place. Lady Elchoshowed me all over it, and she was not the least lovelything in it.

In Stratford I was rebuked by the permanent inhabitantsfor being kind to a little boy in professionally raggedclothing who made me, as he has made hundreds of others,listen to a long, made-up history of Stratford-on-Avon,Shakespeare, the Merchant of Venice, Julius Caesarand other things—the most hopeless mix!The inhabitants assured me that the boy was a littlerascal, who begged and extorted money from visitorsby worrying them with his recitation until they paidhim to leave them alone.

Long before I knew that the child was such a reprobateI had given him a pass to the gallery and a TempleShakespeare! I derived such pleasure from hisversion of the “Mercy” speech from “TheMerchant of Venice” that I still think he wasill-paid!

“The quality of mercyis not strange
It droppeth as thegentle rain from ’Eaven
Upon the place beneath;it is twicet bless.
It blesseth in that givesand in that takes
It is in the mightiest—inthe mightiest
It becomes the throned monukbetter than its crownd.

It’s an appribute toGod inself
It is in the thorny ’eartsof kings
But not in the fit and dreadof kings.”

I asked the boy what he meant to be when he was aman. He answered with decision: “Areciterer.”

I also asked him what he liked best in the play ("HenryVIII.").

“When the blind went up and down and you smiled,”he replied—surely a naive compliment tomy way of “taking a call”! Furtherpressed, he volunteered: “When you layon the bed and died to please the angels.”

XIV

LAST DAYS AT THE LYCEUM

I had exactly ten years more with Henry Irving after“Henry VIII.” During that time wedid “King Lear,” “Becket,”“King Arthur,” “Cymbeline,”“Madame Sans-Gene,” “Peter the Great”and “The Medicine Man.” I feel toonear to these productions to write about them.The first night of “Cymbeline” I feltalmost dead. Nothing seemed right. “Everythingis so slow, so slow,” I wrote in my diary.“I don’t feel a bit inspired, only dulland hide-bound.” Yet Imogen was, I think,the only inspired performance of these lateryears. On the first night of “Sans-Gene”I acted courageously and fairly well. Everyone seemed to be delighted. The old Duke of Cambridgepatted, or rather thumped, me on the shoulderand said kindly: “Ah, my dear, youcan act!” Henry quite effaced me in his wonderfulsketch of Napoleon. “It seems to me somenights,” I wrote in my diary at the time, “asif I were watching Napoleon trying to imitate H.I.,and I find myself immensely interested and amusedin the watchings.”

“The Medicine Man” was, in my opinion,our only quite unworthy production.

From my Diary.—“PoorTaber has such an awful part in the play, andmine is even worse. It is short enough, yet Ifeel I can’t cut too much of it....The gem of the whole play is my hair! Not wavedat all, and very filmy and pale. Henry, Iadmit, is splendid; but oh, it is all such rubbish!...If ‘Manfred’ and a few such plays areto succeed this, I simply must do something else.”

But I did not! I stayed on, as every one knows,when the Lyceum as a personal enterprise of Henry’swas no more—when the farcical Lyceum Syndicatetook over the theater. I played a wretched partin “Robespierre,” and refused L12,000to go to America with Henry in “Dante.”

In these days Henry was a changed man. He becamemore republican and less despotic as a producer.He left things to other people. As an actor heworked as faithfully as ever. Henley’s stoicallines might have been written of him as he was inthese last days:

“Out of the night thatcovers me,
Black as the Pit from poleto pole,
I thank whatever gods therebe
For my unconquerable soul.

“In the fell clutchof circ*mstance
I have not winced nor criedaloud:
Beneath the bludgeonings ofchance
My head is bloody but unbowed.”

Henry Irving did not treat me badly. I hope Idid not treat him badly. He revived “Faust”and produced “Dante.” I would haveliked to stay with him to the end of the chapter,but there was nothing for me to act in either of theseplays. But we never quarreled. Our long partnershipdissolved naturally. It was all very sad, butit could not be helped.

It has always been a reproach against Henry Irvingin some mouths that he neglected the modern Englishplaywright; and of course the reproach included meto a certain extent. I was glad, then, to showthat I could act in the new plays when Mr. Barriewrote “Alice-sit-by-the-Fire” for me,and after some years’ delay I was able to playin Mr. Bernard Shaw’s “Captain Brassbound’sConversion.” Of course I could not haveplayed in “little” plays of this schoolat the Lyceum with Henry Irving, even if I had wantedto! They are essentially plays for small theaters.

In Mr. Shaw’s “A Man of Destiny”there were two good parts, and Henry, at my request,considered it, although it was always difficult tofit a one-act play into the Lyceum bill. Forreasons of his own Henry never produced Mr. Shaw’splay and there was a good deal of fuss made about itat the time (1897). But ten years ago Mr. Shawwas not so well known as he is now, and the so-called“rejection” was probably of use to himas an advertisem*nt!

“A Man of Destiny” has been produced since,but without any great success. I wonder if Henryand I could have done more with it?

At this time Mr. Shaw and I frequently corresponded.It began by my writing to ask him, as musical criticof the Saturday Review, to tell me franklywhat he thought of the chances of a composer-singerfriend of mine. He answered “characteristically,”and we developed a perfect fury for writing to eachother! Sometimes the letters were on business,sometimes they were not, but always his were entertaining,and mine were, I suppose, “good copy,”as he drew the character of Lady Cecily Waynfletein “Brassbound” entirely from my letters.He never met me until after the play was written.In 1902 he sent me this ultimatum:

“April 3, 1902.

“Mr. Bernard Shaw’s compliments to MissEllen Terry.

“Mr. Bernard Shaw has been approached by Mrs.Langtry with a view to the immediate and splendidproduction of ‘Captain Brassbound’s Conversion.’

“Mr. Bernard Shaw, with the last flash of atrampled-out love, has repulsed Mrs. Langtry witha petulance bordering on brutality.

“Mr. Bernard Shaw has been actuated in thisungentlemanly and unbusinesslike course by an angrydesire to seize Miss Ellen Terry by the hair and makeher play Lady Cicely.

“Mr. Bernard Shaw would be glad to know whetherMiss Ellen Terry wishes to play Martha at the Lyceuminstead.

“Mr. Bernard Shaw will go to the length of keepinga minor part open for Sir Henry Irving when ‘Faust’fails, if Miss Ellen Terry desires it.

“Mr. Bernard Shaw lives in daily fear of Mrs.Langtry’s recovering sufficiently from her naturalresentment of his ill manners to reopen the subject.

“Mr. Bernard Shaw begs Miss Ellen Terry to answerthis letter.

“Mr. Bernard Shaw is looking for a new cottageor house in the country, and wants advice on the subject.

“Mr. Bernard Shaw craves for the sight of MissEllen Terry’s once familiar handwriting.”

The first time he came to my house I was not present,but a young American lady who had long adored himfrom the other side of the Atlantic took my placeas hostess (I was at the theater as usual); and Itook great pains to have everything looking nice!I spent a long time putting out my best blue china,and ordered a splendid dinner, quite forgetting thehonored guest generally dined off a Plasmon biscuitand a bean!

Mr. Shaw read “Arms and the Man” to myyoung American friend (Miss Satty Fairchild) withouteven going into the dining-room where the blue chinawas spread out to delight his eye. My daughterEdy was present at the reading, and appeared so muchabsorbed in some embroidery, and paid the reader sofew compliments about his play, that he expressed theopinion that she behaved as if she had been marriedto him for twenty years!

The first time I ever saw Mr. Shaw in the flesh—Ihope he will pardon me such an anti-vegetarian expression—waswhen he took his call after the first production of“Captain Brassbound’s Conversion”by the Stage Society. He was quite unlike whatI had imagined from his letters.

When at last I was able to play in “CaptainBrassbound’s Conversion,” I found BernardShaw wonderfully patient at rehearsal. I lookupon him as a good, kind, gentle creature whose “brain-storms”are just due to the Irishman’s love of a fight;they never spring from malice or anger. It doesn’tanswer to take Bernard Shaw seriously. He is nota man of convictions. That is one of the charmsof his plays—to me at least. One neverknows how the cat is really jumping. But it jumps.Bernard Shaw is alive, with nine lives, like thatcat!

On Whit Monday, 1902, I received a telegram from Mr.Tree saying that he was coming down to Winchelseato see me on “an important matter of business.”I was at the time suffering from considerable depressionabout the future.

The Stratford-on-Avon visit had inspired me with thefeeling that there was life in the old ’un yetand had distracted my mind from the strangeness ofno longer being at the Lyceum permanently with HenryIrving. But there seemed to be nothing ahead,except two matinees a week with him at the Lyceum,to be followed by a provincial tour in which I wasonly to play twice a week, as Henry’s chief attractionwas to be “Faust.” This sort of “dowager”engagement did not tempt me. Besides, I hatedthe idea of drawing a large salary and doing next tono work.

So when Mr. Tree proposed that I should play Mrs.Page (Mrs. Kendal being Mrs. Ford) in “The MerryWives of Windsor” at His Majesty’s, itwas only natural that I should accept the offer joyfully.I telegraphed to Henry Irving, asking him if he hadany objection to my playing at His Majesty’s.He answered: “Quite willing if proposedarrangements about matinees are adhered to.”

I have thought it worth while to give the facts aboutthis engagement, because so many people seemed atthe time, and afterwards, to think that I had treatedHenry Irving badly by going to play in another theater,and that theater one where a certain rivalry with theLyceum as regards Shakespearean productions had grownup. There was absolutely no foundation for therumors that my “desertion” caused furtherestrangement between Henry Irving and me.

“Heaven give you many, many merry days and nights,”he telegraphed to me on the first night; and afterthat first night (the jolliest that I ever saw), hewrote delighting in my success.

It was a success—there was no doubtabout it! Some people accused the Merry Wivesof rollicking and “mafficking” overmuch—butthese were the people who forgot that we were actingin a farce, and that farce is farce, even when Shakespeareis the author.

All the summer I enjoyed myself thoroughly. Itwas all such good fun—Mrs. Kendalwas so clever and delightful to play with, Mr. Treeso indefatigable in discovering new funny “business.”

After the dress-rehearsal I wrote in my diary:“Edy has real genius for dresses for the stage.”My dress for Mrs. Page was such a real thing—ithelped me enormously—and I was never moregrateful for my daughter’s gift than when Iplayed Mrs. Page.

It was an admirable all-round cast—almosta “star” cast: Oscar Asche as Ford,poor Henry Kemble (since dead) as Dr. Caius, CourticePounds as Sir Hugh Evans, and Mrs. Tree as sweet AnnePage all rowed in the boat with precisely the rightswing. There were no “passengers”in the cast. The audience at first used to seemrather amazed! This thwacking rough-and-tumble,Rabelaisian horse-play—Shakespeare!Impossible! But as the evening went on we usedto capture even the most civilized, and force themto return to a simple Elizabethan frame of mind.

In my later career I think I have had no success likethis! Letters rained on me—yes, evenlove-letters, as if, to quote Mrs. Page, I were stillin “the holiday-time of my beauty.”As I would always rather make an audience laugh thansee them weep, it may be guessed how much I enjoyedthe hearty laughter at His Majesty’s during therun of the madcap absurdity of “The Merry Wivesof Windsor.”

All the time I was at His Majesty’s I continuedto play in matinees of “Charles I.” and“The Merchant of Venice” at the Lyceumwith Henry Irving. We went on negotiating, too,about the possibility of my appearing in “Dante,”which Sardou had written specially for Irving, andon which he was relying for his next tour in America.

On the 19th of July, 1902, I acted at the Lyceum forthe very last time, although I did not know it then.These last Lyceum days were very sad. The receptiongiven by Henry to the Indian Princes, who were in Englandfor the Coronation, was the last flash of the splendidhospitality which had for so many years been one ofthe glories of the theater.

During my provincial tour with Henry Irving in theautumn of this year I thought long and anxiously overthe proposition that I should play in “Dante.”I heard the play read, and saw no possible part forme in it. I refused a large sum of money to goto America with Henry Irving because I could not consentto play a part even worse than the one that I hadplayed in “Robespierre.” As thingsturned out, although “Dante” did fairlywell at Drury Lane, the Americans would have none ofit and Henry had to fall back upon his repertoire.

Having made the decision against “Dante,”I began to wonder what I should do. My partnershipwith Henry Irving was definitely broken, most inevitablyand naturally “dissolved.” There weremany roads open to me. I chose one which was,from a financial point of view, madness.

Instead of going to America, and earning L12,000,I decided to take a theater with my son, and produceplays in conjunction with him.

I had several plays in view—an Englishtranslation of a French play about the patient Griselda,and a comedy by Miss Clo Graves among them. Finally,I settled upon Ibsen’s “Vikings.”

We read it aloud on Christmas Day, and it seemed tremendous.Not in my most wildly optimistic moments did I thinkHiordis, the chief female character—a primitive,fighting, free, open-air person—suited tome, but I saw a way of playing her more brilliantlyand less weightily than the text suggested,and anyhow I was not thinking so much of the playfor me as for my son. He had just produced Mr.Laurence Houseman’s Biblical play “Bethlehem”in the hall of the Imperial Institute, and every onehad spoken highly of the beauty of his work. Hehad previously applied the same principles to themounting of operas by Handel and Purcell.

It had been a great grief to me when I lost my sonas an actor. I have never known any one withso much natural gift for the stage. Unconsciouslyhe did everything right—I mean all the technicalthings over which some of us have to labor for years.The first part that he played at the Lyceum, ArthurSt. Valery in “The Dead Heart,” was good,and he went on steadily improving. The last partthat he played at the Lyceum—Edward IV.in “Richard III.”—was, maternalprejudice quite apart, a most remarkable performance.

His record for 1891, when he was still a mere boy,was: Claudio (in “Much Ado about Nothing"),Mercutio, Modus, Charles Surface, Alexander Oldworthy,Moses (in “Olivia"), Lorenzo, Malcolm, Beauchamp;Meynard, and the Second Grave-Digger!

Later on he played Hamlet, Macbeth and Romeo on asmall provincial tour. His future as an actorseemed assured, but it wasn’t! One day whenhe was with William Nicholson, the clever artist andone of the Beggarstaff Brothers of poster fame, hebegan chipping at a woodblock in imitation of Nicholson,and produced in a few hours an admirable wood-cutof Walt Whitman, then and always his particular hero.From that moment he had the “black and white”fever badly. Acting for a time seemed hardlyto interest him at all. When his interest in thetheater revived, it was not as an actor but as a stagedirector that he wanted to work.

What more natural than that his mother should givehim the chance of exploiting his ideas in London?Ideas he had in plenty—“unpractical”ideas people called them; but what else should ideasbe?

At the Imperial Theater, where I spent my financiallyunfortunate season in April 1903, I gave my son afree hand. I hope it will be remembered, whenI am spoken of by the youngest critics after my deathas a “Victorian” actress, lacking in enterprise,an actress belonging to the “old school,”that I produced a spectacular play of Ibsen’sin a manner which possibly anticipated the scenicideas of the future by a century, of which at anyrate the orthodox theater managers of the present agewould not have dreamed.

Naturally I am not inclined to criticize my son’smethods. I think there is a great deal to besaid for the views that he has expressed in his pamphleton “The Art of the Theater,” and when Iworked with him I found him far from unpractical.It was the modern theater which was unpractical whenhe was in it! It was wrongly designed, wronglybuilt. We had to disembowel the Imperial behindscenes before he could even start, and then the greatheight of the proscenium made his lighting lose allits value. He always considered the pictorialside of the scene before its dramatic significance,arguing that this significance lay in the pictureand in movement—the drama having originatednot with the poet but with the dancer.

When his idea of dramatic significance clashed withIbsen’s, strange things would happen.

Mr. Bernard Shaw, though impressed by my son’swork and the beauty that he brought on to the stageof the Imperial, wrote to me that the symbolism ofthe first act according to Ibsen should be Dawn, youthrising with the morning sun, reconciliation, rich gifts,brightness, lightness, pleasant feelings, peace.On to this sunlit scene stalks Hiordis, a figure ofgloom, revenge, of feud eternal, of relentless hatredand uncompromising unforgetfulness of wrong. Atthe Imperial, said Mr. Shaw, the curtain rose on profoundgloom. When you could see anything yousaw eld and severity—old men with whitehair impersonating the gallant young sons of Ornulf—everywheremurky cliffs and shadowy spears, melancholy—darkness!

Into this symbolic night enter, in a blaze of limelight,a fair figure robed in complete fluffy white fur,a gay and bright Hiordis with a timid manner and hesitatingutterance.

The last items in the topsy-turviness of my son’spractical significance were entirely my fault!Mr. Shaw was again moved to compliments when I revived“Much Ado about Nothing” under my son’sdirection at the Imperial. “The dance wasdelightful, but I would suggest the substitution oftrained dancers for untrained athletes,” he wrote.

I singed my wings a good deal in the Imperial limelight,which, although our audience complained of the darknesson the stage, was the most serious drain on my purse.But a few provincial tours did something towards restoringsome of the money that I had lost in management.

On one of these tours I produced “The Good Hope,”a play by the Dutch dramatist, Heijermans, dealingwith life in a fishing village. Done into simpleand vigorous English by Christopher St. John, the playproved a great success in the provinces. Thiswas almost as new a departure for me as my seasonat the Imperial. The play was essentially modernin construction and development—full ofaction, but the action of incident rather than theaction of stage situation. It had no “star”parts, but every part was good, and the gloom of thestory was made bearable by the beauty of the atmosphere—ofthe sea, which played a bigger part in it thanany of the visible characters.

For the first time I played an old woman, a very homelyold peasant woman too. It was not a big part,but it was interesting, and in the last act I hada little scene in which I was able to make the samekind of effect that I had made years before in thelast act of “Ravenswood”—aneffect of quiet and stillness.

I flattered myself that I was able to assume a certainroughness and solidity of the peasantry in “TheGood Hope,” but although I stumbled about heavilyin large sabots, I was told by the critics that I walkedlike a fairy and was far too graceful for a Dutch fisherwoman!It is a case of “Give a dog a bad name and hanghim”—the bad name in my case being“a womanly woman”! What this meansI scarcely apprehend, but I fancy it is intended tosignify (in an actress) something sweet, pretty, soft,appealing, gentle and underdone. Is itpossible that I convey that impression when I tryto assume the character of a washerwoman or a fisherwoman?If so I am a very bad actress!

My last Shakespearean part was Hermione in “AWinter’s Tale.” By some strange coincidenceit fell to me to play it exactly fifty years afterI had played the little boy Mamilius in the same play.I sometimes think that Fate is the best of stage managers!Hermione is a gravely beautiful part—well-balanced,difficult to act, but certain in its appeal. Ifonly it were possible to put on the play in a simpleway and arrange the scenes to knit up the raveledinterest, I should hope to play Hermione again.

MY STAGE JUBILEE

When I had celebrated my stage jubilee in 1906, Isuddenly began to feel exuberantly young again.It was very inappropriate, but I could not help it.

The recognition of my fifty years of stage life bythe public and by my profession was quite unexpected.Henry Irving had said to me not long before his deathin 1905 that he believed that they (the theatricalprofession) “intended to celebrate our jubilee.”(If he had lived he would have completed his fiftyyears on the stage in the autumn of 1906.) He saidthat there would be a monster performance at DruryLane, and that already the profession were discussingwhat form it was to take.

After his death, I thought no more of the matter.Indeed I did not want to think about it, for any recognitionof my jubilee which did not include his, seemed tome very unnecessary.

Of course I was pleased that others thought it necessary.I enjoyed all the celebrations. Even the speechesthat I had to make did not spoil my enjoyment.But all the time I knew perfectly well that the greatshow of honor and “friending” was notfor me alone. Never for one instant did I forgetthis, nor that the light of the great man by whoseside I had worked for a quarter of a century was stillshining on me from his grave.

The difficulty was to thank people as they deserved.Stammering speeches could not do it, but I hope thatthey all understood. “I were but littlehappy, if I could say how much.”

Kindness on kindness’s head accumulated!There was The Tribune testimonial. I cannever forget that London’s youngest newspaperfirst conceived the idea of celebrating my Stage Jubilee.[1]

[Footnote 1: I am sorry to say that since I wrotethis The Tribune, after a gallant fight forlife, has gone to join the company of the courageousenterprises which have failed.]

The matinee given in my honor at Drury Lane by thetheatrical profession was a wonderful sight.The two things about it which touched me most deeplywere my reception by the crowd who were waiting toget into the gallery when I visited them at two inthe morning, and the presence of Eleonora Duse, whocame all the way from Florence just to honor me.She told me afterwards that she would have come fromSouth Africa or from Heaven, had she been there!I appreciated very much too, the kindness of SignorCaruso in singing for me. I did not know him atall, and the gift of his service was essentially theimpersonal desire of an artist to honor another artist.

I was often asked during these jubilee days, “howI felt about it all,” and I never could answersensibly. The strange thing is that I don’tknow even now what was in my heart. Perhaps itwas one of my chief joys that I had not to say good-byeat any of the celebrations. I could still speakto my profession as a fellow-comrade on the activelist, and to the public as one still in their service.

One of those little things almost too good to be truehappened at the close of the Drury Lane matinee.A four-wheeler was hailed for me by the stage-doorkeeper, and my daughter and I drove off to Lady Bancroft’sin Berkeley Square to leave some flowers. Outsidethe house, the cabman told my daughter that in olddays he had often driven Charles Kean from the Princess’sTheater, and that sometimes the little Miss Terryswere put inside the cab too and given a lift!My daughter thought it such an extraordinary coincidencethat the old man should have come to the stage-doorof Drury Lane by a mere chance on my jubilee day thatshe took his address, and I was to send him a photographand remuneration. But I promptly lost the address,and was never able to trace the old man.

APOLOGIA

I have now nearly finished the history of my fiftyyears upon the stage.

A good deal has been left out through want of skillin selection. Some things have been includedwhich perhaps it would have been wiser to omit.

I have tried my best to tell “all things faithfully,”and it is possible that I have given offense whereoffense was not dreamed of; that some people willthink that I should not have said this, while others,approving of “this,” will be quite certainthat I ought not to have said “that.”

“One said it thundered... another that an angel spake.”

It’s the point of view, for I have “setdown naught in malice.”

During my struggles with my refractory, fragmentary,and unsatisfactory memories, I have realized thatlife itself is a point of view: is, to put itmore clearly, imagination.

So if any one said to me at this point in my story:“And is this, then, what you call your life?”I should not resent the question one little bit.

“We have heard,” continues my imaginaryand disappointed interlocutor, “a great dealabout your life in the theater. You have toldus of plays and parts and rehearsals, of actors goodand bad, of critics and of playwrights, of successand failure, but after all, your whole life has notbeen lived in the theater. Have you nothing totell us about your different homes, your family life,your social diversions, your friends and acquaintances?During your life there have been great changes inmanners and customs; political parties have altered;a great Queen has died; your country has been engagedin two or three serious wars. Did all these thingsmake no impression on you? Can you tell us nothingof your life in the world?”

And I have to answer that I have lived very littlein the world. After all, the life of an actressbelongs to the theater as the life of a soldier belongsto the army, the life of a politician to the State,and the life of a woman of fashion to society.

Certainly I have had many friends outside the theater,but I have had very little time to see them.

I have had many homes, but I have had very littletime to live in them!

When I am not acting, the best part of my time istaken up by the most humdrum occupations. Dealingwith my correspondence, even with the help of a secretary,is no insignificant work. The letters, chieflyconsisting of requests for my autograph, or appealsto my charity, have to be answered. I have oftenbeen advised to ignore them—surely a coursethat would be both bad policy and bad taste on thepart of a servant of the public. It would beunkind, too, to those ignorant of my busy life andthe calls upon my time.

Still, I sometimes wish that the cost of a postagestamp were a sovereign at least!

* * * * *

In 1887, the year of Queen Victoria’s Jubilee,I find that I wrote in my diary:—“Iam not yet forty, but am pretty well worn out.”

It is twenty years since then, and I am still notworn out. Wonderful!

THE DEATH OF HENRY IRVING

It is commonly known, I think, that Henry Irving’shealth first began to fail in 1896.

He went home to Grafton Street after the first nightof the revival of “Richard III.” and slippedon the stairs, injuring his knee. With characteristicfortitude, he struggled to his feet unassisted andwalked to his room. This made the consequencesof the accident far more serious, and he was not ableto act for weeks.

It was a bad year at the Lyceum.

In 1898 when we were on tour he caught a chill.Inflammation of the lungs, bronchitis, pneumonia followed.His heart was affected. He was never really wellagain.

When I think of his work during the next seven years,I could weep! Never was there a more admirable,extraordinary worker; never was any one more splendid-couragedand patient.

The seriousness of his illness in 1898 was never reallyknown. He nearly died.

“I am still fearfully anxiousabout H.,” I wrote to my daughter at thetime. “It will be a long time at the bestbefore he gains strength.... But now I dohope for the best. I’m fairly well so far.All he wants is for me to keep my health, not my head.He knows I’m doing that! Last nightI did three acts of ‘Sans-Gene’ and‘Nance Oldfield’ thrown in! That isa bit too much—awful work—andI can’t risk it again.”

“A telegram just come: ‘Steadilyimproving....’ You should have seenNorman[1] as Shylock! It was not a bare ‘get-through.’It was—the first night—anadmirable performance, as well as a plucky one....H. is more seriously ill than anyone dreams....His look! Like the last act of Louis XI.”

[Footnote 1: Mr. Norman Forbes-Robertson.]

In 1902, on the last provincial tour that we everwent together, he was ill again, but he did not givein. One night when his cough was rending him,and he could hardly stand up from weakness, he actedso brilliantly and strongly that it was easy to believein the triumph of mind over matter—in ChristianScience, in fact!

Strange to say, a newspaper man noticed the splendidpower of his performance that night and wrote of itwith uncommon discernment—a provincialcritic, by the way.

In London at the time they were always urging HenryIrving to produce new plays by new playwrights.But in the face of the failure of most of the newwork, and of his departing strength, and of the extraordinarysupport given him in the old plays (during this 1902tour we took L4,000 at Glasgow in one week!), Henrytook the wiser course in doing nothing but the oldplays to the end of the chapter.

I realized how near, not only the end of the chapterbut the end of the book was, when he was taken illat Wolverhampton in the spring of 1905.

We had not acted together for more than two yearsthen, and times were changed indeed.

I went down to Wolverhampton when the news of hisillness reached London. I arrived late and wentto an hotel. It was not a good hotel, nor couldI find a very good florist when I got up early thenext day and went out with the intention of buyingHenry some flowers. I wanted some bright-coloredones for him—he had always liked brightflowers—and this florist dealt chiefly inwhite flowers—funeral flowers.

At last I found some daffodils—my favoriteflower. I bought a bunch, and the kind florist,whose heart was in the right place if his flowerswere not, found me a nice simple glass to put it in.I knew the sort of vase that I should find at Henry’shotel.

I remembered, on my way to the doctor’s—forI had decided to see the doctor first—thatin 1892 when my dear mother died, and I did not actfor a few nights, when I came back I found my roomat the Lyceum filled with daffodils. “Tomake it look like sunshine,” Henry said.

The doctor talked to me quite frankly.

“His heart is dangerously weak,” he said.

“Have you told him?” I asked.

“I had to, because the heart being in that conditionhe must be careful.”

“Did he understand really?”

“Oh, yes. He said he quite understood.”

Yet a few minutes later when I saw Henry, and beggedhim to remember what the doctor had said about hisheart, he exclaimed: “Fiddle! It’snot my heart at all! It’s my breath!”(Oh the ignorance of great men about themselves!)

“I also told him,” the Wolverhampton doctorwent on, “that he must not work so hard in future.”

I said: “He will, though,—andhe’s stronger than any one.”

Then I went round to the hotel.

I found him sitting up in bed, drinking his coffee.

He looked like some beautiful gray tree that I haveseen in Savannah. His old dressing-gown hungabout his frail yet majestic figure like some mysteriousgray drapery.

We were both very much moved, and said little.

“I’m glad you’ve come. TwoQueens have been kind to me this morning. QueenAlexandra telegraphed to say how sorry she was I wasill, and now you—”

He showed me the Queen’s gracious message.

I told him he looked thin and ill, but rested.

“Rested! I should think so. I haveplenty of time to rest. They tell me I shallbe here eight weeks. Of course I sha’n’t,but still—It was that rug in front of thedoor. I tripped over it. A commercial travelerpicked me up—a kind fellow, but d—nhim, he wouldn’t leave me afterwards—wantedto talk to me all night.”

I remembered his having said this, when I was toldby his servant, Walter Collinson, that on the nightof his death at Bradford, he stumbled over the rugwhen he walked into the hotel corridor.

We fell to talking about work. He said he hopedthat I had a good manager ... agreed very heartilywith me about Frohman, saying he was always so fair—morethan fair.

“What a wonderful life you’ve had, haven’tyou?” I exclaimed, thinking of it all in a flash.

“Oh, yes,” he said quietly ... “awonderful life—of work.”

“And there’s nothing better, after all,is there?”

“Nothing.”

“What have you got out of it all.... Youand I are ‘getting on,’ as they say.Do you ever think, as I do sometimes, what you havegot out of life?”

“What have I got out of it?” said Henry,stroking his chin and smiling slightly. “Letme see.... Well, a good cigar, a good glass ofwine—good friends.” Here hekissed my hand with courtesy. Always he was socourteous; always his actions, like this little oneof kissing my hand, were so beautifully timed.They came just before the spoken words, and gave thempeculiar value.

“That’s not a bad summing-up of it all,”I said. “And the end.... How wouldyou like that to come?”

“How would I like that to come?” He repeatedmy question lightly yet meditatively too. Thenhe was silent for some thirty seconds before he snappedhis fingers—the action again before thewords.

“Like that!”

I thought of the definition of inspiration—“Acalculation rapidly made.” Perhaps he hadnever thought of the manner of his death before.Now he had an inspiration as to how it would come.

We were silent a long time, I thinking how like somesplendid Doge of Venice he looked, sitting up in bed,his beautiful mobile hand stroking his chin.

I agreed, when I could speak, that to be snuffed outlike a candle would save a lot of trouble.

After Henry Irving’s sudden death in Octoberof the same year, some of his friends protested againstthe statement that it was the kind of death that hedesired—that they knew, on the contrary,that he thought sudden death inexpressibly sad.

I can only say what he told me.

I stayed with him about three hours at Wolverhampton.Before I left I went back to see the doctor again—avery nice man by the way, and clever.

He told me that Henry ought never to play “TheBells” again, even if he acted again, whichhe said ought not to be.

It was clever of the doctor to see what a terribleemotional strain “The Bells” put uponHenry—how he never could play the part ofMatthias with ease as he could Louis XI., for example.

Every time he heard the sound of the bells, the throbbingof his heart must have nearly killed him. Heused always to turn quite white—there wasno trick about it. It was imagination acting physicallyon the body.

His death as Matthias—the death of a strong,robust man—was different from all his otherstage deaths. He did really almost die—heimagined death with such horrible intensity.His eyes would disappear upwards, his face grow gray,his limbs cold.

No wonder, then, that the first time that the Wolverhamptondoctor’s warning was disregarded, and Henryplayed “The Bells” at Bradford, his heartcould not stand the strain. Within twenty-fourhours of his last death as Matthias, he was dead.

What a heroic thing was that last performance of Becketwhich came between! I am told by those who werein the company at the time that he was obviously sufferingand dazed, this last night of life. But he wentthrough it all as usual. The courteous littlespeech to the audience, the signing of a worryingboy’s drawing at the stage-door—allthat he had done for years, he did faithfully forthe last time.

Yes, I know it seems sad to the ordinary mind thathe should have died in the entrance to an hotel ina country-town with no friend, no relation near him.Only his faithful and devoted servant Walter Collinson(whom, as was not his usual custom, he had asked todrive back to the hotel with him that night) was there.Do I not feel the tragedy of the beautiful body, forso many years the house of a thousand souls, beinglaid out in death by hands faithful and devoted enough,but not the hands of his kindred either in blood orin sympathy!

I do feel it, yet I know it was more appropriate tosuch a man than the deathbed where friends and relationsweep.

Henry Irving belonged to England, not to a family.England showed that she knew it when she buried himin Westminster Abbey.

Years before I had discussed, half in joke, the possibilityof this honor. I remember his saying to me withgreat simplicity, when I asked him what he expectedof the public after his death: “I shouldlike them to do their duty by me. And they will—theywill!”

There was not a touch of arrogance in this, just asI hope there was no touch of heartlessness in me becausemy chief thought during the funeral in WestminsterAbbey was: “How Henry would have liked it!”The right note was struck, as I think was not thecase at Tennyson’s funeral thirteen years earlier.

“Tennyson is buried to-day inWestminster Abbey,” I wrote in my diary,October 12, 1892. “His majestic life anddeath spoke of him better than the service....The music was poor and dull and weak, while hewas strong. The triumphant should havebeen the sentiment expressed.... Faces oneknew everywhere. Lord Salisbury looked fine.His massive head and sad eyes were remarkable.No face there, however, looked anything by theside of Henry’s.... He looked verypale and slim and wonderful!”

How terribly I missed that face at Henry’s ownfuneral! I kept on expecting to see it, for indeedit seemed to me that he was directing the whole mostmoving and impressive ceremony. I could almosthear him saying, “Get on! get on!” inthe parts of the service that dragged. When thesun—such a splendid, tawny sun—burstacross the solemn misty gray of the Abbey, at thevery moment when the coffin, under its superb pallof laurel leaves,[1] was carried up the choir, I feltthat it was an effect which he would have loved.

[Footnote 1: Every lover of beauty and everylover of Henry Irving must have breathed a silentthanksgiving that day to the friends who had thatinspiration and made the pall with their own hands.]

I can understand any one who was present at HenryIrving’s funeral thinking that this was hisbest memorial, and that any attempt to honor him afterwardswould be superfluous and inadequate.

Yet when some further memorial was discussed, it wasnot always easy to sympathize with those who said:“We got him buried in Westminster Abbey.What more do you want?”

After all it was Henry Irving’s commanding genius,and his devotion of it to high objects, his personalinfluence on the English people, which secured himburial among England’s great dead. The petitionfor the burial presented to the Dean and Chapter,and signed, on the initiative of Henry Irving’sleading fellow-actors, by representative personagesof influence, succeeded only because of Henry’sunique position.

“We worked very hard to get it done,”I heard said—more than once. And Ioften longed to answer: “Yes, and all honorto your efforts, but you worked for it between Henry’sdeath and his funeral. He worked for it allhis life!”

I have always desired some other memorial to HenryIrving than his honored grave, not so much for hissake as for the sake of those who loved him and wouldgladly welcome the opportunity of some great test oftheir devotion.

Henry Irving’s profession decided last year,after much belated discussion, to put up a statueto him in the streets of London. I believe thatit is to take the form of a portrait statue in academicrobes. A statue can never at any time be a veryhappy memorial to an actor, who does not do his workin his own person, but through his imagination ofmany different persons. If statue it had to be,the work should have had a symbolic character.My dear friend Alfred Gilbert, one of the most giftedsculptors of this or any age, expressed a similaropinion to the committee of the memorial, and lateron wrote to me as follows:

“I should never have attemptedthe representation of Irving as a mummer, norliterally as Irving disguised as this one or that one,but as Irving—the artistic exponentof other great artists’ conceptions—Irving,the greatest illustrator of the greatest men’screations—he himself being a creator.

“I had no idea of making useof Irving’s facial and physical peculiaritiesas a means to perpetuate his life’s work.The spirit of this work was worship of an ideal,and it was no fault of his that his strong personalitydominated the honest conviction of his critics.These judged Irving as the man masquerading, not asthe Artist interpreting, for the single reasonthat they were themselves overcome by the magicpersonality of a man above their comprehension.

“I am convinced that Irving,when playing the role of whatever character heundertook to represent, lived in that character, andnot as the actor playing the part for the applauseof those in front—Charles I. was amasterpiece of conception as to the representationof a great gentleman. His Cardinal Wolsey wasthe most perfect presentation of greatness, ofself-abnegation, and of power to suffer I canrealize.... Jingle and Matthias were in Comedyand Tragedy combined, masterpieces of histrionic art.I could write volumes upon Irving as an actor,but to write of him as a man, and as avery great Artist, I should require more time thanis still allotted to me of man’s brief span oflife and far, far more power than that whichwas given to those who wrote of him in a hurryduring his lifetime.... Do you wonder, then, thatI should rather elect to regard Irving in theabstract, when called upon to suggest a fittingmonument, than to promise a faithful portrait?...Let us be grateful, however, that a great artist isto be commemorated at all, side by side withthe effigies of great Butchers of mankind, andephemeral statesmen, the instigators of uselessbloodshed....”

ALFRED GILBERT AND OTHERS

Alfred Gilbert was one of Henry’s sincere admirersin the old Lyceum days, and now if you want to hearany one talk of those days brilliantly, delightfully,and whimsically, if you want to live first nightsand Beefsteak Room suppers over again—ifyou want to have Henry Irving at the Garrick Clubrecreated before your eyes, it is only Alfred Gilbertwho can do it for you!

He lives now in Bruges, that beautiful dead city ofcanals and Hans Memlings, and when I was there a fewyears ago I saw him. I shall never forget hiswelcome! I let him know of my arrival, and withina few hours he sent a carriage to my hotel to bringme to his house. The seats of the fiacrewere hidden by flowers! He had not long been inhis house, and there were packing-cases still lyingabout in the spacious, desolate rooms looking intoan old walled garden. But on the wall of the roomin which we dined was a sketch by Raffaele, and thedinner, chiefly cooked by Mr. Gilbert himself,—theSavoy at its best!

Some people regret that he has “buried”himself in Bruges, and that England has practicallylost her best sculptor. I think that he will dosome of the finest work of his life there, and meanwhileEngland should be proud of Alfred Gilbert.

In a city which can boast of some of the ugliest andweakest statues in the world, he has, in the fountainerected to the memory of the good Lord Shaftesburyin Piccadilly Circus, created a thing of beauty whichwill be a joy to future generations of Londoners.

The other day Mr. Frampton, one of the leaders ofthe younger school of English sculptors, said of theGilbert fountain that it could hold its own with thefinest work of the same kind done by the masters ofthe past. “They tell me,” he said,“that it is inappropriate to its surroundings.It is. That’s the fault of the surroundings.In a more enlightened age than this, Piccadilly Circuswill be destroyed and rebuilt merely as a settingfor Gilbert’s jewel.”

“The name of Gilbert is honored in this house,”went on Mr. Frampton. We were at the time lookingat Henry Irving’s death-mask which Mr. Framptonhad taken, and a replica of which he had just givenme. I thought of Henry’s living face, alivewith raffish humor and mischief, presiding at a supperin the Beefsteak Room—and of Alfred Gilbert’sBeethoven-like head with its splendid lion-like maneof tawny hair. Those days were dead indeed.

Now it seems to me that I did not appreciate themhalf enough—that I did not observe enough.Yet players should observe, if only for their work’ssake. The trouble is that only certain types ofmen and women—the expressive types whichare useful to us—appeal to our observation.

I remember one supper very well at which Bastien-Lepagewas present, and “Miss Sarah” too.The artist was lost in admiration of Henry’sface, and expressed a strong desire to paint him.The Bastien-Lepage portrait originated that evening,and is certainly a Beefsteak Room portrait, althoughHenry gave two sittings for it afterwards at GraftonStreet. At the supper itself Bastien-Lepage drewon a half-sheet of paper for me two little sketches,one of Sarah Bernhardt and the other of Henry, whichare among my most precious relics.

My portrait as Lady Macbeth by Sargent used to hangin the alcove in the Beefsteak Room when it was notaway at some exhibition, and the artist and I haveoften supped under it—to me no infliction,for I have always loved the picture, and think itis far more like me than any other. Mr. Sargentfirst of all thought that he would paint me at themoment when Lady Macbeth comes out of the castle towelcome Duncan. He liked the swirl of the dress,and the torches and the women bowing down on eitherside. He used to make me walk up and down hisstudio until I nearly dropped in my heavy dress, sayingsuddenly as I got the swirl:—“That’sit, that’s it!” and rushing off to hiscanvas to throw on some paint in his wonderful inimitablefashion!

But he had to give up that idea of the LadyMacbeth picture all the same. I was the gainer,for he gave me the unfinished sketch, and it is certainlyvery beautiful.

By this sketch hangs a tale of Mr. Sargent’sgreat-heartedness. When the details of my jubileeperformance at Drury Lane were being arranged, theCommittee decided to ask certain distinguished artiststo contribute to the programme. They were alldelighted about it, and such busy men as Sir LaurenceAlma-Tadema, Mr. Abbey, Mr. Byam Shaw, Mr. Walter Crane,Mr. Bernard Partridge, Mr. James Pryde, Mr. Orpen,and Mr. William Nicholson all gave some of their workto me. Mr. Sargent was asked if he would allowthe first Lady Macbeth study to be reproduced.He found that it would not reproduce well, so in theheight of the season and of his work with fashionablesitters, he did an entirely new painting of the samesubject, which would reproduce! This actof kind friendship I could never forget even if thepicture were not in front of me at this minute toremind me of it. “You must think of me asone of the people bowing down to you in the picture,”he wrote to me when he sent the new version for theprogramme. Nothing during my jubilee celebrationstouched me more than this wonderful kindness of Mr.Sargent’s.

Burne-Jones would have done something for my jubileeprogramme too, I think, had he lived. He wasone of my kindest friends, and his letters—hewas a heaven-born letter-writer—were likeno one else’s; full of charm and humor and feeling.Once when I was starting for a long tour in Americahe sent me a picture with this particularly charmingletter:

“THE GRANGE, “July 14, 1897.

“My dear Miss Terry,—

“I never have the courage to throw you a hugebouquet as I should like to—so in defaultI send you a little sign of my homage and admiration.I made it purposely for you, which is its only excellence,and thought nothing but gold good enough to paintwith for you—and now it’s done, Iam woefully disappointed. It looks such a poorwretch of a thing, and there is no time to make anotherbefore you go, so look mercifully upon it—itdid mean so well—as you would upon a foolishfriend, not holding it up to the light, but puttingit in a corner and never showing it.

“As to what it is about, I think it’sa little scene in Heaven (I am always pretending toknow so much about that place!), a sort of patrolgoing to look to the battlements, some such thoughtas in Marlowe’s lovely line: ‘Nowwalk the angels on the walls of Heaven.’But I wanted it to be so different, and my old eyescannot help me to finish it as I want—soforgive it and accept it with all its accompanyingcrowd of good wishes to you. They were alwaysin my mind as I did it.

“And come back soon from that America and stayhere, and never go away again. Indeed I do wishyou boundless happiness, and for our sake, such alength of life that you might shudder if I were tosay how long.

“Ever your poor artist,

“E.B.-J.

“If it is so faint that you can scarcely seeit, let that stand for modest humility and shyness—asI had only dared to whisper.”

Another time, when I had sent him a trifle for somecharity, he wrote:

“Dear Lady,—

“This morning came the delightful crinkly paperthat always means you! If anybody else ever usedit, I think I should assault them! I certainlywouldn’t read their letter or answer it.

“And I know the check will be very useful.If I thought much about those wretched homes, or sawthem often, I should do no more work, I know.There is but one thing to do—to help witha little money if you can manage it, and then tryhard to forget. Yes, I am certain that I shouldnever paint again if I saw much of those hopeless livesthat have no remedy. I know of such a dear ladabout my Phil’s age who has felt this so sharplythat he has given his happy, lucky, petted life togive himself wholly to share their squalor and unlovelylives—doing all he can, of evenings whenhis work is over, to amuse such as have the heartto be amused, reading to them and telling them abouthistories and what not—anything he knowsthat can entertain them. And this he has dailydone for about a year, and if he carries it on forhis life time he shall have such a nimbus that hewill look top-heavy with it.

“No, you would always have been lovely and madesome beauty about you if you had been born there—butI should have got drunk and beaten my family and beenaltogether horrible! When everything goes justas I like, and painting prospers a bit, and the airis warm and friends well and everything perfectlycomfortable, I can just manage to behave decently,and a spoilt fool I am—that’s thetruth. But wherever you were, some garden wouldgrow.

“Yes, I know Winchelsea and Rye and Lynn andHythe—all bonny places, and Hythe has achurch it may be proud of. Under the sea is anotherWinchelsea, a poor drowned city—about amile out at sea, I think, always marked in old mapsas ‘Winchelsea Dround.’ If ever thesea goes back on that changing coast there may begreat fun when the spires and towers come up again.It’s a pretty land to drive in.

“I am growing downright stupid—Ican’t work at all, nor think of anything.Will my wits ever come back to me?

“And when are you coming back—whenwill the Lyceum be in its rightful hands again?I refuse to go there till you come back....”

* * * * *

“Dear Lady,—

“I have finished four pictures: come andtell me if they will do. I have worked so longat them that I know nothing about them, but I wantyou to see them—and like them if you can.

“All Saturday and Sunday and Monday they arevisible. Come any time you can that suits youbest—only come.

“I do hope you will like them. If you don’tyou must really pretend to, else I shall be heartbroken.And if I knew what time you would come and which day,I would get Margaret here.

“I have had them about four years—longbefore I knew you, and now they are done and I canhardly believe it. But tell me pretty pacifyinglies and say you like them, even if you find themrubbish.

“Your devoted and affectionate

“E.B.-J.”

I went the next day to see the pictures with Edy.It was the “Briar Rose” series. Theywere beautiful. The lovely Lady Granby(now duch*ess of Rutland) was there—remindingme, as always, of the reflection of something in wateron a misty day. When she was Miss Violet Lindsayshe did a drawing of me as Portia in the doctor’srobes, which is I think very like me, as well as havingall the charming qualities of her well-known pencilportraits.

The artists all loved the Lyceum, not only the oldschool, but the young ones, who could have been excusedfor thinking that Henry Irving and I were a coupleof old fogeys! William Nicholson and James Pryde,who began by working together as “The BeggarstaffBrothers,” and in this period did a poster ofHenry for “Don Quixote” and another for“Becket,” were as enthusiastic about theLyceum as Burne-Jones had been. Mr. Pryde hasdone an admirable portrait of me as Nance Oldfield,and his “Irving as Dubosc” shows the mostextraordinary insight.

“I have really tried to draw his personality”he wrote to me thanking me for having said I likedthe picture (it was done after Henry’s death)....“Irving’s eyes in Dubosc always made myhair stand on end, and I paid great attention to thefact that one couldn’t exactly say whether theywere shut or open. Very terrifying....”

Mr. Rothenstein, to whom I once sat for a lithograph,was another of the young artists who came a good dealto the Lyceum. I am afraid that I must be a verydifficult “subject,” yet I sit easily enough,and don’t mind being looked at—anobjection which makes some sitters constrained andawkward before the painter. Poor Mr. Rothensteinwas much worried over his lithograph, yet “itwas all right on the night,” as actors say.

“Dear Miss Terry,—

“My nights have been sleepless—mydrawing sitting gibbering on my chest. I knewhow fearfully I should stumble—that is whyI wanted to do more drawings earlier. I havebeen working on the thing this morning, and I believeI improved it slightly. What I want now is a cloak—thesimplest you have (perhaps the green one?), which Ithink would be better than the less simple and worryinglace fallalas in the drawing. I can put it onthe lay figure and sketch it into the horror over theold lines. I think the darker stuff will makethe face blonde—more delicate. Pleaseunderstand how nervously excited I have been over thewretched drawing, how short it falls of any suggestionof that personality of which I cannot speak to you—whichI should some day like to give a shadow of....

“You were altogether charming and delightfuland sympathetic. Perhaps if you had looked likea bear and behaved like a harpy, who knows what Imight not have done!

“... You shall have a sight of a proofat the end of the week, if you have any address outof town. Meanwhile I will do my best to improvethe stone.

“Always yours, dear Miss Terry,

“WILL ROTHENSTEIN.”

My dear friend Graham Robertson painted two portraitsof me, and I was Mortimer Menpes’ first subjectin England.

Sir Laurence Alma-Tadema did the designs for the sceneryand dresses in “Cymbeline,” and incidentallydesigned for Imogen one of the loveliest dresses thatI ever wore. It was made by Mrs. Nettleship.So were the dresses that Burne-Jones designed forme to wear in “King Arthur.”

Many of my most effective dresses have been what Imay call “freaks.” The splendid dressthat I wore in the Trial Scene in “Henry VIII.”is one example of what I mean. Mr. Seymour Lucasdesigned it, and there was great difficulty in findinga material rich enough and somber enough at the sametime. No one was so clever on such quests as Mrs.Comyns Carr. She was never to be misled by theappearance of the stuff in the hand, nor impressedby its price by the yard, if she did not think it wouldlook right on the stage. As Katherine she wantedme to wear steely silver and bronzy gold, but allthe brocades had such insignificant designs.If they had a silver design on them it looked underthe lights like a scratch in white cotton! Atlast Mrs. Carr found a black satin which on the rightside was timorously and feebly patterned with a meanderingrose and thistle. On the wrong side of it wasa sheet of silver—just the rightsteely silver because it was the wrong side!Mrs. Carr then started on another quest for gold thatshould be as right as that silver. She foundit at last in some gold-lace antimacassars at Whiteley’s!From these base materials she and Mrs. Nettleshipconstructed a magnificent queenly dress. Its onlyfault was that it was heavy.

But the weight that I can carry on the stage has oftenamazed me. I remember that for “King Arthur”Mrs. Nettleship made me a splendid cloak embroideredall over with a pattern in jewels. At the dress-rehearsalwhen I made my entrance the cloak swept magnificentlyand I daresay looked fine, but I knew at once thatI should never be able to act in it. I calledout to Mrs. Nettleship and Alice Carr, who were inthe stalls, and implored them to lighten it of someof the jewels.

“Oh, do keep it as it is,” they answered,“it looks splendid.”

“I can’t breathe in it, much less actin it. Please send some one up to cut off a fewstones.”

I went on with my part, and then, during a wait, twoof Mrs. Nettleship’s assistants came on to thestage and snipped off a jewel here and there.When they had filled a basket, I began to feel better!

But when they tried to lift that basket, their unitedefforts could not move it!

On one occasion I wore a dress made in eight hours!During the first week of the run of “The MerryWives of Windsor” at His Majesty’s, therewas a fire in my dressing-room—an odd firewhich was never accounted for. In the morningthey found the dress that I had worn as Mrs. Pageburnt to a cinder. A messenger from His Majesty’swent to tell my daughter, who had made the ill-fateddress:

“Miss Terry will, I suppose, have to wear oneof our dresses to-night. Perhaps you could makeher a new one by the end of the week.”

“Oh, that will be all right,” said Edy,bluffing, “I’ll make her a dress by to-night.”She has since told me that she did not really thinkshe could make it in time!

She had at this time a workshop in Henrietta Street,Covent Garden. All hands were called into theservice, and half an hour after the message came fromthe theater the new dress was started. That wasat 10.30. Before 7 p.m. the new dress was inmy dressing-room at His Majesty’s Theater.

And best of all, it was a great improvement on thedress that had been burned! It stood the wearand tear of the first run of “Merry Wives”and of all the revivals, and is still as fresh aspaint!

That very successful dress cost no time. Anothervery successful dress—the white one thatI wore in the Court Scene in “A Winter’sTale,” cost no money. My daughter made itout of material of which a sovereign must have coveredthe cost.

My daughter says to know what not to do isthe secret of making stage dresses. It is nota question of time or of money, but of omission.

One of the best “audiences” that actoror actress could wish for was Mr. Gladstone.He used often to come and see the play at the Lyceumfrom a little seat in the O.P. entrance, and he nearlyalways arrived five minutes before the curtain wentup. One night I thought he would catch cold—itwas a bitter night—and I lent him my whitescarf!

He could always give his whole great mind to the matterin hand. This made him one of the most comfortablepeople to talk to that I have ever met. In everythinghe was thorough, and I don’t think hecould have been late for anything.

I contrasted his punctuality, when he came to see“King Lear,” with the unpunctuality ofLord Randolph Churchill, who came to see the play thevery next night with a party of men friends and arrivedwhen the first act was over.

Lord Randolph was, all the same, a great admirer ofHenry Irving. He confessed to him once that hehad never read a play of Shakespeare’s in hislife, but that after seeing Henry act he thought itwas time to begin! A very few days later he pulverizedus with his complete and masterly knowledge of atleast half a dozen of the plays. He was a perfectperson to meet at a dinner or supper—brilliantlyentertaining, and queerly simple. He struck oneas being able to master any subject that interestedhim, and once a Shakespeare performance at the Lyceumhad fired his interest, there was nothing about thatplay, or about past performances of it, which he didnot know! His beautiful wife (now Mrs. GeorgeCornwallis West) wore a dress at supper one eveningwhich gave me the idea for the Lady Macbeth dress,afterwards painted by Sargent. The bodice ofLady Randolph’s gown was trimmed all over withgreen beetles’ wings. I told Mrs. ComynsCarr about it, and she remembered it when she designedmy Lady Macbeth dress and saw to its making by cleverMrs. Nettleship.

Lady Randolph Churchill by sheer force of beauty offace and expressiveness would, I venture to prophesy,have been successful on the stage if fate had everled her to it.

“BEEFSTEAK” GUESTS AT THE LYCEUM

The present Princess of Wales, when she was PrincessMay of Teck, used often to come to the Lyceum withher mother, Princess Mary, and to supper in the BeefsteakRoom. In 1891 she chose to come as her birthdaytreat, which was very flattering to us.

A record of those Beefsteak Room suppers would bea pleasant thing to possess. I have such a badmemory—I see faces round the table—theface of Liszt among them—and when I tryto think when it was, or how it was, the faces vanishas people might out of a room when, after having watchedthem through a dim window-pane, one determines to openthe door—and go in.

Lady Dorothy Nevill, that distinguished lady of theold school—what a picture of a woman!—wasalways a fine theater-goer. Her face always cheeredme if I saw it in the theater, and she was one of themost clever and amusing of the Beefsteak Room guests.As a hostess, sitting in her round chair, with herhair dressed to become her, irrespective ofany period, leading this, that and the other of herguests to speak upon their particular subjects, shewas simply the ideal.

Singers were often among Henry Irving’s guestsin the Beefsteak Room—Patti, Melba, Calve,Albani, Sims Reeves, Tamagno, Victor Maurel, and manyothers.

Calve! The New York newspapers wrote “SalveCalve!” and I would echo them. She is thebest singer-actress that I know. They tell methat Grisi and Mario were fine dramatically.When I saw them, they were on the point of retiring,and I was a child. I remember that Madame Grisiwas very stout, but Mario certainly acted well.Trebelli was a noble actress; Maria Gay is splendid,and oh! Miss Mary Garden! Never shall Iforget her acting in “Griselidis.”Yet for all the talent of these singers whom I havenamed, and among whom I should surely have placedthe incomparable Maurel, whose Iago was superb, I thinkthat the arts of singing and acting can seldom behappily married. They quarrel all the while!A few operas seem to have been written with a knowledgeof the difficulty of the conventions which interveneto prevent the expression of dramatic emotion; andthese operas are contrived with amazing clevernessso that the acting shall have free play. Verdiin “Othello,” and Bizet in “Carmen”came nearest solving the problem.

To go back to Calve. She has always seemed tome a darling, as well as a great artist. Shewas entirely generous and charming to me when we wereliving for some weeks together in the same New Yorkhotel. One wonderful Sunday evening I rememberdining with her, and she sang and sang for me, asif she could never grow tired. One thing she saidshe had never sung so well before, and she laughedin her delicious rapturous way and sang it all overagain.

Her enthusiasm for acting, music, and her fellow-artistswas magnificent. Oh, what a lovable creature!Such soft dark eyes and entreating ways, such a beautifulmixture of nobility and “calinerie”!She would laugh and cry all in a moment like a child.That year in New York she was raved about, but allthe excitement and enthusiasm that she created onlyseemed to please and amuse her. She was not inthe least spoiled by the fuss.

I once watched Patti sing from behind scenes at theMetropolitan Opera House, New York. My impressionfrom that point of view was that she was actuallya bird! She could not help singing!Her head, flattened on top, her nose tilted downwardslike a lovely little beak, her throat swelling andswelling as it poured out that extraordinary volumeof sound, all made me think that she must have beena nightingale before she was transmigrated into ahuman being! Near, I was amazed by the loudnessof her song. I imagine that Tetrazzini, whom Ihave not yet heard, must have this bird-like quality.

The dear kind-hearted Melba has always been a goodfriend of mine. The first time I met her wasin New York at a supper party, and she had a bad cold,and therefore a frightful speaking voice forthe moment! I shall never forget the shock thatit gave me. Thank goodness I very soon afterwardsheard her again when she hadn’t a cold!

“All’s well that ends well.”It ended very well. She spoke as exquisitelyas she sang. She was one of the first to offerher services for my jubilee performance at Drury Lane,but unfortunately she was ill when the day came, andcould not sing. She had her dresses in “Faust”copied from mine by Mrs. Nettleship, and I came acrossa note from her the other day thanking me for havingintroduced her to a dressmaker who was “an angel.”Another note sent round to me during a performanceof “King Arthur” in Boston I shall alwaysprize.

“You are sublime, adorable ce soir....I wish I were a millionaire—I would throwall my millions at your feet. If thereis another procession, tell the stage manager to seethose imps of Satan don’t chew gum.It looks awful.

“Love,

“MELBA”

I think that time it was the solemn procession ofmourners following the dead body of Elaine who werechewing gum; but we always had to be prepared forit among our American “supers,” whetherthey were angels or devils or courtiers!

In “Faust” we “carried” aboutsix leading witches for the Brocken Scene, and recruitedthe forty others from local talent in the differenttowns that we visited. Their general directionwas to throw up their arms and look fierce at certainmusic cues. One night I noticed a girl goingthrough the most terrible contortions with her jaw,and thought I must say something.

“That’s right, dear. Very good, butdon’t exaggerate.”

“How?” was all the answer that I got inthe choicest nasal twang, and the girl continued tomake faces as before.

I was contemplating a second attempt, when Templeton,the limelight man, who had heard me speak to her,touched me gently on the shoulder.

“Beg pardon, miss, she don’t mean it.She’s only chewing gum!”

One of my earliest friends among literary folk wasMr. Charles Dodgson—or Lewis Carroll—or“Alice in Wonderland.” Ah, thatconveys something to you! I can’t rememberwhen I didn’t know him. I think he musthave seen Kate act as a child, and having given her“Alice”—he always gave hisyoung friends “Alice” at once by way ofestablishing pleasant relations—he madea progress as the years went on through the wholefamily. Finally he gave “Alice” tomy children.

He was a splendid theater-goer, and took the keenestinterest in all the Lyceum productions, frequentlywriting to me to point out slips in the dramatist’slogic which only he would ever have noticed! Hedid not even spare Shakespeare. I think he wrotethese letters for fun, as some people make puzzles,anagrams, or Limericks!

“Now I’m going to put beforeyou a ‘Hero-ic’ puzzle of mine, but pleaseremember I do not ask for your solution of it, as youwill persist in believing, if I ask your helpin a Shakespeare difficulty, that I am only jesting!However, if you won’t attack it yourself,perhaps you would ask Mr. Irving some day how heexplains it?

“My difficulty is this:—Whyin the world did not Hero (or at any rate Beatriceon her behalf) prove an ‘alibi’ in answerto the charge? It seems certain that shedid not sleep in her room that night;for how could Margaret venture to open the window andtalk from it, with her mistress asleep in theroom? It would be sure to wake her.Besides Borachio says, after promising that Margaretshall speak with him out of Hero’s chamberwindow, ’I will so fashion the matter thatHero shall be absent.’ (How he couldpossibly manage any such thing is another difficulty,but I pass over that.) Well then, granting thatHero slept in some other room that night, whydidn’t she say so? When Claudio asks her:’What man was he talked with yesternightout at your window betwixt twelve and one?’why doesn’t she reply: ’I talked withno man at that hour, my lord. Nor was Iin my chamber yesternight, but in another, farfrom it, remote.’ And this she could, ofcourse, prove by the evidence of the housemaids,who must have known that she had occupied anotherroom that night.

“But even if Hero might be supposedto be so distracted as not to remember whereshe had slept the night before, or even whether shehad slept anywhere, surely Beatricehas her wits about her! And when an arrangementwas made, by which she was to lose, for one night,her twelve-months’ bedfellow, is it conceivablethat she didn’t know where Heropassed the night? Why didn’t shereply:

“But good my lord sweetHero slept not there:
She had another chamber forthe nonce.
’Twas sure some counterfeitthat did present
Her person at the window,aped her voice,
Her mien, her manners, andhath thus deceived
My good Lord Pedro and thiscompany?’

“With all theseexcellent materials for proving an ‘alibi’it is
incomprehensible thatno one should think of it. If only there had
been a barrister present,to cross-examine Beatrice!

“’Now, ma’am, attendto me, please, and speak up so that the jury canhear you. Where did you sleep last night?Where did Hero sleep? Will you swear thatshe slept in her own room? Will you swear thatyou do not know where she slept?’ I feelinclined to quote old Mr. Weller and to say toBeatrice at the end of the play (only I’m afraidit isn’t etiquette to speak across the footlights):

“‘Oh, Samivel,Samivel, vy vornt there a halibi?’”

Mr. Dodgson’s kindness to children was wonderful.He really loved them and put himself out forthem. The children he knew who wanted to go onthe stage were those who came under my observation,and nothing could have been more touching than hisceaseless industry on their behalf.

“I want to thank you,”he wrote to me in 1894 from Oxford, “as heartilyas words can do it for your true kindness in lettingme bring D. behind the scenes to you. Youwill know without my telling you what an intensepleasure you thereby gave to a warm-hearted girl,and what love (which I fancy you value more than mereadmiration) you have won from her. Her wildlonging to try the stage will not, I think, bearthe cold light of day when once she has triedit, and has realized what a lot of hard work and wearywaiting and ‘hope deferred’ it involves.She doesn’t, so far as I know, absolutelyneed, as N. does, to earn money for her own support.But I fancy she will find life rather a pinch,unless she can manage to do something in theway of earning money. So I don’t liketo advise her strongly against it, as I wouldwith any one who had no such need.

“Also thank you,thank you with all my heart, for all your great
kindness to N. She doeswrite so brightly and gratefully about all
you do for her and sayto her.”

“N.” has since achieved great successon the music-halls and in pantomime. “D.”is a leading lady!

This letter to my sister Floss is characteristic ofhis “Wonderland” style when writing tochildren:

“Ch. Ch., January, 1874.

“My dear Florence,—

“Ever since that heartless piece of conductof yours (I allude to the affair of the Moon and theblue silk gown) I have regarded you with a gloomyinterest, rather than with any of the affection offormer years—so that the above epithet‘dear’ must be taken as conventional only,or perhaps may be more fitly taken in the sense inwhich we talk of a ‘dear’ bargain, meaningto imply how much it has cost us; and who shall sayhow many sleepless nights it has cost me to endeavorto unravel (a most appropriate verb) that ‘bluesilk gown’?

“Will you please explain to Tom about that photographof the family group which I promised him? Itshistory is an instructive one, as illustrating myhabits of care and deliberation. In 1867 the picturewas promised him, and an entry made in my book.In 1869, or thereabouts, I mounted the picture ona large card, and packed it in brown paper. In1870, or 1871, or thereabouts, I took it with me toGuilford, that it might be handy to take with me whenI went up to town. Since then I have taken ittwo or three times to London, and on each occasion(having forgotten to deliver it to him) I broughtit back again. This was because I had no convenientplace in London to leave it in. But nowI have found such a place. Mr. Dubourg has kindlytaken charge of it—so that it is now muchnearer to its future owner than it has been for sevenyears. I quite hope, in the course of anotheryear or two, to be able to remember to bring it toyour house: or perhaps Mr. Dubourg may be callingeven sooner than that and take it with him. You

will wonder why I ask you to tell him instead of writingmyself. The obvious reason is that you will beable, from sympathy, to put my delay in the most favorablelight—to make him see that, as hasty puddingsare not the best of puddings so hasty judgments arenot the best of judgments, and that he ought to becontent to wait even another seven years for his picture,and to sit ‘like patience on a monument, smilingat grief.’ This quotation, by the way,is altogether a misprint. Let me explain it toyou. The passage originally stood, ’Theysit like patients on the Monument, smiling at Greenwich.’In the next edition ‘Greenwich’ was printedshort, ‘Green’h,’ and so got graduallyaltered into ‘grief.’ The allusionof course is to the celebrated Dr. Jenner, who usedto send all his patients to sit on the top of theMonument (near London Bridge) to inhale fresh air,promising them that, when they were well enough, theyshould go to ‘Greenwich Fair.’ Soof course they always looked out towards Greenwich,and sat smiling to think of the treat in store forthem. A play was written on the subject of theirinhaling the fresh air, and was for some time attributedto him (Shakespeare), but it is certainly not in hisstyle. It was called ‘The Wandering Air,’and was lately revived at the Queen’s Theater.The custom of sitting on the Monument was given upwhen Dr. Jenner went mad, and insisted on it thatthe air was worse up there and that the loweryou went the more airy it became. Hencehe always called those little yards, below the pavement,outside the kitchen windows, ‘the kitchenairier,’ a name that is still in use.

“All this information you are most welcome touse, the next time you are in want of something totalk about. You may say you learned it from ’adistinguished etymologist,’ which is perfectlytrue, since any one who knows me by sight can easilydistinguish me from all other etymologists.

“What parts are you and Polly now playing?

“Believe me to be (conventionally)

“Yours affectionately,

“L. DODGSON.”

No two men could be more unlike than Mr. Dodgson andMr. J.M. Barrie, yet there are more points ofresemblance than “because there’s a ‘b’in both!”

If “Alice in Wonderland” is the children’sclassic of the library, and one perhaps even moreloved by the grown up children than by the others,“Peter Pan” is the children’s stageclassic, and here again elderly children are the mostdevoted admirers. I am a very old child, nearlyold enough to be a “beautiful great-grandmother”(a part that I have entreated Mr. Barrie to writefor me), and I go and see “Peter” yearafter year and love him more each time. Thereis one advantage in being a grown-up child—youare not afraid of the pirates or the crocodile.

I first became an ardent lover of Mr. Barrie through“Sentimental Tommy,” and I simply hadto write and tell him how hugely I had enjoyed it.In reply I had a letter from Tommy himself!

“Dear Miss Ellen Terry,—

“I just wonder at you. I noticed that Mr.Barrie the author (so-called) and his masterful wifehad a letter they wanted to conceal from me, so Igot hold of it, and it turned out to be from you, andnot a line to me in it! If you like thebook, it is me you like, not him, and it isto me you should send your love, not to him.Corp thinks, however, that you did not like to makethe first overtures, and if that is the explanation,I beg herewith to send you my warm love (don’tmention this to Elspeth) and to say that I wish youwould come and have a game with us in the Den (don’tlet on to Grizel that I invited you). The firstmoment I saw you, I said to myself, ‘This isthe kind I like,’ and while the people roundabout me were only thinking of your acting, I waswondering which would be the best way of making youmy willing slave, and I beg to say that I believeI have ‘found a way,’ for most happilythe very ones I want most to lord it over, are theones who are least able to resist me.

“We should have ripping fun. You wouldbe Jean MacGregor, captive in the Queen’s Bower,but I would climb up at the peril of my neck to rescueyou, and you would faint in my strong arms, and wouldn’tGrizel get a turn when she came upon you and me whisperingsweet nothings in the Lovers’ Walk? I thinkit advisible to say in writing that I wouldonly mean them as nothings (because Grizel is reallymy one), but so long as they were sweet, what doesthat matter (at the time); and besides, youcould love me genuinely, and I would carelesslykiss your burning tears away.

“Corp is a bit fidgety about it, because hesays I have two to love me already, but I feel confidentthat I can manage more than two.

“Trusting to see you at the Cuttle Well on Saturdaywhen the eight o’clock bell is ringing,

“I am

“Your indulgent Commander,

“T. SANDYS.

“P.S.—Can you bring some of the Lyceumarmor with you, and two hard-boiled eggs?”

Henry Irving once thought of producing Mr. Barrie’splay “The Professor’s Love Story.”He was delighted with the first act, but when he hadread the rest he did not think the play would do forthe Lyceum. It was the same with many plays whichwere proposed for us. The ideas sounded all right,but as a rule the treatment was too thin, and theplay, even if good, on too small a scale for the theater.

One of our playwrights of whom I always expected agreat play was Mrs. Craigie (John Oliver Hobbes).A little one-act play of hers, “Journeys Endin Lovers’ Meeting”—in whichI first acted with Johnston Forbes-Robertson and Terrissat a special matinee in 1894—brought abouta friendship between us which lasted until her death.Of her it could indeed be said with poignant truth,“She should have died hereafter.”Her powers had not nearly reached their limit.

Pearl Craigie had a man’s intellect—awoman’s wit and apprehension. “Bright,”as the Americans say, she always managed to be evenin the dullest company, and she knew how to be silentat times, to give the “other fellow” achance. Her executive ability was extraordinary.Wonderfully tolerant, she could at the same time noteasily forgive any meanness or injustice that seemedto her deliberate. Hers was a splendid spirit.

I shall always bless that little play of hers whichfirst brought me near to so fine a creature.I rather think that I never met any one who gaveout so much as she did. To me, at least, shegave, gave all the time. I hope she wasnot exhausted after our long “confabs.”I was most certainly refreshed and replenished.

The first performance of “Journeys End in Lovers’Meeting” she watched from a private box withthe Princess of Wales (our present Queen) and HenryIrving. She came round afterwards just burningwith enthusiasm and praising me for work which wasreally not good. She spoiled one for other women.

Her best play was, I think, “The Ambassador,”in which Violet Vanbrugh (now Mrs. Bourchier) playeda pathetic part very beautifully, and made a greatadvance in her profession.

There was some idea of Pearl Craigie writing a playfor Henry Irving and me, but it never came to anything.There was a play of hers on the same subject as “TheSchool for Saints,” and another about Guizot.

“February 11, 1898.

“My very dear Nell,—

“I have an idea for a real four-act comedy (inthese matters nothing daunts me!) founded on a charminglittle episode in the private lives of Princess Lieven(the famous Russian ambassadress) and the celebratedGuizot, the French Prime Minister and historian.I should have to veil the identity slightly,and also make the story a husband and wife story—itwould be more amusing this way. It is comedy frombeginning to end. Sir Henry would make a splendidGuizot, and you the ideal Madame de Lieven. Dolet me talk it over with you. ‘The Schoolfor Saints’ was, as it were, a born biography.But the Lieven-Guizot idea is a play.

“Yours ever affectionately,

“PEARL MARY THERESA CRAIGIE.”

In another letter she writes:

“I am changingall my views about so-called ‘literary’dialogue. It
means pedantry.The great thing is to be lively.”

“A first night at the Lyceum” was an institution.I don’t think that it has its parallel nowadays.It was not, however, to the verdict of all the brilliantfriends who came to see us on the first night thatHenry Irving attached importance. I remembersome one saying to him after the first night of “Ravenswood”:“I don’t fancy that your hopes will bequite fulfilled about the play. I heard one ortwo on Saturday night—”

“Ah yes,” said Henry very carelessly andgently, “but you see there were so many friendsthere that night who didn’t pay—friends.One must not expect too much from friends! Thepaying public will, I think, decide favorably.”

Henry never cared much for society, as the sayingis—but as host in the Beefsteak Room hethoroughly enjoyed himself, and every one who cameto his suppers seemed happy! Every conceivabletype of person used to be present—and there,if one had the mind[1] one could study the worldin little.

[Footnote 1: “Wordsworth says he couldwrite like Shakespeare if he had the mind.Obviously it is only the mind that is lacking.”—CharlesLamb’s Letters.]

One of the liveliest guests was Sir Francis Burnand—whoentirely contradicted the theory that professionalcomedians are always the most gloomy of men in company.

A Sunday evening with the Burnand family at theirhome in The Bottoms was a treat Henry Irving and Ioften looked forward to—a particularlyrestful, lively evening. I think a big family—a“party” in itself—is the only“party” I like. Some of the youngerBurnands have greatly distinguished themselves, andthey are all perfect dears, so unaffected, kind, andgenial.

Sir Francis never jealously guarded his fun for Punch.He was always generous with it. Once when myson had an exhibition of his pictures, I asked Mr.Burnand, as he was then, to go and see it or send someone on Mr. Punch’s staff. He answered characteristically!

“WHITEFRIARS,
“London, E.C.

“My dear Ellen Terry,—

“Delighted to see your hand—’wishyour face were with it’ (Shakespeare).

“Remember me (Shakespeare again—’Hamlet’)to our Sir Henry. May you both live long andprosper!

“GORDON CRAIG’SPICTURES

He opens his show
A day I can’t go.
Any Friday
Is never my day.

But I’ll see his pictures
(Praise and no strictures)
’Ere this day week;
Yet I can’t speak
Of them in print
(I might give a hint)
Till each on its shelf
I’ve seen for myself.
I’ve no one to send.
Now I must end.
None I can trust,
So go I must.
Yours most trul_ee_
V’la F.C.B.
All well here,
All send love.
Likewise misses
Lots of kisses.
From all in this ’ereshanty
To you who don’tplay in Dante!

What a pity!
Whuroo-oo
Oo-oo-oo!”

BITS FROM MY DIARY

What is a diary as a rule? A document usefulto the person who keeps it, dull to the contemporarywho reads it, invaluable to the student, centuriesafterwards, who treasures it!

Whatever interest the few diaries of mine that I havepreserved may have for future psychologists and historians,they are for my present purpose almost worthless.Yet because things written at the time are consideredby some people to be more reliable than those writtenyears afterwards when memory calls in imaginationto her help, I have hunted up a few passages frommy diaries between 1887 and 1901; and now I give themin the raw for what they are worth—in myopinion nothing!

July 1887.—E.B.-J.(Sir Edward Burne-Jones) sent me a picture he
has painted for me—atroop of little angels.

August 2.—(Wewere in Scotland.) Visited the “Blasted Heath.”
Behold a flourishingpotato field! Smooth softness everywhere.We
must blast our own heathwhen we do Macbeth!

November 29.—–(Wewere in America.) Matinee “Faust”—Beecher
Memorial. The wholeaffair was the strangest failure. H.I. himself
took heaps of tickets,but the house was half empty.

The following Saturday.—Matinee“Faust.” House crammed. Why
couldn’t theyhave come when it was to honor Beecher?

January 1890.—Inanswer to some one who has said that Henry had allhis plays written for him, he pointed out that of twenty-eightLyceum productions only three were written “for”him—“Charles I.,” “EugeneAram,” and “Vanderdecken.”

February 27.—(Mybirthday.) Henry gave me a most exquisite wreathfor the head. It is made of green stones and diamondsand is like a myrtle wreath. I never sawanything so simple and grand. It’slovely.

(During this year our readings of “Macbeth”took place.)

April.—Visitto Trentham after the reading at Hanley. Nextday
to hotel at Bradford,where there were beetles in the beds!

I see that Bulwer, speakingof Macready’s Macbeth, says that
Macbeth was a “tremblerwhen opposed by his conscience, a warrior
when defied by his foes.”

August.—(AtWinchelsea.) We drove to Cliffe End. Henry gotthe
old pony along at aspanking rate, but I had to seize the reins now
and again to save usfrom sudden death.

August 14.—Droveto Tenterden. Saw Clowe’s Marionettes.

(Henry saw one of their play-bills in a shop window,but found that the performances only took place inthe evening. He found out the proprietor andasked him what were the takings on a good night.The man said L5, I think. Henry asked him ifhe would give him a special show for that sum.He was delighted. Henry and I and my daughterEdy and Fussie sat in solemn state in the empty tentand watched the show, which was most ingenious andclever. Clowe’s Marionettes are still “onthe road,” but ever since that “command”performance of Henry’s at Tenterden their billhas had two extra lines:

“Patronized by SIR HENRYIRVING
and
MISS ELLEN TERRY.”)

September.—“Method,”(in last act of “Ravenswood"), “to keepvery still, and feel it all quietly and deeply.”George Meredith, speaking of Romance, says:“The young who avoid that region, escape thetitle of Fool at the cost of a Celestial Crown.”Good!

December.—Mr.Gladstone behind the scenes. He likes the lastact
very much.

January 14, 1892.—PrinceEddie died. Cardinal Manning died.

January 18.—(Justafter successful production of “Henry VIII.”)H.I. is hard at work, studying “Lear.”This is what only a great man would do at sucha moment in the hottest blush of success. No“swelled head”—only ferventendeavor to do better work. The fools hardlyconceive what he is.

February 8.—MorellMackenzie died.

March 1.—Motherdied. Amazing courage in my father and sisters.
She looked so lovelywhen she was dead.

March 7.—Wentback to work.

October 6.—Tennysondied.

October 26.—A fineday. To call on the young duch*ess of S——.What a sweet and beautiful young girl she is!I said I would write and ask Mrs. Stirling togive her lessons, but feared she could not asshe was ill.

November.—Heard fromMrs. Stirling: “I am too ill and weak tosee any one in the way of lessons. I am justalive—in pain and distress always,but always anxious for news from the Lyceum.‘Lear’ will be a great success, Iam sure. I was Cordelia with Macready.”

November 10.—Firstnight of “Lear.” Such a foggy day!H. was just marvelous, but indistinct from nervousness.T. spoke out, but who cared! Haviland wasvery good. My Ted splendid in the little bithe had to do as Oswald. I was rather good to-night.It is a wee part, but fine.

December 7.—PoorFred Leslie is dead. Typhoid. A thunderboltto
us all. Poor, bright,charming Fred Leslie!

December 31.—Thishas been a dark year. Mother died. Illnessrife in the family. My son engaged—butthat may turn out well if the young couple willnot be too hasty. H.I. not well. Businessby no means up to the proper point. A deathin the Royal Family. Depression—depression!

March 9, 1897.—Eunice(Mrs. Henry Ward Beecher) is dead. Poor
darling! She wasa great friend to me.

April 10.—Firstnight of “Sans-Gene.” A wonderfulfirst-night
audience. I actedcourageously and fairly well. Extraordinary
success.

April 14.—PrincessLouise (Lorne) came to see the play and told
me she was delighted.Little Elspeth Campbell was with her, looking
lovely. I did notplay well—was depressed and clumsy.

May 13.—It’sall off about “The Man of Destiny” playwith H.I.
and G.B.S.

May 15.—To“Princess and Butterfly” with Audrey andAimee. Miss
Fay Davis better thanever.

May 17.—–NutcombeGould has lost his voice, and Ted was called
upon at a moment’snotice to play Hamlet at the Olympic to-night.

June 20.—ThanksgivingService at St. Paul’s for the Queen’sJubilee. Went with Edy and Henry. Notat all adequate to the occasion was the ceremony.The Te Deum rather good, the sermon sensible,but the whole uninspired, unimpassioned and dull.The Prince and Princess looked splendid.

June 22.—To LadyGlenesk’s, Piccadilly. Wonderfullest sightI ever saw. All was perfect, but the littleQueen herself more dignified than the whole processionput together! Sarah B. was in her placeat the Glenesks’ at six in the morning.Bancroft made a Knight. Mrs. Alma-Tadema’s“at home.” Paderewski played.What a divinely beautiful face!

July 14.—The Women’sJubilee Dinner at the Grafton Galleries. Tooill to go. My guests were H.I., Burne-Jones, MaxBeerbohm, W. Nicholson, Jimmy Pryde, Will Rothenstein,Graham Robertson, Richard Hardig Davis, LaurenceIrving, Ted and Edy.

December 11.—(InManchester.) Poor old Fussie dropped down a
trap 30 feet and diedin a second.

December 16.—WillieTerriss was murdered this evening.
Newspapers sent me awire for “expressions of sympathy"!!

January 22, 1901.—(Tenterden.)Nine o’clock evening and the bell is tollingfor our dearest Queen—Victoria, who diedthis evening just before seven o’clock—agrand, wise, good woman. A week ago shewas driving out regularly. The courage of it!

January 23.—ToRye (from Winchelsea). The King proclaimed inthe
Market Place. Theceremony only took about five minutes. Very dull
and undignified untilthe National Anthem, which upset us all.

January 26.—Londonlast night when I arrived might have been Winchelseawhen the sun goes down on all our wrath and arguments.No one in the streets ... empty buses crawlingalong. Black boards up at every shop window.All the gas half-mast high as well as the flags.I never saw such a mournful city, but why should theyturn the gas down? Thrift, thrift, Horatio!

February 2.—The Queen’sFuneral. From a balcony in S. James’s Isaw the most wonderful sight I have ever seen.The silence was extraordinary.... The tinycoffin on the gun-carriage drawn by the cream-coloredponies was the most pathetic, impressive object inall that great procession. All the grandestcarriages were out for the occasion. TheKing and the German Emperor rode side by side....The young Duke of Coburg, the duch*ess of Albany’sson, like Sir Galahad. I slept at BridgewaterHouse, but on my way to St. James’s fromthere my clothes were torn and I was half squeezedto death. One man called out to me:“Ah, now you know what it feels like at thepit door, Miss Terry.”

April 15.—Lyceum.“Coriolanus” produced. Went home directlyafter the play was over. I didn’t seemto know a word of my part yesterday at the dress-rehearsal,but to-night I was as firm as if I had playedit a hundred times.

April 16.—The criticswho wrote their notices at the dress-rehearsal,and complained of my playing pranks with the text,were a little previous. Oh, how bad it makesone feel to find that they all think my Volumnia“sweet,” and I thought I was fierce,contemptuous, overbearing. Worse, I feltas if I must be appearing like a cabman ratinghis Drury Lane wife!

April 20.—Beginningto play Volumnia a little better.

June 25.—Revivalof “Charles I.” The play went marvelously.I played first and last acts well. H. wasmagnificent. Ted saw play yesterday andsays I don’t “do Mrs. Siddons well.”I know what he means. The last act too declamatory.

June 26.—Changedthe “Mrs. Siddons” scene, and like it much
better. Simpler—morenature—more feeling.

July 16.—Horriblesuicide of Edith and Ida Yeoland. The poor
girls were out of anengagement. Unequal to the fight for life.

July 20.—Lastday of Lyceum season—“Coriolanus.”

(On that night, I remember, H.I. for the first timeplayed Coriolanus beautifully. He discardedthe disfiguring beard of the warrior that he had wornduring the “run” earlier in the season—andnow that one could see his face, all was well.When people speak of the evils of long runs, I shouldlike to answer with a list of their advantages.An actor, even an actor of Henry Irving’s caliber,hardly begins to play an immense part like Coriolanusfor what it is worth until he has been doing it forfifty nights.)

November 16.—“NewYork. Saw delightful Maude Adams in ’Quality
Street’—charmingplay. She is most clever and attractive.
Unusual aboveeverything. Queer, sweet, entirely delightful.”

From these extracts, I hope it will be seen that byburning most of my diaries I did not inflict an unbearableloss upon present readers, or posterity!

I am afraid that I think as little of the future asI do of the past. The present for me!

If my impressions of my friends are scanty, let mesay in my defense that actors and actresses necessarilysee many people, but know very few.

If there has been more in this book about my lifein the theater than about my life outside it, theproportion is inevitable and natural. The maximis well-worn that art is long and life is short, andthere is no art, I think, which is longer than mine!At least, it always seems to me that no life can belong enough to meet its requirements.

If I have not revealed myself to you, or succeededin giving a faithful picture of an actor’s life,perhaps I have shown what years of practice and laborare needed for the attainment of a permanent positionon the stage. To quote Mrs. Nancy Oldfield:—

“Art needs allthat we can bring to her, I assure you.”

THE END

INDEX

Abbey, E.A., 277, 372
Abingdon, Mrs., 54
Adams, Maude, 321, 399
Adelphi Theatre, The, 76
Albani, Madame, 264, 381
Albert, Prince, 18
Albina, Madame, 41
Alexander, George, 209, 260-61, 300, 302
Alexandra, Queen, 56, 391, 397
“Alice-sit-by-the-Fire,” 345
Allen, J.H., 185, 301
Allingham, William, 122
—Mrs., 122
Alma-Tadema, Sir Laurence, 372, 377
“Ambassador, The,” 391
“Amber Heart, The,” 191, 271-2
Anderson, Mary, 231, 321 et sqq.
Angell, Louisa, 56
Archer, Fred, 306
Argyll, duch*ess of (Princess Louise), 397
“Arms and the Man,” 346-7
Arnold, Sir Edwin, 117
Arnott, Mr., 187 et sqq., 217
Asche, Oscar, 349
Ashwell, Lena, 269
“Attar Gull,” 41-2
Austin, L.F., 299 et sqq.

Ball, Mr. Meredith, 265
Bancroft, Lady (Miss Marie Wilton), 47, 91-2, 109et sqq., 125, 131 et
sqq., 165, 357
—Sir Squire, 92, 108 et sqq., 125,165, 334, 397
Barclay, Mr., 51
Barnay, Ludwig, 325
Barnes, J.H., 209-10
Barnes, Prebendary, 267
Barrett, Laurence, 277
Barrie, J.M., 268, 345, 388 et sqq.
—Mrs. J.M. (Mary Ansell), 268
Barrymore, Ethel, 318, 320-1
Bastien-Lepage, 284, 371
Bateman, Colonel, 141, 145
—Mrs., 160
—Isabel, 196-7
Bath, 51
Bayard, Mr., 286
“Becket,” 217, 343, 365
Beecher, Henry Ward, 315-16 et sqq.
—Mrs. Henry Ward, 315-16, 397
Beefsteak Club, The, 369, 371, 381 et sqq.,392
Beerbohm, Mr. Max, 397
“Belle’s Stratagem, The,” 56, 191,217, 218, 244
Bellew, Kyrle, 173
“Bells, The,” 217, 280, 331, 365
Benedict, Sir Julius, 229
Benson, F., 166, 243, 339-40
Bernhardt, Sarah, 74, 162-3, 175, 233, 236 et sqq.,397
“Bethlehem,” 351
Bizet, 382
Black, William, his “Madcap Violet,” 124
Blake, W., 147
Booth, Edwin, 221 et sqq.
Boucicault, Dion, 273
Bourchier, Arthur, 263, 268
—Mrs. Arthur. See Irene Vanbrugh
Bourget, Paul, 277
Bradshaw, Mr., 12, 18
Bristol, 39, 44, 49-50, 72-3, 76
Brookfleld, Charles, 176
“Brothers,” 152
Brough, Lionel, 76
Brown, Katie, 302
Browning, Robert, 58-9, 61 et sqq.
Buckstone, J.B., 49, 51, 53 et sqq.
“Buckstone at Home,” 56
Burdett-Coutts, Baroness, 160, 212, 220, 306
Burges, William, 51
Burnand, Sir F.C., 392-3
Burne-Jones, Sir E., 333 et sqq., 337 etsqq., 372 et sqq., 377,
394, 397
Byrn, Oscar, 23-4
Byron, H.J., 133
—Lord, 60, 153

Calmour, Alfred, 271-2
Calve, 381 et sqq.
Calvert, Charles, 129
Cambridge, Duke of, 34, 343
Cameron, Mrs. Julia Margaret, 58
“Captain Brassbound’s Conversion,”52-3, 345
Carr, J. Comyns, 269, 333
—Mrs. Comyns, 175, 331, 377
“Carroll, Lewis” (C.L. Dodgson),201, 384 et sqq.
“Charles I.,” 154, 180, 191, 257, 260,281, 297, 350, 395, 398
Chippendale, Mr., 52, 53-4, 172
Churchill, Lady Randolph, 380
—Lord Randolph, 380
Chute, J.H., 46 et sqq., 51
Clarke, Hamilton, 168
Clarkson, Mr., 200
Coghlan, Charles, 116, 119 et sqq., 133, 145,152, 260
Collinson, Walter, 200, 363
Compton, Edward, 166
—Mr. Henry, 53-4, 165
Conway, H.B., 153, 260
Cooper, Frank, 173
Corder, Rosa, 306
“Coriolanus,” 189, 206, 398
“Corsican Brothers, The,” 212, 217, 337
Court Theatre, The, 77, 148, 151
Courtney, Mr., 35
Coventry, 3-7
Craig, Edith, 86 et sqq., 146 et sqq.,158-9, 177, 204, 212-13, 235,
256-7, 266, 284, 347, 378-9, 395, 397
—Edward Gordon, 86 et sqq., 146et sqq., 159, 177, 196, 257, 304,
334, 337, 350 et sqq., 396-7
Craigie, Mrs., 390-1
Crane, Walter, 372
Craven, Mr. Hawes, 76
Croisette, 74
Culverwell, Mr., 35
“Cup, The,” 178-9, 187, 191, 212 etsqq.
“Cymbeline,” 343, 377

Dale, Allan, 286
Dalrymple, Mrs., 58
Daly, Mr., 318 et sqq.
“Dame aux Camelias, La,” 175
“Dante,” 344, 350
Davis, Richard Harding, 397
“Dead Heart, The,” 196, 334, 351
Delaunay, 74
Denvil, Clara, 18
Devonshire House, 339
Dickens, Charles, 74, 313-4
Disraeli, Benjamin (Lord Beaconsfield), 58-9, 60
“Distant Relations,” 36
Doody, Mr., 200
“Dora,” 151, 164
“Double Marriage, The,” 78
Drew, John, 308, 320
—Mrs., 320
Drury Lane Theatre, 356-7 et seq.
Duffield, A.J., 249
Duse, Eleonora, 163, 175, 233-4, 258 et sqq.

Edinburgh, 9
Edward VII., 56, 398
Elcho, Lady, 340
Elliott, Maxine, 166
Emery, Winifred, 218-9, 245
“Endymion,” 49
“Eugene Aram,” 191, 195, 395
Eugenie, Empress, 73
Evans, Joe, 284-5

Fairchild, Miss Satty, 346
Farren, Mr., 53-4
—Nelly, 168
“Faust,” 27, 76, 153, 191, 252, 260 etsqq., 288, 384, 394-5
“Faust-and-Loose,” 266
“Faust and Marguerite,” 24
Favart, Madame, 74
Fechter, C.A., 73, 136, 175, 211
Fields, Mrs. James T., 313
Fitzgerald, Edward, 192
Fleming, Albert, 264
Forbes-Robertson, Johnston, 92, 125-6, 136, 153, 244et sqq., 390
—Norman, 159, 300, 324-5, 361
Forrest, Edwin, 175, 281
Forrester, Mr., 172
“Friends and Foes,” 69
“Frou-Frou” ("Butterfly"), 175
Furness, Dr. Horace Howard, 323
Furnivall, Dr., 202
Fussie (Irving’s dog), 180, 305 et sqq.,395, 397

Garden, Miss Mary, 382
Gardiner, Mrs. Jack, 314-5
Garrick, David, 192
Gay, Maria, 382
Gilbert, Alfred, 118, 368 et sqq.
Gilbert, Sir John, 200
Gilbert, Sir W.S., 127, 270
Gilder, Mr. R.W., 285
Gillespie, Mrs., 313
Gladstone, Right Hon. W.E., 58-9, 379, 396
Glasgow, 4, 8
Glenesk, Lady, 397
Godwin, Mr., 49, 50-1, 111, 164, 216
Got, 74
“Governor’s Wife, The,” 43
Grieve, Mrs., 17
Grisi, Madame, 381-2

Haas, Frederick, 136
“Hamlet,” 107, 136-7, 166 et sqq.,191
Harcourt, Sir William V., 63-4
—Right Hon. Lewis, 64
Hare, John, 148 et sqq., 165
Harley, Mr., 26-7
Harries, Miss, 279
Harvey, Martin, 337
Haymarket Theatre, 49, 53, 72
“Henry VIII.,” 24, 337 et sqq.,377
Herbert, Miss, 69, 71
Hicks, Seymour, 268
Hine, Mr., 51
Hodson, Henrietta (Mrs. Labouchere), 47 et sqq.,49, 76
Holland, Sarah, 240 et sqq.
Holmes, O.W., 315
“Home for the Holidays,” 35-6
Houghton, Lord, 208, 274-5
“House of Darnley, The,” 153
Household Words, 74
Housman, Mr. Laurence, 351
Howe, Mr., 52, 219-20, 301, 337
“Hunchback, The,” 75
Hunt, Holman, 266

“If the Cap Fits,” 26
Imperial Theatre, 352 et sqq.
Ingelow, Miss Jean, 265
“Iolanthe,” 191, 206
“Iris,” 164
Irving, Sir Henry, 59;
first appearance with Ellen Terry, 76;
Miss Terry’s first impressions of,79 et sqq.;
in “The Taming of the Shrew,”80;
in “Hunted Down,” 81;
his genius of will, 107;
as King Philip, 134 et sqq., 145;
as Hamlet in 1874, 136 et sqq.;
in “Louis XI.” and “Richelieu,”136;
what critics have said of him, 141;
the infinite variety of his acting, 142;
takes the Lyceum Theatre, 160;
his Hamlet in 1878, 166 et sqq.,180 et sqq.;
his musical director, 168;
his characteristics, 169 et sqq.;
in “Much Ado About Nothing,”178;
in “The Merchant of Venice,”179, 350;
his dog Fussie, 180, 305-6 et sqq.;
his childhood, 182 et sqq.;
as stage manager, 188 et sqq.;
his best parts, 190;
as Claude Melnotte, 194;
as Eugene Aram, 195;
as Charles I., 197, 350;
as Shylock, 203-4;
in “The Corsican Brothers,”212;
in “The Cup,” 213 et sqq.;
in “The Bells,” 217;
and Edwin Booth, 221 et sqq.;
in “Othello,” 221 et sqq.;
his Romeo, 224;
in “The Two Roses,” 227;
and Terriss, 246 et sqq.;
his “Much Ado About Nothing,”244 et sqq.;
in “Twelfth Night,” 254;
in “Olivia,” 256 et sqq.;
in “Faust,” 260 et sqq.,344;
his address on “Four Actors,”263;
in “Macaire,” 270;
in “Werner,” 270-1;
touring in America, 273;
American criticism of his accent, 296-7;

his early appearances in America, 280,298;
his cat, 311;
other tours in America, 325 et seq.;
in “Godefroi and Yolande,”326;
produces “Macbeth,” 328 etsqq.;
painted by Sargent, 331;
produces “The Dead Heart,”334;
produces “Ravenswood,” 337;
in “Henry VIII.,” 338 etsqq.;
at the Devonshire House fancy dress ball,339;
in “King Lear,” “Becket,”“King Arthur,” “Cymbeline,”“Madame
Sans-Gene,” “TheMedicine Man,” “Peter the Great,”343;
in “Robespierre,” 344;
“Dante,” 344, 350;
his last illness, 360 et sqq.;
plays in “The Bells,” forthe last time, 365;
plays in “Becket”; his death,365;
buried in Westminster Abbey, 366 etsqq.;
his death-mask, taken by Mr. Frampton,371;
his portraits, 371 et sqq.;
his portrait as Dubosc by Mr. Pryde, 375;
at Mrs. Craigie’s play, 391;
and the Marionettes, 395
Irving, Laurence, 326, 337, 397
Irwin, May, 320

Jackson, Mrs., 58
Jefferson, Joe, 324-5
“John, King,” 10, 29, 31
Johnson, Dr., 156
“Journeys End in Lovers’ Meeting,”391

Kean, Charles, 10 et sqq., 21 et sqq.,136, 171, 211, 357
—Mrs. Charles, 11 et sqq., 20 etsqq., 29 et sqq., 203
—Edmund, 11-2, 33, 46, 192
Keeley, Mr. and Mrs., 23
—Louise, 56
Kelly, Charles (Mr. Wardell), 96, 150, 153, 164, 173,176, 177, 211
Kembles, The, 6, 46
—Adelaide, 194
—Henry, 152, 176, 349
—Fanny, 192 et sqq.
Kendal, W.H., 44, 114 et sqq., 165
—Mrs. See Madge Robertson.
“King Arthur,” 343, 377, 383
Knowles, Sir J., 212

Labouchere, Henry, 76
—Mrs. See Henrietta Hodson
Lacy, Walter, 32, 171, 180
“Lady of Lyons, The,” 107, 119, 191
Lamb, Charles, 128
Langtry, Mrs., 153 et sqq., 275
Lavender Sweep—Tom Taylor’s house,53, 68 et sqq., 123, 127 et sqq.
“Lear, King,” 24, 343, 396
Leathes, Edmund, 92
Leclercq, Carlotta, 20, 32
—Rose, 32, 253-4
Leighton, Lord, 117
Lepage, Bastien, 135
Leslie, Fred, 266, 396
Lewis, Mr. Arthur, 72, 73
Linden, Marie, 266
Little Holland House, 53, 58 et sqq.
“Little Treasure, The,” 51-2
Liverpool, 10-11
Lockwood, Mrs. Benoni, 286
Long, Edwin, 197
“Louis XI.,” 136, 190, 297
Loveday, H.J., 180 et sqq., 299
Lowther, Miss Aimee, 288
Lucas, Seymour, 336, 377
Lyceum Theatre, The, 138, 141, 152 et sqq.,159-60 et sqq., 188 et
sqq.; et passim, 343 etsqq.
“Lyons Mail, The,” 190, 250-1
Lytton, Lord, 119-20, 153, 219

“Macaire,” 270 et sqq.
“Macbeth,” 31, 191, 328 et sqq.
Macdonald, George, 266
Mackail, J.W., 338
Mackaye, Steele, 128
Mackenzie, Sir Alexander, 268
—Dr. Morell, 102, 396
Macready, W.C., 9, 10, 28, 46, 192
“Madame Sans-Gene,” 343
“Man of Destiny, A,” 345, 397
Manning, Cardinal, 396
Mario, 381-2
Martin, Lady (Helen Faucit), 206-7
Maurel, Victor, 381
Mazzini, 128
Mead, Tom, 172, 207, 210, 229, 244, 250 et sqq.,300, 305
“Medicine Man, The,” 343
Meissonier, 75
Melba, Madame, 264, 381, 383
“Merchant of Venice, The,” 24, 26, 110,179, 180, 191, 204, 206, 208, 298
Meredith, George, 59
Merivale, Herman C., 336
“Merry Wives of Windsor,” 114, 348
“Midsummer Night’s Dream, A,” 19,21 et sqq.
Millais, Sir J.E., 135
Millward, Miss, 245-6
Modjeska, 321
“Money,” 119, 120-1, 165-6
Montagu, Mr., 72
Montgomery, Walter, 72
Moore, Albert, 76
—Frankfort, 235
Morris, Mrs. William, 69
“Much Ado About Nothing,” 56, 72, 150,177-8, 179, 191, 248 et sqq.
Murray, Leigh, 248

“Nance Oldfield,” 337
Naylor, Sydney, 38
Neilson, Adelaide, 72, 166
Nettleship, Mrs., 331, 377-8, 383
Nevill, Lady Dorothy, 381
Neville, Henry, 165
“New Men and Old Acres,” 124, 146, 150,152
New Queen’s Theatre, 76, 80 et sqq.
“Nice Quiet Day, A,” 44
Nicholson, William, 352, 372, 375, 397

“Olivia,” 150, 153 et sqq., 179,188, 191, 256
Orpen, William, 372
O’Shaughnessy, 118
“Othello,” 72, 175, 191, 221 et sqq.
“Our Seaman,” 94

Paderewski, I., 397
Partridge, Bernard, 372
Patti, Adelina, 381, 383
“Peter Pan,” 388-9
“Peter the Great,” 285, 343
Pinches, Dr., 139
Pinero, A.W., 173, 225, 248-9
“Pizarro,” 29
Planche, J.R., 12, 28
Pollock, Sir Frederick, 117
—Lady, 117, 160-1, 203
Pounds, Courtice, 349
Prince of Wales’s Theatre, 92, 108 et sqq.,131 et sqq., 145, 148-9
Princess’s Theatre, 10, 19, 28, 32, 72, 357
Prinsep, Mrs., 58
Pritchard, Mrs., 156
Pryde, James, 372, 375, 397

“Queen Mary,” Tennyson’s, 133, 134

“Raising the Wind,” 191
“Ravenswood,” 337, 354, 392, 396
Reade, Charles, 54, 65, 68, 90 et sqq., 99et sqq., 109, 112 et
sqq., 121, 149, 273
—Mrs. Charles, 54
Reeves, Sims, 381
Rehan, Ada, 318 et sqq.
Rhona, Madame de, 39 et sqq.
“Richard II.,” 24
“Richard III.,” 9, 190, 329, 351, 360
“Rivals, The,” 52, 55
Robertson, Graham, 376, 397
—Madge (Mrs. Kendal), 47, 91, 114 etsqq., 152, 320, 348 et sqq.
—T., 109
“Robespierre,” 344
Robson, 23
“Romeo and Juliet,” 37-8, 179, 189, 191,206
Rorke, Kate, 159
Rossetti, D.G., 69 et sqq.
Rossi, 136
Rothenstein, William, 376, 397
Rousseau, 127
Royal Colosseum, The, 35
Royalty Theatre (Royal Soho), 39 et sqq.
Ruskin, John, 264
Rutland, duch*ess of, 375
Ryde, 19, 23, 34 et sqq., 39
Ryder, Mr., 30, 31

Saint-Gaudens, 283 et sqq.
St. James’s Theatre, 69, 71
Salvini, 122, 163, 222-3
Sargent, J.S., 135, 331-2, 371-2
“School for Scandal, The,” 165
Schumann, Madame, 68
Scott, Sir Walter, 4, 150
Seward, Miss Olive, 291
Seymour, Mrs., 112 et sqq.
Shakespeare:
“Coriolanus,” 189, 206, 398;
“Cymbeline,” 343, 377;
“Hamlet,” 107, 136-7, 166et sqq., 191;
“Henry VIII.,” 24-5, 338 etsqq., 377;
“John, King,” 10, 29, 31;
“Lear, King,” 24, 343, 396;
“Macbeth,” 31, 191, 328 etsqq.;
“Merchant of Venice,” 24,26, 110, 179-80, 191, 204, 206, 208, 298, 350;
“Merry Wives of Windsor,”114-5, 348;
“Midsummer Night’s Dream,”19, 21 et sqq., 51;
“Much Ado About Nothing,”56, 72, 150, 177-8, 179, 191, 248 et sqq.;
“Othello,” 72, 175, 191, 221et sqq.;
“Richard II.,” 24-5;
“Richard III.,” 9, 190, 329,351, 360;
“Romeo and Juliet,” 37-8,179,189, 191, 206;
“Taming of the Shrew,” 80,107;
“Twelfth Night,” 191, 253;
“Winter’s Tale, A,”10, 15, et sqq., 355
Shaw, Byam, 372
—G. Bernard, 345 et sqq., 353,397
—Mary, 324
Sheridan, R.B., 54
Siddons, Mrs., 6, 46
Skey, Mr., 20
Smith, Milly (Mrs. Thorn), 22
Somers, Mrs., 58
Sothern, E.A., 51-2
Spedding, James, 117, 122
Sterling, Madame Antoinette, 265-6
Stevenson, Robert Louis, 270, 284
“Still Waters Run Deep,” 79
Stirling, Mrs., 229 et sqq., 261, 396
Stoker, Bram, 180-1-2
Stoker, Dr., 254-5
Stratford-on-Avon, 7, 339
Sue, Eugene, 41
Sullivan, Sir Arthur, 127, 330
Swinburne, A.C., 118

Taber, Robert, 285
Tamagno, Sig., 381
“Taming of the Shrew,” 80, 107
Taylor, Tom, 53, 67 et sqq., 76, 95, 106, 121et sqq., 152
—Mrs. Tom, 68, 121-2, 125
Teck, Princess Mary of, 265, 381
Telbin, 76
Tennyson, Lord, 16, 59, 60 et sqq., 141, 151,212-3, 367, 396
—Lady, 60
—Hallam, 62, 212-3, 216
—Lionel, 62
Terriss, William, 32, 151, 153, 156 et sqq.,196, 211, 212, 231 et
sqq., 247, 258, 300, 312, 397
Terry, B., Ellen Terry’s father, 3, 4, 5, 9et sqq., 18, 122-3, 179, 192
—Ben, Ellen Terry’s brother, 8
—Mrs. B., Ellen Terry’s mother, 3,4, 8, 10, 48, 67, 396
—Charles, 8
—Daniel, 4
—Ellen, early recollections
her birth, 3-5;
acts at Stratford-on-Avon,7;
impersonates a mustard-pot,8-9;
her first appearance as Mamiliusin “A Winter’s Tale,” 10, 15 et
sqq.;
and Mrs. Charles Kean, 13et sqq.;
training in Shakespeare, 19et sqq.;
hurts her foot, 20;
plays Puck, 20 et sqq.,33;
learns about vowels, 21;
plays in the Christmas pantomimefor 1857, 22;
learns to walk, plays in “Faustand Marguerite,” “Merchant of Venice,”

“RichardII.,” and “Henry VIII.,” 24;
plays in “If the CapFits,” 26;
and Macready, 28;
plays in “Pizarro”and “King John,” 29;
in “A Drawing-room Entertainment,”32, 35 et sqq.;
her salary, 33;
in “To Parents and Guardians,”34;
at the Royal Soho Theatre,39 et sqq.;
in “Attar Gull,”41-2;
in “The Governor’sWife,” 43;
in “A Nice Quiet Day,”44;
life in a stock company, 46et sqq.;
at Bristol in Mr. Chute’scompany, 46 et sqq.;
as Cupid in “Endymion,”49;
as Dictys in “Perseusand Andromeda,” 49;
at the Haymarket Theatre,49;
plays Titania at Bath, 51;
in “The Little Treasure”and “The Rivals,” 51-2, 55;
meets Mr. G.F. Watts,and painted by him with Kate Terry as “The
Sisters,”53;
as Hero in “Much AdoAbout Nothing,” 56, 72;
in “The Belle’sStratagem,” 56;
in “Buckstone at Home,”playing to royalty, 56;
in “The American Cousin,”57;
married to Mr. Watts, 58-9et sqq.;
returns to the stage, 67;
and the Tom Taylors, 68 etsqq.,
plays Desdemona, 72-3;
visits Paris, 73 et sqq.;
plays Helen in “TheHunchback,” 75;
plays in “The Antipodes,”76;
first appearance with HenryIrving, 76;
plays in “The Houseof Darnley,” 77;
and Mrs. Wigan, 76 etsqq._;
plays in “The DoubleMarriage,” 78;
plays in “Still WatersRun Deep,” 79;
first impressions of HenryIrving, 79 et sqq.;
plays in “The Tamingof the Shrew,” 80;
plays in “The HouseholdFairy,” 82;
withdraws from the stage,83 et sqq.;
adventures in cooking, 86;
her children, 86 et sqq.,146 et sqq._;
and Charles Reade, 90 etsqq.;
returns to the stage, 91 etsqq.;
plays in “The WanderingHeir,” 91 et sqq.;
engagement with the Bancrofts,92;
lives at Hampton Court, 93,146;
plays in Charles Reade’s“Our Seamen,” 94;
and Charles Reade, 99 etsqq.;
plays in “The Lady ofLyons,” 107, 119;
engagement with the Bancrofts,plays Portia, 110 et sqq.;
performs in “The MerryWives of Windsor,” 1902, 114, 348 et sqq.;
playing to aesthetic audiences,117;
plays in “Money,”119, 120-1;
and Tom Taylor, 121 etsqq.;
in “New Men and OldAcres,” 124, 146, 152;
and the Bancrofts, 131;
as Mabel Vane, 131;
as Blanche Hayes in “Ours,”132;
goes to see Irving act, 133,134, 137;
and Irving’s Hamlet,136 et sqq.;
as Ophelia, 137-41;
engagement with John Hare,148 et sqq.;
her marriage with Mr. Wardell(Charles Kelly), 150;
acts with him, 150 et sqq.;
in “Olivia,” 150,153_ et sqq._, 159 et sqq.;
in “Dora,” 151;
in “Brothers,”152;
in “The House of Darnley,”153;
a visit from Henry Irving,161;
Ellen Terry’s descriptionof him, 161 et sqq.;
on tour with Charles Kellyin “Dora” and “Iris,” 164;
in “The School for Scandal,”165;
plays in “Money,”165;
in Irving’s “Hamlet,”166 et sqq.;
touring in the provinces,174 et sqq.;
in “Butterfly,”175;
in “Much Ado About Nothing,”177-8;
her dress for “The Cup,”187;
in plays at the Lyceum, 191;
in “Charles I.,”197;
and “Lewis Carroll,”201;
as Portia, 201 et sqq.,209;
in “Othello,”222-3 et sqq.;
her “Letters in Shakespeare’sPlays,” 226;
as Juliet, 227 et sqq.;
and Terriss, 231;
her opinion of Sarah Bernhardt,236-7 et sqq.;
her Jubilee, 245;
in “Much Ado About Nothing,”250 et sqq.;
in “The Lyons Mail,”250-1;
in “Twelfth Night,”253;
as Olivia, 256;
in “Faust,” 260et sqq., 344;
in “The Amber Heart,”271;
First Tour in America, 273et sqq.;
first appearance in America,280-1;
an “American”interview, 288-9;
on colored servants, 291;
some opinions on America,294 et sqq.;
her first speech, 304-5;
at Niagara, 311-12;
other tours in America, 325et sqq.;
in “Godefroi and Yolande,”326;
her third marriage, 327;
in “Macbeth,”328 et sqq.;
painted as Lady Macbeth bySargent, 331-2, 371-2;
plays in the “Dead Heart,”334;
plays in “Ravenswood,”337;
plays in “Nance Oldfield,”337 et sqq.;
in “Henry VIII.,”338;
at Stratford-on-Avon, 339et sqq._;
in “King Lear,”“Becket,” “King Arthur,” “Cymbeline,”“Madame
Sans-Gene,”“The Medicine Man,” “Peter the Great,”343;
in Robespierre, 344;
in “Alice Sit-by-the-Fire,”345;
in “Captain Brassbound’sConversion,” 345;
in “The Merry Wivesof Windsor,” 114, 348 et sqq.;
in Ibsen’s “Vikings,”at the Imperial Theatre, 351;
produces “The Good Hope,”354;
in “Ravenswood,”354;
her last Shakespearean part,Hermione, 355;
her Stage Jubilee, 355 etsqq.;
her theatre dresses, 377 etsqq., 383;
in “Journeys End inLovers’ Meeting,” 391;
“Bits from her Diary,”394 et sqq.;
and the Marionettes, 395
—Eliza, 4
—Florence, 8, 83, 122, 125, 209, 257-8,387
—Fred, 8, 83
—George, 8, 174-5
—Kate (Mrs. Arthur James Lewis), 3, 8,9, 10, 11, 18, 20, 24 et sqq.,
29 et sqq., 35, 47, 48 et sqq.,67
—Marion, 8, 83, 125, 257
—Tom, 8, 126
Tetrazzini, 383
Thackeray, W.M., 314
Times, The, 18
Toole, J.L., 266, 270
“To Parents and Guardians,” 34
Trebelli, Madame, 382
Tree, H. Beerbohm, 114, 271, 320, 348 et sqq.
—Mrs., 349
“Twelfth Night,” 191, 253
“Two Roses, The,” 227
Tyars, Mr., 210, 252

Vanbrugh, Irene, 268
Vanbrugh, Violet (Mrs. Arthur Bourchier), 267 etsqq., 391
“Vanderdecken,” 395
Verdi, 382
Victoria, Queen, 18, 57, 110, 397, 398
Victoria (Princess Royal), 18
“Vikings,” Ibsen’s, 351
Vining, George, 334

Wales, Princess of, 381
Walkley, A.B., 224
“Wandering Heir, The,” 91 et sqq.,100, 109, 244, 273
Wardell, Charles. See Charles Kelly
Warner, Charles, 113
Watts, George Frederick, R.A., 53, 58 et sqq.,164
Watts-Dunton, T., 118
Webster, Benjamin, 165, 230, 334
Wenman, 300
“Werner,” 270-1
Whistler, J.M., 129, 134-5, 199, 306
White, Stanford, 283
Wigan, Alfred, 76, 79, 211-2
—Mrs., 76 et sqq., 176
Wilde, Oscar, 118, 134-5, 198-9, 275
Williams, Harcourt, 337, 340
Wills, W.G., 150, 152, 336
Wilton, Miss Marie. See Lady Bancroft
Winchilsea, Lady, 177, 216
Winter, William, 158, 286 et sqq.
“Winter’s Tale, A,” 10, 15 etsqq., 355
Wood, Arthur, 48
—Mrs. John, 91
Woodhouse, Mr., 37
World, The, 26
Wyndham, Charles, Sir, 76 et sqq.

Yates, Edmund, 26

[Illustration: From a photograph by LewisCarroll

MR. AND MRS. BENJAMIN TERRY

The father and mother of Ellen Terry]

[Illustration: CHARLES KEAN AND ELLEN TERRY IN1856

As they appeared in “The Winter’s Tale.”This was Miss Terry’s debut on the stage.]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY IN 1856]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY AT SIXTEEN]

[Illustration: Photograph by the AutotypeCompany, London

“THE SISTERS” (KATE AND ELLEN TERRY)

From the painting by George Frederick Watts]

[Illustration: From a photograph by JuliaMargaret Cameron

ELLEN TERRY AT SEVENTEEN

After her marriage to George Frederick Watts]

[Illustration: GEORGE FREDERICK WATTS, R.A.

From a photograph by Julia Margaret Cameron, madeabout the time of his marriage to Ellen Terry]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY AS HELEN IN “THEHUNCHBACK”]

[Illustration: Photograph by the London StereoscopicCo.

HENRY IRVING AS JINGLE IN “MR. PICKWICK”]

[Illustration: Photograph by Braun, Clement& Co.

HEAD OF A YOUNG GIRL (ELLEN TERRY)

From the painting by George Frederick Watts, in thecollection of
Alexander Henderson, Esq., M.P.]

[Illustration: HENRY IRVING

From a photograph in the collection of Miss EvelynSmalley]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY AS PORTIA

From the collection of Miss Evelyn Smalley]

[Illustration: HENRY IRVING AS MATTHIAS IN “THEBELLS”

The part in which Irving made his first appearancein America

From the collection of Miss Evelyn Smalley]

[Illustration: HENRY IRVING AS PHILIP OF SPAIN

From the painting by Whistler]

[Illustration: HENRY IRVING AS HAMLET

From the statue by E. Onslow Ford, R.A., in the Guildhallof the City of
London]

[Illustration: Photograph by the Vander WeydeLight

LILY LANGTRY]

[Illustration: WILLIAM TERRISS AS SQUIRE THORNHILLIN “OLIVIA”]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY AS OPHELIA

From a photograph taken in 1878, in the collectionof Miss Evelyn
Smalley]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY AS BEATRICE

From the collection of Miss Evelyn Smalley]

[Illustration: SIR HENRY IRVING

From the painting by Sir John Millais, Bart., P.R.A.]

[Illustration: IRVING AS LOUIS XI]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY AS HENRIETTA MARIA]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY AS CAMMA IN “THECUP”]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY AS IOLANTHE]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY AS LETITIA HARDY IN“THE BELLE’S STRATAGEM”]

[Illustration: Photograph by Sarony, in thecollection of Robert Coster

EDWIN THOMAS BOOTH]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY AS JULIET]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY AS BEATRICE

From the collection of Miss Frances Johnston]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY AS BEATRICE

From the collection of Miss Frances Johnston]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY’S FAVOURITEPHOTOGRAPH AS OLIVIA

From the collection of Miss Evelyn Smalley]

[Illustration: ELEANORA DUSE WITH LENBACH’SCHILD

From the painting by Franz von Lenbach]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY AS MARGARET IN “FAUST”]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY AS ELLALINE IN “THEAMBER HEART”

From the collection of Miss Frances Johnston]

[Illustration: From the collection of MissEvelyn Smalley

MISS ELLEN TERRY IN 1883

From a photograph taken at the time of her first appearancein America]

[Illustration: THE BAS-RELIEF PORTRAIT OF ROBERTLOUIS STEVENSON

Modeled by Augustus Saint-Gaudens for the St. GilesCathedral, Edinburgh. Saint-Gaudens gave a castof this portrait to Miss Terry’s daughter, EdithCraig]

[Illustration: MISS ELLEN TERRY

From a snap-shot taken in the United States]

[Illustration: SIR HENRY IRVING

From a snap-shot taken in the United States]

[Illustration: Photographed by Miss AliceBoughton

SARAH HOLLAND, ELLEN TERRY’S DRESSER]

[Illustration: MISS ROSA CORDER

From the painting by James McNeill Whistler]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY

With her fox-terriers, Dummy and Fussie; from a photographtaken in 1889]

[Illustration: Photographed by T.R. Annan

MISS ELLEN TERRY IN 1898

From the collection of Miss Evelyn Smalley]

[Illustration: SIR HENRY IRVING

From a portrait given by him to Miss Evelyn Smalleyin 1896]

[Illustration: MISS ELLEN TERRY

From a photograph taken on her last tour in America]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY AS LADY MACBETH

From the painting by Sargent, in the Tate Gallery,London]

[Illustration: Photographed by Crook, Edinburgh

SIR HENRY IRVING

From a photograph in the possession of Miss EvelynSmalley]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY AS LUCY ASHTON IN“RAVENSWOOD”]

[Illustration: HENRY IRVING AS CARDINAL WOLSEYIN “HENRY VIII”

From the collection of Miss Evelyn Smalley]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY AS NANCE OLDFIELD

From a hitherto unpublished portrait]

[Illustration: From the collection of H. McM.Painter

ELLEN TERRY AS KNIERTJE IN “THE GOOD HOPE”

Taken on the beach at Swansea, Wales, in 1906, byEdward Craig.]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY AS IMOGEN

Drawn by Alma-Tadema for Miss Terry’s jubileein 1906]

[Illustration: Photographed by H.H. HayCameron

HENRY IRVING AS BECKET

From the collection of Miss Evelyn Smalley]

[Illustration: SIR HENRY IRVING

From the painting by Jules Bastien-Lepage]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY AS ROSAMUND IN “BECKET”

From the collection of Miss Evelyn Smalley]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY AS GUINEVERE IN “KINGARTHUR”

From the collection of Miss Evelyn Smalley]

[Illustration: From the collection of MissEvelyn Smalley

“OLIVIA”

Drawn by Sir Edwin Abbey for Miss Terry’s JubileeProgramme]

[Illustration: MISS TERRY’S GARDEN AT WINCHELSEA

From a photograph given by her to Miss Evelyn Smalley]

[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY AS HERMIONE IN “THEWINTER’S TALE”

From the collection of Miss Evelyn Smalley]