This is a modern-English version of Behind the Footlights, originally written by Alec-Tweedie, Mrs. (Ethel). It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling, and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If you click on a paragraph, you will see the original text that we modified, and you can toggle between the two versions.

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BEHIND THE FOOTLIGHTS

BEHIND THE SCENES

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

MEXICO AS I SAW IT. Third Edition.

THROUGH FINLAND IN CARTS. Third Edition.

THROUGH FINLAND IN CARTS. 3rd Edition.

A WINTER JAUNT TO NORWAY. Second Edition.

A WINTER TRIP TO NORWAY. Second Edition.

THE OBERAMMERGAU PASSION PLAY. Out of print.

THE OBERAMMERGAU PASSION PLAY. No longer available.

DANISH VERSUS ENGLISH BUTTER MAKING. Reprint from “Fortnightly.”

WILTON, Q.C. Second Edition.

WILTON, Q.C. 2nd Edition.

A GIRL’S RIDE IN ICELAND. Third Edition.

GEORGE HARLEY, F.R.S.; or, the Life of a London Physician. Second Edition.

From a Sketch by Percy Anderson.

MISS CONSTANCE COLLIER AS PALLAS ATHENE IN “ULYSSES.”

Frontispiece.]

Frontispiece.

Behind the
Limelight

MRS. ALEC-TWEEDIE

AUTHOR OF
“MEXICO AS I SAW IT,” “GEORGE HARLEY, F.R.S.,” ETC.

AUTHOR OF
“MEXICO AS I SAW IT,” “GEORGE HARLEY, F.R.S.,” AND OTHERS.

WITH TWENTY ILLUSTRATIONS

WITH 20 ILLUSTRATIONS

NEW YORK
DODD MEAD AND COMPANY
1904

PRINTED BY

HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD.,

LONDON AND AYLESBURY,

ENGLAND.

PRINTED BY

HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LTD.,

LONDON AND AYLESBURY,

ENGLAND.

[Pg v]

	PAGE
CHAPTER I
THE GLAMOUR OF THE STAGE
Girlish Dreams of Success—Golden Glitter—Overcrowding—Few Successful—Weedon Grossmith—Beerbohm Tree—How Mrs. Tree made Thousands for the War Fund—The Stage Door Reached—Glamour Fades—The Divorce Court and the Theatre—Childish Enthusiasm—Old Scotch Body’s Horror—Love Letters—Temptations—Emotions—How Women began to Act under Charles I.—Influence of the Theatre for Good or Ill Girlish Dreams of Success—Golden Glitter—Overcrowding—Few Successful—Weedon Grossmith—Beerbohm Tree—How Mrs. Tree made Thousands for the War Fund—The Stage Door Opened—Glamour Fades—The Divorce Court and the Theater—Childish Enthusiasm—Old Scotch Woman’s Horror—Love Letters—Temptations—Emotions—How Women Started to Act under Charles I.—Impact of the Theater for Better or Worse	1
CHAPTER II
CRADLED IN THE THEATRE
Three Great Aristocracies—Born on the Stage—Inherited Talent—Interview with Mrs. Kendal—Her Opinions and Warning to Youthful Aspirants—Usual Salary—Starving in the Attempt to Live—No Dress Rehearsal—Overdressing—A Peep at Harley Street—Voice and Expression—American Friends—Mrs. Kendal’s Marriage—Forbes Robertson’s Romance—Why he Deserted Art for the Stage—Fine Elocutionist—Bad Enunciation and Noisy Music—Ellen Terry—Gillette—Expressionless Faces—Long Runs—Charles Warner—Abuse of Success Three Great Aristocracies—Born on the Stage—Inherited Talent—Interview with Mrs. Kendal—Her Thoughts and Warnings for Young Aspirants—Typical Salary—Struggling to Make a Living—No Dress Rehearsal—Overdressing—A Glimpse at Harley Street—Voice and Expression—American Friends—Mrs. Kendal’s Marriage—Forbes Robertson’s Love Story—Why He Left Art for the Stage—Great Speaker—Poor Enunciation and Loud Music—Ellen Terry—Gillette—Blank Faces—Long Runs—Charles Warner—Misuse of Success	21
CHAPTER III
THEATRICAL FOLK
Miss Winifred Emery—Amusing Criticism—An Actress’s Home Life—Cyril Maude’s first Theatrical Venture—First Performance—A Luncheon Party—A Bride as Leading Lady—No [Pg vi] Games, no Holidays—A Party at the Haymarket—Miss Ellaline Terriss and her First Appearance—Seymour Hicks—Ben Webster and Montagu Williams—The Sothern Family—Edward Sothern as a Fisherman—A Terrible Moment—Almost a Panic—Asleep as Dundreary—Frohman at Daly’s Theatre—English and American Alliance—Mummers Miss Winifred Emery—Funny Criticism—An Actress’s Home Life—Cyril Maude’s first Theatrical Venture—First Performance—A Luncheon Party—A Bride as the Leading Lady—No [Pg vi] Games, no Holidays—A Party at the Haymarket—Miss Ellaline Terriss and her First Appearance—Seymour Hicks—Ben Webster and Montagu Williams—The Sothern Family—Edward Sothern as a Fisherman—A Terrible Moment—Almost a Panic—Asleep as Dundreary—Frohman at Daly’s Theatre—English and American Alliance—Mummers	46
CHAPTER IV
PLAYS AND PLAYWRIGHTS
Interview with Ibsen—His Appearance—His Home—Plays Without Plots—His Writing-table—His Fetiches—Old at Seventy—A Real Tragedy and Comedy—Ibsen’s First Book—Winter in Norway—An Epilogue—Arthur Wing Pinero—Educated for the Law—As Caricaturist—An Entertaining Luncheon—How Pinero writes his Plays—A Hard Worker—First Night of Letty Interview with Ibsen—His Appearance—His Home—Plays Without Plots—His Writing Desk—His Talismans—Old at Seventy—A True Tragedy and Comedy—Ibsen’s First Book—Winter in Norway—An Epilogue—Arthur Wing Pinero—Studied Law—As a Caricaturist—An Enjoyable Lunch—How Pinero Writes His Plays—A Dedicated Worker—First Night of Letty	74
CHAPTER V
THE ARMY AND THE STAGE
Captain Robert Marshall—From the Ranks to the Stage—£10 for a Play—How Copyright is Retained—I. Zangwill as Actor—Copyright Performance—Three First Plays (Pinero, Grundy, Sims)—Cyril Maude at the Opera—Mice and Men—Sir Francis Burnand, Punch, Sir John Tenniel, and a Cartoon—Brandon Thomas and Charley’s Aunt—How that Play was Written—The Gaekwar of Baroda—Changes in London—Frederick Fenn at Clement’s Inn—James Welch on Audiences Captain Robert Marshall—From the Ranks to the Stage—£10 for a Play—How Copyright is Retained—I. Zangwill as Actor—Copyright Performance—Three First Plays (Pinero, Grundy, Sims)—Cyril Maude at the Opera—Mice and Men—Sir Francis Burnand, Punch, Sir John Tenniel, and a Cartoon—Brandon Thomas and Charley’s Aunt—How that Play was Written—The Gaekwar of Baroda—Changes in London—Frederick Fenn at Clement’s Inn—James Welch on Audiences	92
CHAPTER VI
DESIGNING THE DRESSES
Sarah Bernhardt’s Dresses and Wigs—A Great Musician’s Hair—Expenses of Mounting—Percy Anderson—Ulysses—The Eternal City—A Dress Parade—Armour—Over-elaboration—An Understudy—Miss Fay Davis—A London Fog—The Difficulties of an Engagement Sarah Bernhardt’s Dresses and Wigs—A Great Musician’s Hair—Costs of Production—Percy Anderson—Ulysses—The Eternal City—A Costume Parade—Armor—Too Much Detail—A Backup Performer—Miss Fay Davis—A London Fog—The Challenges of a Booking [Pg vii]	111
CHAPTER VII
SUPPER ON THE STAGE
Reception on the St. James’s Stage—An Indian Prince—His Comments—The Audience—George Alexander’s Youth—How he missed a Fortune—How he learns a Part—A Scenic Garden—Love of the Country—Actors’ Pursuits—Strain of Theatrical Life—Life and Death—Fads—Mr. Maude’s Dressing-room—Sketches on Distempered Walls—Arthur Bourchier and his Dresser—John Hare—Early and late Theatres—A Solitary Dinner—An Hour’s Make-up—A Forgetful Actor—Bonne Camaraderie—Theatrical Salaries—Treasury Day—Thriftlessness—The Advent of Stalls—The Bancrofts—The Haymarket Photographs—A Dress Rehearsal Reception on the St. James’s Stage—An Indian Prince—His Comments—The Audience—George Alexander’s Youth—How he missed a Fortune—How he learns a Role—A Scenic Garden—Love of the Country—Actors’ Pursuits—Strain of Theatrical Life—Life and Death—Trends—Mr. Maude’s Dressing-room—Sketches on Distempered Walls—Arthur Bourchier and his Dresser—John Hare—Early and late Theatres—A Solitary Dinner—An Hour’s Make-up—A Forgetful Actor—Good Camaraderie—Theatrical Salaries—Treasury Day—Carelessness—The Advent of Stalls—The Bancrofts—The Haymarket Photographs—A Dress Rehearsal	125
CHAPTER VIII
MADAME SARAH BERNHARDT
Sarah Bernhardt and her Tomb—The Actress’s Holiday—Love of her Son—Sarah Bernhardt Shrimping—Why she left the Comédie Française—Life in Paris—A French Claque—Three Ominous Raps—Strike of the Orchestra—Parisian Theatre Customs—Programmes—Late Comers—The Matinée Hat—Advertisement Drop Scene—First Night of Hamlet— Madame Bernhardt’s own Reading of Hamlet—Yorick’s Skull—Dr. Horace Howard Furness—A Great Shakesperian Library Sarah Bernhardt and her Tomb—The Actress’s Holiday—Love for her Son—Sarah Bernhardt Shrimping—Why she left the Comédie Française—Life in Paris—A French Claque—Three Ominous Raps—Strike of the Orchestra—Parisian Theatre Customs—Programs—Late Arrivals—The Matinée Hat—Advertisement Drop Scene—First Night of Hamlet—Madame Bernhardt’s own Reading of Hamlet—Yorick’s Skull—Dr. Horace Howard Furness—A Great Shakespearean Library	151
CHAPTER IX
AN HISTORICAL FIRST NIGHT
An Interesting Dinner—Peace in the Transvaal—Beerbohm Tree as a Seer—How he cajoled Ellen Terry and Mrs. Kendal to Act—First-nighters on Camp-stools—Different Styles of Mrs. Kendal and Miss Terry—The Fun of the Thing—Bows of the Dead—Falstaff’s Discomfort—Amusing Incidents—Nervousness behind the Curtain—An Author’s Feelings An Interesting Dinner—Peace in the Transvaal—Beerbohm Tree as a Visionary—How he persuaded Ellen Terry and Mrs. Kendal to perform—First-nighters on camp stools—Different styles of Mrs. Kendal and Miss Terry—The humor in it all—Tributes to the departed—Falstaff’s unease—Funny moments—Nerves backstage—An author’s emotions	173
CHAPTER X [Pg viii]
OPERA COMIC
How W. S. Gilbert loves a Joke—A Brilliant Companion—Operas Reproduced without an Altered Line—Many Professions—A Lovely Home—Sir Arthur Sullivan’s Gift—A Rehearsal of Pinafore—Breaking up Crowds—Punctuality—Soldier or no Soldier—Iolanthe—Gilbert as an Actor—Gilbert as Audience—The Japanese Anthem—Amusement How W. S. Gilbert loves a joke—a brilliant companion—operas reproduced without a single change—many professions—a lovely home—Sir Arthur Sullivan’s gift—a rehearsal of Pinafore—breaking up crowds—punctuality—soldier or no soldier—Iolanthe—Gilbert as an actor—Gilbert as an audience member—The Japanese anthem—amusement.	186
CHAPTER XI
THE FIRST PANTOMIME REHEARSAL
Origin of Pantomime—Drury Lane in Darkness—One Thousand Persons—Rehearsing the Chorus—The Ballet—Dressing-rooms—Children on the Stage—Size of “The Lane”—A Trap-door—The Property-room—Made on the Premises—Wardrobe-woman—Dan Leno at Rehearsal—Herbert Campbell—A Fortnight Later—A Chat with the Principal Girl—Miss Madge Lessing Origin of Pantomime—Drury Lane in Darkness—One Thousand People—Rehearsing the Chorus—The Ballet—Dressing Rooms—Kids on the Stage—Size of “The Lane”—A Trap Door—The Property Room—Made on the Premises—Wardrobe Woman—Dan Leno at Rehearsal—Herbert Campbell—A Fortnight Later—A Chat with the Lead Actress—Miss Madge Lessing	200
CHAPTER XII
SIR HENRY IRVING AND STAGE LIGHTING
Sir Henry Irving’s Position—Miss Geneviève Ward’s Dress—Reformations in Lighting—The most Costly Play ever Produced—Strong Individuality—Character Parts—Irving earned his Living at Thirteen—Actors and Applause—A Pathetic Story—No Shakespeare Traditions—Imitation is not Acting—Irving’s Appearance—His Generosity—The First Night of Dante—First Night of Faust—Two Terriss Stories—Sir Charles Wyndham Sir Henry Irving’s Role—Miss Geneviève Ward’s Outfit—Improvements in Lighting—The most Expensive Play ever Staged—Distinct Individuality—Character Roles—Irving made a Living at Thirteen—Actors and Audience Reaction—A Touching Tale—No Shakespeare Traditions—Copying isn’t Acting—Irving’s Look—His Generosity—The Opening Night of Dante—Opening Night of Faust—Two Stories about Terriss—Sir Charles Wyndham	222
CHAPTER XIII
WHY A NOVELIST BECOMES A DRAMATIST
Novels and Plays—Little Lord Fauntleroy and his Origin—Mr. Hall Caine—Preference for Books to Plays—John Oliver Hobbes—J. M. Barrie’s Diffidence—Anthony Hope—A [Pg ix] London Bachelor—A Pretty Wedding—A Tidy Author—A First Night—Dramatic Critics—How Notices are Written—The Critics Criticised—Distribution of Paper—“Stalls Full”—Black Monday—Do Royalty pay for their Seats?—Wild Pursuit of the Owner of the Royal Box—The Queen at the Opera Novels and Plays—Little Lord Fauntleroy and Its Origins—Mr. Hall Caine—Preference for Books Over Plays—John Oliver Hobbes—J. M. Barrie’s Hesitance—Anthony Hope—A [Pg ix] London Bachelor—A Beautiful Wedding—A Neat Author—A First Night—Theatrical Critics—How Reviews Are Written—Critics Reviewed—Distribution of Papers—“Stalls Full”—Black Monday—Do Royals Pay for Their Seats?—Wild Pursuit of the Owner of the Royal Box—The Queen at the Opera	240
CHAPTER XIV
SCENE-PAINTING AND CHOOSING A PLAY
Novelist—Dramatist—Scene-painter—An Amateur Scenic Artist—Weedon Grossmith to the Rescue—Mrs. Tree’s Children—Mr. Grossmith’s Start on the Stage—A Romantic Marriage—How a Scene is built up—English and American Theatres Compared—Choosing a Play—Theatrical Syndicate—Three Hundred and Fifteen Plays at the Haymarket Novelist—Dramatist—Scene Painter—An Amateur Scenic Artist—Weedon Grossmith to the Rescue—Mrs. Tree’s Children—Mr. Grossmith’s Start on the Stage—A Romantic Marriage—How a Scene is Built Up—Comparing English and American Theatres—Choosing a Play—Theatrical Syndicate—Three Hundred and Fifteen Plays at the Haymarket	263
CHAPTER XV
THEATRICAL DRESSING-ROOMS
A Star’s Dressing-room—Long Flights of Stairs—Miss Ward at the Haymarket—A Wimple—An Awkward Predicament—How an Actress Dresses—Herbert Waring—An Actress’s Dressing-table—A Girl’s Photographs of Herself—A Greasepaint Box—Eyelashes—White Hands—Mrs. Langtry’s Dressing-room—Clara Morris on Make-up—Mrs. Tree as Author—“Resting”—Mary Anderson on the Stage—An Author’s Opinion—Actors in Society A Star’s Dressing Room—Long Flights of Stairs—Miss Ward at the Haymarket—A Headscarf—An Awkward Situation—How an Actress Gets Ready—Herbert Waring—An Actress’s Vanity Table—A Girl’s Selfies—A Makeup Kit—Eyelashes—Fair Hands—Mrs. Langtry’s Dressing Room—Clara Morris on Makeup—Mrs. Tree as a Writer—“Taking a Break”—Mary Anderson on Stage—A Writer’s View—Actors in Society	275
CHAPTER XVI
HOW DOES A MAN GET ON THE STAGE?
A Voice Trial—How it is Done—Anxious Faces—Singing into Cimmerian Darkness—A Call to Rehearsal—The Ecstasy of an Engagement—Proof Copy; Private—Arrival of the Principals—Chorus on the Stage—Rehearsing Twelve Hours a Day for Nine Weeks without Pay A Voice Trial—How It's Done—Nervous Faces—Singing into Total Darkness—A Call to Rehearsal—The Excitement of an Engagement—Proof Copy; Private—Arrival of the Main Performers—Chorus on Stage—Rehearsing Twelve Hours a Day for Nine Weeks without Pay	292
CHAPTER XVII [Pg x]
A GIRL IN THE PROVINCES
Why Women go on the Stage—How to prevent it—Miss Florence St. John—Provincial Company—Theatrical Basket—A Fit-up Tour—A Theatre Tour—Répertoire Tour—Strange Landladies—Bills—The Longed-for Joint—Second-hand Clothes—Buying a Part—Why Men Deteriorate—Oceans of Tea—E. S. Willard—Why he Prefers America—A Hunt for Rooms—A Kindly Clergyman—A Drunken Landlady—How the Dog Saved an Awkward Predicament Why Women Go on Stage—How to Prevent It—Miss Florence St. John—Regional Company—Theatrical Supplies—A Setup Tour—A Theatre Tour—Repertoire Tour—Strange Landladies—Posters—The Longed-for Meal—Used Clothes—Landing a Role—Why Men Decline—Tons of Tea—E. S. Willard—Why He Prefers America—A Search for Rooms—A Helpful Clergyman—A Drunk Landlady—How the Dog Resolved an Awkward Situation	302
CHAPTER XVIII
PERILS OF THE STAGE
Easy to Make a Reputation—Difficult to Keep One—The Theatrical Agent—The Butler’s Letter—Mrs. Siddons’ Warning—Theatrical Aspirants—The Bogus Manager—The Actress of the Police Court—Ten Years of Success—Temptations—Late Hours—An Actress’s Advertisement—A Wicked Agreement—Rules Behind the Scenes—Edward Terry—Success a Bubble Easy to Build a Reputation—Hard to Maintain One—The Theater Agent—The Butler’s Letter—Mrs. Siddons’ Warning—Theatrical Aspirants—The Fake Manager—The Actress in Court—Ten Years of Success—Temptations—Late Nights—An Actress’s Ad—A Scandalous Deal—Rules Behind the Curtains—Edward Terry—Success is Fleeting	325
CHAPTER XIX
“CHORUS GIRL NUMBER II. ON THE LEFT”
A Fantasy Based on Reality
Plain but Fascinating—The Swell in the Stalls—Overtures—Persistence—Introduction at Last—Her Story—His Kindness—Happiness crept in—Love—An Ecstasy of Joy—His Story—A Rude Awakening—The Result of Deception—The Injustice of Silence—Back to Town—Illness—Sleep Plain but Fascinating—The Excitement in the Stalls—Introductions—Determination—Finally—Her Story—His Kindness—Happiness sneaked in—Love—An Overwhelming Joy—His Story—A Harsh Reality—The Consequences of Deception—The Unfairness of Silence—Back to Town—Sickness—Rest	345

[Pg xi]

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

MISS CONSTANCE COLLIER AS PALLAS ATHENE IN “ULYSSES” MISS CONSTANCE COLLIER AS PALLAS ATHENE IN “ULYSSES”	Frontispiece
From a sketch by Percy Anderson.
MRS. KENDAL AS MISTRESS FORD IN “MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR” MRS. KENDAL AS MISTRESS FORD IN “MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR”	To face p.	20
MR. W. H. KENDAL Mr. W.H. Kendal	„	32
MR. J. FORBES-ROBERTSON Mr. J. Forbes-Robertson	„	36
From a painting by Hugh de T. Glazebrook.
MISS WINIFRED EMERY AND MR. CYRIL MAUDE IN “THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL” MISS WINIFRED EMERY AND MR. CYRIL MAUDE IN “THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL”	„	48
MR. AND MRS. SEYMOUR HICKS Mr. and Mrs. Seymour Hicks	„	64
DR. HENRIK IBSEN Dr. Henrik Ibsen	„	76
MR. ARTHUR W. PINERO Mr. Arthur W. Pinero	„	84
DRAWING OF COSTUME FOR JULIET Juliet's Costume Design Drawing	„	112
By Percy Anderson.
MR. GEORGE ALEXANDER Mr. George Alexander	„	128
MADAME SARAH BERNHARDT AS HAMLET Madame Sarah Bernhardt as Hamlet	„	152
MR. BEERBOHM TREE AS FALSTAFF Mr. Beerbohm Tree as Falstaff	„	176
MISS ELLEN TERRY AS QUEEN KATHERINE MISS ELLEN TERRY AS QUEEN KATHERINE	„	184
MR. W. S. GILBERT Mr. W. S. Gilbert	„	192
SIR HENRY IRVING SIR HENRY IRVING	„	224
MR. ANTHONY HOPE Mr. Anthony Hope	„	248
From a painting by Hugh de T. Glazebrook.
MR. WEEDON GROSSMITH Mr. Weedon Grossmith	„	264
MRS. BEERBOHM TREE Mrs. Beerbohm Tree	„	288
MRS. PATRICK CAMPBELL MRS. PATRICK CAMPBELL	„	312
From a painting by Hugh de T. Glazebrook.
MR. GEORGE GROSSMITH Mr. George Grossmith	„	336

[Pg 1]

BEHIND THE FOOTLIGHTS

BEHIND THE CURTAIN

CHAPTER I

THE GLAMOUR OF THE STAGE

Girlish Dreams of Success—Golden Glitter—Overcrowding—Few successful—Weedon Grossmith—Beerbohm Tree—How Mrs. Tree made thousands for the War Fund—The Stage Door is reached—Glamour fades—The Divorce Court and the Theatre—Childish Enthusiasm—Old Scotch Body’s Horror—Love Letters—Temptations—Emotions—How Women started to Act under Charles I.—The Influence of the Theatre for Better or Worse.

“I WANT to go on the stage,” declared a girl as she sat one day opposite her father, a London physician, in his consulting-room.

“I want to go on stage,” declared a girl as she sat one day opposite her father, a London doctor, in his consulting room.

The doctor looked up, amazed, deliberately put down his pen, cast a scrutinising glance at his daughter, then said tentatively:

The doctor looked up, surprised, carefully set down his pen, studied his daughter closely, and then said cautiously:

“Want to go on the stage, eh?”

“Thinking about going on stage, huh?”

“Yes, I wish to be an actress. I have had an offer—oh, such a delightful offer—to play a girl’s part in the forthcoming production at one of our best theatres.”

“Yes, I want to be an actress. I’ve received an offer—oh, such a wonderful offer—to play a girl’s role in the upcoming production at one of our top theaters.”

Her father made no comment, only looked again[Pg 2] steadily at the girl in order to satisfy himself that she was speaking seriously. Then he took the letter she held out, read it most carefully, folded it up—in what the would-be actress thought an exasperatingly slow fashion—and after a pause observed:

Her father didn’t say anything, just looked steadily at the girl again[Pg 2] to make sure she was being serious. Then he took the letter she offered, read it very carefully, folded it up—in a way that the aspiring actress found frustratingly slow—and after a moment remarked:

“So this is the result of allowing you to play in private theatricals. What folly!”

“So this is the outcome of letting you perform in private plays. What a mistake!”

The girl started up—fire flashed from her eyes, and her lips trembled as she retorted passionately:

The girl jumped up—fire blazed in her eyes, and her lips quivered as she replied with intensity:

“I don’t see any folly, I only see a great career opening before me. I want to go on the stage and make a name.”

“I don’t see any foolishness, I only see an amazing opportunity in front of me. I want to hit the stage and make a name for myself.”

The doctor looked more grave than ever, but replied calmly:

The doctor looked more serious than ever, but responded calmly:

“You are very young—you have only just been to your first ball; you know nothing whatever about the world or work.”

“You're really young—you've just been to your first dance; you don't know anything about the world or how things work.”

“But I can learn, and intend to do so.”

“But I can learn, and I plan to.”

“Ah yes, that is all very well; but what you really see at this moment is only the prospect of so many guineas a week, of applause and admiration, of notices in the papers, when at one jump you expect to gain the position already attained by some great actress. What you do not see, however, is the hard work, the dreary months, nay years, of waiting, the many disappointments that precede success—you do not realise the struggle of it all, or the many, many failures.”

“Ah yes, that’s all well and good; but what you really see right now is just the promise of so many guineas a week, of applause and admiration, of articles in the newspapers, when you expect to instantly achieve the status that some famous actress has already reached. What you don’t see, though, is the hard work, the long, tedious months, even years, of waiting, the numerous disappointments that come before success—you don’t understand the struggle involved, or the countless failures.”

She looked amazed. What possible struggle could there be on the stage? she wondered.

She looked amazed. What kind of struggle could there be on stage? she wondered.

[Pg 3]

“Is this to be the end of my having worked for you,” he asked pathetically, “planned for you, given you the best education I could, done everything possible to make your surroundings happy, that at the moment when I hoped you were going to prove a companion and a comfort, you announce the fact that you wish to choose a career for yourself, to throw off the ties—I will not call them the pleasures—of home, and seek work which it is not necessary for you to undertake?”

“Is this really how it ends for me, after everything I've done for you?” he asked sadly. “I’ve planned for you, given you the best education I could, and done everything to make your life pleasant. Just when I thought you were going to be a companion and a source of comfort, you tell me that you want to choose your own path, to break away from home—I won’t say the joys—of our life together, and pursue work that you don’t even need to take on?”

“Yes,” murmured the girl, by this time almost sobbing, for the glamour seemed to be rolling away like mist before her eyes, while glorious visions of tragedy queens and comic soubrettes faded into space.

“Yes,” the girl whispered, now almost in tears, as the enchantment seemed to dissolve like fog in front of her, while magnificent images of tragic heroines and funny performers disappeared into thin air.

“I will not forbid you,” he went on sadly but firmly—“I will not forbid you, after you are twenty-one, for then you can do as you like; but nearly four years stretch between now and then, and during those four years I shall withhold my sanction.”

“I won’t stop you,” he continued sadly but firmly—“I won’t stop you after you turn twenty-one, because then you can do what you want; but almost four years stand between now and then, and during those four years, I won’t give my approval.”

Tears welled up into her eyes. Moments come in the lives of all of us when our nearest and dearest appear to understand us least. Even in our youth we experience unreasoning sadness.

Tears filled her eyes. There are times in all our lives when our closest loved ones seem to understand us the least. Even in our youth, we feel inexplicable sadness.

“I do not wish,” he continued, rising and patting her kindly on the back, “to see my daughter worn to a skeleton, working when she should be enjoying herself, taking upon her shoulders cares and worries which I have striven for years to avert—therefore I must save you from yourself. During the next four years I will try to show you what going[Pg 4] on the stage really means, and the labour it entails.”

“I don’t want,” he continued, standing up and gently patting her on the back, “to see my daughter run down to nothing, working when she should be having fun, taking on worries and concerns that I’ve tried for years to keep away from her—so I have to save you from yourself. In the next four years, I’ll do my best to show you what being on stage really involves and the hard work it requires.”

She did not answer, exultation had given place to indignation, indignation to emotion, and the aspirant to histrionic fame felt sick at heart.

She didn’t respond; her excitement had turned into anger, anger into strong feelings, and the person seeking dramatic fame felt nauseous.

That girl was the present writer—her father the late Dr. George Harley, F.R.S., of Harley Street.

That girl was the author—her father was the late Dr. George Harley, F.R.S., of Harley Street.

During those four years he showed me the work and anxiety connection with the stage involves, and as it was not necessary for me to earn my living at that time, I waited his pleasure, and, finally, of my own free will abandoned the girlish determination of becoming an actress. Wild dreams of glory and success eventually gave place to more rational ideas. The glamour of the footlights ceased to shine so alluringly—as I realised that the actor’s art, like the musician’s, is ephemeral, while the work and anxiety are great in both.

During those four years, he showed me how much work and stress are connected with the stage. Since I didn’t have to earn a living at the time, I waited for his guidance and eventually chose to give up my girlhood dream of becoming an actress on my own. Wild fantasies of fame and success were replaced by more realistic thoughts. The excitement of the spotlight stopped looking so appealing as I understood that the actor's craft, like that of a musician, is temporary, while the effort and stress involved are significant in both fields.

The restlessness of youth was upon me when I mooted the project, and an injudicious word then would have sent me forth at a tangent, probably to fail as many another has done before and since.

The restlessness of youth was on me when I brought up the project, and a careless word at that moment could have pushed me off course, likely to fail just like many others have before and since.

There may still be a few youthful people in the world who believe the streets of London are paved with gold—and there are certainly numbers of boys and girls who think the stage is strewn with pearls and diamonds. All the traditions of the theatre are founded in mystery and exaggeration; perhaps it is as well, for too much realism destroys illusion.

There might still be some young people out there who think the streets of London are made of gold—and there are definitely a lot of boys and girls who believe the stage is covered in pearls and diamonds. All the traditions of the theater are based on mystery and exaggeration; maybe that's a good thing, because too much realism ruins the illusion.

Boys and girls dream great dreams—they fancy[Pg 5] themselves leading actors and actresses, in imagination they dine off gold, wear jewels, laces, and furs, hear the applause of the multitude—and are happy. But all this, as said, is in their dreams, and dreams only last for seconds, while life lasts for years.

Boys and girls dream big—they imagine[Pg 5] themselves as leading actors and actresses, dining on gold, wearing jewels, lace, and furs, and hearing the applause of the crowd—and they feel happy. But as mentioned, all this is just in their dreams, and dreams only last for seconds, while life goes on for years.

One in perhaps a thousand aspirants ever climbs to the top of the dramatic ladder, dozens remain struggling on the lower rung, while hundreds fall out weary and heart-sore before passing even the first step. Never has the theatrical profession been more overcrowded than at the present moment.

One in maybe a thousand hopefuls ever makes it to the top of the acting world, dozens continue to struggle on the lower rungs, while hundreds drop out exhausted and disheartened before they even reach the first step. The acting profession has never been more crowded than it is right now.

Many people with a wild desire to act prove failures on the stage, their inclinations are greater than their powers. Rarely is it the other way; nevertheless Fanny Kemble, in spite of her talent, hated the idea of going on the stage. At that time acting was considered barely respectable for a woman (1829). She was related to Sarah Siddons and John Kemble, a daughter of Charles and Fanny Kemble, and yet no dramatic fire burned in her veins. She was short and plain, with large feet and hands, her only charm her vivacity and expression. Ruin was imminent in the family when the girl was prevailed upon after much persuasion to play Juliet. Three weeks later she electrified London. Neither time nor success altered her repugnance for the stage, however. When dressed as Juliet her white satin train lying over the chair, she recalled the scene in the following words:

Many people who have a strong desire to perform often end up failing on stage, as their ambitions exceed their abilities. It's rare for it to be the opposite; however, Fanny Kemble, despite her talent, didn't like the idea of performing. Back in 1829, acting was seen as only slightly respectable for women. She was related to Sarah Siddons and John Kemble, and was the daughter of Charles and Fanny Kemble, yet she felt no dramatic passion. She was short and plain, with large feet and hands, and her only charm was her liveliness and expressiveness. The family was facing financial ruin when, after much convincing, she agreed to play Juliet. Three weeks later, she captivated London. Nevertheless, neither time nor success changed her aversion to the stage. When she dressed as Juliet, with her white satin train draped over the chair, she remembered the scene in these words:

“There I sat, ready for execution, with the palms of my hands pressed convulsively together, and the tears I in vain endeavoured to repress welling up[Pg 6] into my eyes, brimming slowly over, down my rouged cheeks.”

“There I sat, ready for execution, with my palms pressed tightly together, and the tears I was trying hard to hold back welled up[Pg 6] in my eyes, slowly overflowing down my made-up cheeks.”

There is a well-known actor upon the stage to-day who feels much as Fanny Kemble did.

There is a famous actor on stage today who feels much like Fanny Kemble did.

“I hate it all,” he once said to me. “Would to Heaven I had another profession at my back. But I never really completed any studies in my youth, and in these days of keen competition I dare not leave an income on the stage for an uncertainty elsewhere.”

“I hate it all,” he once told me. “I wish I had another career to fall back on. But I never really finished my studies when I was younger, and in these highly competitive times, I can’t afford to give up a steady income in theater for something uncertain.”

To some people the stage is an alluring goal, religion is a recreation, while to others money is a worship. The Church and the Stage cast their fascinating meshes around most folk some time during the course of their existences. It is scarcely strange that such should be the case, for both hold their mystery, both have their excitements, and man delights to rush into what he does not understand—this has been the case at all times and in all countries, and, like love and war, seems likely to continue to the end of time.

To some, the stage is an enticing goal, religion is a pastime, while for others, money is something to be revered. The Church and the Stage enchant most people at some point in their lives. It's no wonder this happens, as both have their mysteries, both offer excitement, and people love to dive into things they don't fully understand—this has been true throughout history and across cultures, and, like love and war, it seems likely to persist indefinitely.

We all know the stage as seen from before the footlights—we have all sat breathless, waiting for the curtain to rise, and there are some who have longed for the “back cloth” to be lifted also, that they might peep behind. In these pages all hindrances shall be drawn away, and the theatre and its workings revealed from behind the footlights.

We all know what the stage looks like from the audience—we’ve all sat on the edge of our seats, waiting for the curtain to go up, and some people have wished for the “back cloth” to be lifted too, so they could sneak a peek behind the scenes. In these pages, all obstacles will be removed, and the theater and how it operates will be shown from behind the footlights.

As every theatre has its own individuality, so every face has its own expression, therefore one can only generalise, for it is impossible to treat each theatrical house and its customs separately.

As each theater has its own unique identity, so every face has its own expression. Therefore, one can only make generalizations, because it’s impossible to discuss each theater and its customs individually.

[Pg 7]

The strong personal interest I have always felt for the stage probably originated in the fact that from childhood I had heard stories of James Sheridan Knowles writing some of his plays, notably The Hunchback, at my grandfather’s house, Seaforth Hall, in Lancashire. Charles Dickens often stayed there when acting for some charity in Liverpool. Samuel Lover was a constant visitor at the house, as also the great American tragedian, Charlotte Cushman. Her beautiful sister Susan (the Juliet of her Romeo) married my uncle, Sheridan Muspratt, author of the Dictionary of Chemistry. From all of which it will be seen that theatrical stories were constantly retailed at home; therefore when I was about to “come out,” and my father asked if I would like a ball, I replied:

The strong personal interest I've always had in the stage probably started because, as a child, I heard stories about James Sheridan Knowles writing some of his plays, especially The Hunchback, at my grandfather's house, Seaforth Hall, in Lancashire. Charles Dickens often stayed there while performing for charity in Liverpool. Samuel Lover was a regular visitor, as was the great American actress Charlotte Cushman. Her beautiful sister Susan (the Juliet to her Romeo) married my uncle, Sheridan Muspratt, who wrote the Dictionary of Chemistry. Given all this, it's clear that theatrical stories were common in our home; so when I was about to "come out," and my father asked if I wanted a ball, I replied:

“No, I should prefer private theatricals.”

“No, I would rather have private performances.”

This was a surprise to the London physician; but there being no particular sin in private theatricals, consent was given, “provided,” as he said, “you paint the scenery, make your own dresses, generally run the show, and do the thing properly.”

This surprised the London doctor; however, since there was nothing wrong with private theater performances, he agreed, “as long as,” he said, “you paint the sets, create your own costumes, handle everything, and do it right.”

A wise proviso, and one faithfully complied with. It gave an enormous amount of work but brought me a vast amount of pleasure.

A smart condition, and one that was truly followed. It involved a lot of work but brought me a great deal of joy.

Mr. L. F. Austin, a clever contributor to the Illustrated London News, wrote a most amusing account of those theatricals—in which he, Mr. Weedon Grossmith, and Mrs. Beerbohm Tree assisted—in his little volume At Random. Sir William Magnay, then a well-known amateur, and now a novelist,[Pg 8] was one of our tiny company. Sweethearts, Mr. W. S. Gilbert’s delightful little comedy, was chosen for the performance, but at the last moment the girl who should have played the maid was taken ill. Off to Queen’s College, where I was then a pupil, I rushed, dragged Maud Holt—who became Mrs Tree a few weeks later—back with me, and that same night she made her first appearance on any stage. Very shortly afterwards Mrs. Beerbohm Tree adopted acting as a profession, and appeared first at the Court Theatre. Subsequently, when her husband became a manager, she joined his company for many years.

Mr. L. F. Austin, a talented writer for the Illustrated London News, shared a hilarious story about those performances—in which he, Mr. Weedon Grossmith, and Mrs. Beerbohm Tree participated—in his book At Random. Sir William Magnay, who was a well-known amateur at the time and is now a novelist,[Pg 8] was part of our small group. We chose Sweethearts, Mr. W. S. Gilbert’s charming little comedy, for the performance, but at the last minute, the actress set to play the maid got sick. I rushed off to Queen’s College, where I was studying, and brought Maud Holt—who became Mrs. Tree a few weeks later—back with me. That same night, she made her very first appearance on stage. Shortly after that, Mrs. Beerbohm Tree decided to pursue acting as a career and made her debut at the Court Theatre. Later, when her husband became a manager, she joined his company for many years.

We all adored her at College: she was tall and graceful, with a beautiful figure: she sang charmingly, and read voraciously. In those days she was a great disciple of Browning, and so was Mr. Tree; in fact, the poet was the leading-string to love and matrimony.

We all loved her in college: she was tall and elegant, with a stunning figure. She sang beautifully and read a lot. Back then, she was a big fan of Browning, and so was Mr. Tree; in truth, the poet was the guiding force for love and marriage.

Mrs. Beerbohm Tree considers that almost the happiest moments of her life were spent in reciting The Absent-minded Beggar for the War Fund. It came about in this wise. She had arranged to give a recitation at St. James’s Hall on one particular Wednesday. On the Friday before that day she saw announced in the Daily Mail that a new poem by Rudyard Kipling on the Transvaal war theme would appear in the Tuesday issue. This she thought would be a splendid opportunity to declaim a topical song at the concert, so she wrote personally to the editor of the paper, and asked him if he could possibly let her have an advance copy of the poem, so that[Pg 9] she might learn and recite it on Wednesday, as the Tuesday issue would be too late for her purpose.

Mrs. Beerbohm Tree believes that some of the happiest moments of her life were spent reciting The Absent-minded Beggar for the War Fund. Here's how it happened. She had planned to give a recitation at St. James’s Hall on an upcoming Wednesday. On the Friday before that, she saw in the Daily Mail that a new poem by Rudyard Kipling about the Transvaal war would be published in the Tuesday edition. She thought this would be a perfect chance to perform a current song at the concert, so she personally wrote to the editor of the paper, asking if he could possibly send her an advance copy of the poem, so that[Pg 9] she could learn and recite it on Wednesday, as the Tuesday issue would be too late for her needs.

Through the courtesy of Mr. Harmsworth she received the proof of The Absent-minded Beggar on Friday evening, and sitting in her dining-room in Sloane Street with her elbows on the table she read and re-read it several times. This, she thought, might bring grist to the war mill. Into a hansom she jumped, and off to the Palace Theatre she drove, boldly asking for the manager. Her name was sufficient, and she was ushered into the august presence.

Through the kindness of Mr. Harmsworth, she received the proof of The Absent-minded Beggar on Friday evening. Sitting in her dining room on Sloane Street with her elbows on the table, she read and re-read it several times. This, she thought, could contribute to the war effort. She hopped into a cab and headed to the Palace Theatre, confidently asking to see the manager. Her name was enough, and she was shown into the important presence.

“This is a remarkable poem,” she said, “by Mr. Rudyard Kipling, so remarkable that I think if recited in your Hall nightly it would bring some money to the fund, and if you will give me £100 a week——”

“This is an amazing poem,” she said, “by Mr. Rudyard Kipling, so amazing that I think if it were recited in your Hall every night, it would raise some money for the fund, and if you would give me £100 a week——”

Up went the manager’s hand in horror.

Up went the manager's hand in shock.

“One hundred pounds a week, Mrs. Tree?”

"One hundred pounds a week, Mrs. Tree?"

“Yes, £100 a week, I will come and recite it every evening, and hand over the cheque intact to the War Fund.”

“Yes, £100 a week, I will come and recite it every evening, and hand over the check intact to the War Fund.”

It was a large sum, and the gentleman could not see his way to accepting the offer on his own responsibility, but said he would sound his directors in the morning.

It was a big amount, and the gentleman felt he couldn't accept the offer on his own authority, but he said he would discuss it with his directors in the morning.

Before lunch-time next day Mrs. Tree received a note requesting her to recite the poem nightly as suggested, and promising her £100 a week for herself or the fund in return. For ten weeks she stood alone every evening on that vast stage, and for ten minutes she recited “Pay, pay, pay.” There never have been such record houses at the Palace either before or since, and at the end of ten weeks she handed over[Pg 10] a cheque for £1,000 to the fund. Nor was this all, large sums were paid into the collecting boxes in the Palace Theatre. In addition Mrs. Tree made £1,700 at concerts, and £700 on one night at a Club. More than that, endless people followed her example, and the War Fund became some £20,000 richer for her inspiration in that dining-room in Sloane Street.

Before lunchtime the next day, Mrs. Tree received a note asking her to recite the poem every night as suggested, and promising her £100 a week for herself or the fund in return. For ten weeks, she stood alone every evening on that huge stage, and for ten minutes, she recited “Pay, pay, pay.” There have never been such record audiences at the Palace either before or since, and at the end of ten weeks, she handed over[Pg 10] a cheque for £1,000 to the fund. And that’s not all; large sums were also dropped into the collecting boxes at the Palace Theatre. Additionally, Mrs. Tree made £1,700 from concerts, and £700 in one night at a Club. Even more, countless people followed her example, and the War Fund became about £20,000 richer thanks to her inspiration in that dining room on Sloane Street.

This was one of the plums of the theatrical cake; but how different is the performance and the gold and glitter as seen from the front of the curtain, to the real thing behind. How little the audience entering wide halls, proceeding up pile carpeted stairs, sweeping past stately palms, or pushing aside heavy plush curtains, realise the entrance to the playhouse on the other side of the footlights.

This was one of the highlights of the theater experience; but how different is the show and the glamour seen from the front of the curtain compared to the reality behind it. The audience, walking into grand halls, climbing up plush carpeted stairs, gliding past elegant palms, or pushing aside thick velvet curtains, hardly understands what it’s like to enter the playhouse from the other side of the stage lights.

At the back of the theatre is the stage door. Generally up an alley, it is mean in appearance, more like an entrance to some cheap lodging-house than to fairyland. Rough men lounge about outside, those scene-shifters, carpenters, and that odd list of humanity who jostle each other “behind the scenes,” work among “flies,” and adjust “wings” in no ornithological sense, but merely as the side-pieces of the stage-setting.

At the back of the theater is the stage door. Usually located down an alley, it looks uninviting, more like the entrance to a budget lodging house than to a magical realm. Rugged men hang around outside—those scene shifters, carpenters, and the unusual mix of people who bump into each other “behind the scenes,” work among the “flies,” and adjust “wings,” not in a bird-related way, but as the side pieces of the stage set.

Just inside this door is a little box-like office; nothing grand about it, oh dear no, whitewash is more often found there than mahogany, and stone stairs than Turkey carpets. Inside this little bureau sits that severe guardian of order, the stage door keeper. He is a Pope and a Czar in one. He is always busy, refuses to listen to explanations; even a card[Pg 11] is not sent in unless that important gentleman feels assured its owner means business.

Just inside this door is a small office; it’s nothing fancy, oh no, white walls are more common than mahogany, and stone stairs are found instead of plush carpets. Inside this tiny office sits the strict guardian of order, the stage doorkeeper. He’s both a Pope and a Czar all in one. He’s always busy and doesn’t listen to explanations; even a card[Pg 11] isn’t allowed in unless that important guy is convinced the sender is serious.

At that door, which is dark and dreary, the glamour of the stage begins to wane. It is no portal to a palace. The folk hanging about are not arrayed in velvets and satins; quite the contrary; torn cashmeres and shiny coats are more en évidence.

At that door, which is gloomy and dull, the magic of the stage starts to fade. It's not an entrance to a palace. The people lingering around aren't dressed in velvets and satins; on the contrary, tattered cashmere and shiny coats are more in evidence.

Strange people are to be found both behind and upon the stage, as in every other walk through life; but there are plenty of good men and women in the profession, men and women whose friendship it is an honour to possess. Men and women whose kindness of heart is unbounded, and whose intellectual attainments soar far above the average.

Strange people can be found both backstage and on stage, just like in every other area of life; but there are also many good men and women in the profession, people whose friendship is an honor to have. These are individuals with immense kindness and intelligence that far exceeds the norm.

Every girl who goes upon the stage need not enjoy the privilege of marrying titled imbecility, nor obtain the notoriety of the Divorce Court, neither being creditable nor essential to her calling, although both are chronicled with unfailing regularity by the press.

Every girl who goes on stage doesn’t have to settle for marrying a foolish aristocrat, nor does she need to end up in the Divorce Court. Neither of these is respectable or necessary for her career, even though both are regularly reported by the media.

The Divorce Court is a sad theatre where terrible tragedies of human misery are acted out to the bitter end. Between seven and eight hundred cases are tried in England every year—not many, perhaps, when compared with the population of the country, which is over forty millions. But then of course the Divorce Court is only the foam; the surging billows of discontent and unhappiness lie beneath, and about six thousand judicial separations, all spelling human tragedy, are granted yearly by magistrates, the greater number of such cases being undefended. They[Pg 12] record the same sad story of disappointed, aching hearts year in year out.

The Divorce Court is a depressing stage where the awful tragedies of human suffering unfold to a painful conclusion. Each year, seven to eight hundred cases are tried in England—not a lot, perhaps, considering the country’s population of over forty million. But the Divorce Court is just the surface; the deep waves of dissatisfaction and unhappiness swirl underneath, with about six thousand legal separations, all representing human tragedy, granted annually by magistrates, most of which are uncontested. They[Pg 12] tell the same heartbreaking story of disappointed, aching hearts year after year.

Divorces are not more common amongst theatrical folk than any other class, so, whatever may be said for or against the morality of the stage, the Divorce Court does not prove theatrical life to be less virtuous than any other.

Divorces aren’t any more common among actors than in any other group, so regardless of what people might say about the morality of the theater, the Divorce Court doesn’t show that life in theater is less virtuous than anywhere else.

The fascination of the stage entraps all ages—all classes. Even children sometimes wax warm over theatrical folk. Once I chanced to be talking to a little girl concerning theatres.

The allure of the stage captivates everyone, regardless of age or background. Even children can get really excited about theatrical performers. Once, I happened to have a conversation with a little girl about theaters.

“Do you know Mr. A. B. C.?” she asked excitedly, when the conversation turned on actors.

“Do you know Mr. A. B. C.?” she asked excitedly when the conversation shifted to actors.

“Yes, he is a great friend of mine.”

“Yes, he’s a really good friend of mine.”

“Oh, do tell me all about him,” she exclaimed, seizing my arm.

“Oh, please tell me all about him,” she said eagerly, grabbing my arm.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because I adore him, and all the girls at school adore him, he is like a real prince; we save up our pocket-money to buy his photographs, and May Smith has actually got his autograph!”

“Because I love him, and all the girls at school love him, he’s like a real prince; we save our allowance to buy his pictures, and May Smith actually has his autograph!”

“But tell me why you all adore him?” I asked.

“But tell me why you all love him so much?” I asked.

“Because he is so lovely, so tall and handsome, has such a melodious voice, and oh! doesn’t he look too beautiful in his velvet suit as——? He is young and handsome, isn’t he? Oh, do say he is young and handsome,” implored the enthusiastic child.

“Because he’s so lovely, so tall and handsome, has such a beautiful voice, and oh! doesn’t he look amazing in his velvet suit as——? He’s young and handsome, right? Oh, please say he’s young and handsome,” pleaded the excited child.

“I am afraid I cannot, for it would not be true; Mr. A. B. C. is not tall—in fact, he is quite short.” She looked crestfallen. “He has a sallow complexion[Pg 13].”

“I’m sorry, but that wouldn’t be accurate; Mr. A. B. C. isn’t tall—he’s actually quite short.” She looked disappointed. “He has a pale complexion[Pg 13].”

“Sallow! Oh, not really sallow! but he is handsome and young, isn’t he?”

“I should think he is about fifty-two.”

“I’d say he’s about fifty-two.”

“Fifty-two!” she almost shrieked. “My A. B. C. fifty-two. Oh no. You are chaffing me; he must be young and beautiful.”

“Fifty-two!” she almost yelled. “My A. B. C. fifty-two. Oh no. You're kidding me; he has to be young and handsome.”

“And his hair is grey,” I cruelly added.

“And his hair is gray,” I cruelly added.

“Grey?”—she sobbed. “Not grey? Oh, you hurt me.”

“Grey?” she cried. “Not grey? Oh, you’re hurting me.”

“You asked questions and I have answered them truthfully,” I replied. She stood silent for a moment, then in rather a subdued tone murmured:

“You asked questions and I have answered them honestly,” I replied. She stood silent for a moment, then in a somewhat quiet tone murmured:

“He is not married, is he?”

"He's not married, right?"

“Oh yes, he has been married for five-and-twenty years.”

“Oh yes, he has been married for twenty-five years.”

The child looked so crestfallen I felt I had been unkind.

The child looked so sad that I felt I had been unkind.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” she almost sobbed, “won’t the girls at school be surprised! Are you quite, quite sure he is not young and beautiful? he looks so lovely on the stage.”

“Oh no, oh no,” she nearly cried, “the girls at school are going to be so surprised! Are you absolutely sure he’s not young and handsome? He looks so great on stage.”

“Quite, quite sure. You have only seen him from before the footlights. He is a good fellow, clever and charming, and he works hard, but he is no lover in velvet and jerkin, no hero of romance, and the less you worry your foolish little head about him the better, my dear.”

“Absolutely sure. You've only seen him from the audience. He’s a great guy, smart and charming, and he puts in a lot of effort, but he’s not some romantic hero in fancy clothes. The less you stress over him, the better, my dear.”

How many men and women believe like this child that there are only princes and princesses on the stage.

How many men and women believe like this child that there are only princes and princesses on the stage?

There was an old Scotch body—an educated,[Pg 14] puritanical person—who once informed me, “The the-a-ter is very bad, very wicked, ma’am.”

There was an old Scottish guy—an educated, [Pg 14] puritanical person—who once told me, “The theater is very bad, very wicked, ma’am.”

“Why?” I asked, amazed yet interested.

“Why?” I asked, amazed but intrigued.

“It’s full of fire and lights like Hell. They just discuss emotions there, ma’am, and it’s morbid to discuss emotions and just silly conceit to think about them. I like deeds, and not talk—I do!”

“It’s full of fire and lights like Hell. They just talk about feelings there, ma’am, and it’s dark to discuss feelings and just foolish arrogance to dwell on them. I prefer action over words—I really do!”

“You seem to think the theatre a hotbed of iniquity?”

"You think the theater is a hotbed of wrongdoing?"

“Aye, indeed I do, ma’am. They even make thunder. Fancy daring to make thunder for amusement as the good God does to show His wrath—thunder with a machine—it’s just dreadful, it is.”

“Yeah, I really do, ma’am. They even create thunder. How dare they make thunder for fun like the good God does to show His anger—thunder with a machine—it's just awful, it really is.”

The grosser the exaggeration the more readily it provokes conversation. I was dying to argue, but fearing to hurt her feelings, I merely smiled, wondering what the old lady would say if she knew even prayers were made by a machine in countries where the prayer-wheel is used.

The bigger the exaggeration, the more it sparks conversation. I was itching to argue, but worried I'd hurt her feelings, so I just smiled, curious about what the old lady would think if she knew that even prayers are produced by a machine in places where they use prayer-wheels.

“Have you ever been to a theatre?” I ventured to ask, not wishing to disturb the good dame’s peace of mind.

“Have you ever been to a theater?” I asked cautiously, not wanting to disrupt the lady’s calm.

“The Lord forbid!”

“God forbid!”

That settled the matter; but I subsequently found that the old body went to bazaars, and did not mind a little flutter over raffles, and on one occasion had even been to hear the inimitable George Grossmith in Inverness, when——

That settled the issue; however, I later discovered that the old man visited bazaars and didn’t mind taking a chance on raffles. On one occasion, he had even gone to see the one-and-only George Grossmith in Inverness, when——

“He was not dressed-up-like, so it wasn’t a regular the-a-ter, and he was just alone, ma’am, wi’ a piano, so there was no harm in that,” added the[Pg 15] virtuous dame, complacently folding her hands across her portly form.

“He wasn’t dressed up, so it wasn’t a typical theater, and he was just by himself, ma’am, with a piano, so there was nothing wrong with that,” added the[Pg 15] virtuous lady, comfortably folding her hands across her ample figure.

Wishing to change the subject, I asked her how her potatoes were doing.

Wishing to change the subject, I asked her how her potatoes were.

“Bad, bad,” she replied, “they’re awfu’ bad, the Lord’s agin us the year; but we must jist make the best of it, ma’am.”

“Bad, bad,” she replied, “they’re really bad, the Lord’s against us this year; but we just have to make the best of it, ma’am.”

She was a thoroughly good woman, and this was her philosophy. She would make the best of the lack of potatoes, as that was a punishment from above; but she could not sanction play-acting any more than riding a bicycle on the Sabbath.

She was a genuinely good woman, and this was her philosophy. She would make the best of not having potatoes, as that was a punishment from above; but she couldn't approve of acting or riding a bike on the Sabbath.

Her horror of the wickedness of the stage was as amusing as the absurd adoration of the enthusiastic child.

Her fear of the evil of the stage was as entertaining as the ridiculous admiration of the excited child.

Every good-looking man or woman who “play acts” is the recipient of foolish love-letters. Pretty girls receive them from sentimental youth or sensual old age, and handsome men are pestered with them from old maids, or unhappily married women. Some curious epistles are sent across the footlights, even the most self-respecting woman cannot escape their advent, although she can, and, does, ignore them.

Every attractive guy or girl who “plays a role” gets their share of silly love letters. Pretty girls get them from dreamy young guys or older men, and handsome guys are bombarded with them from lonely women or those stuck in unhappy marriages. Some strange letters are sent from the audience, and even the most dignified woman can’t avoid receiving them, although she can and often does just ignore them.

Here is a sample of one:

“For five nights I have been to the theatre to see you play in——. I was so struck by your performance last week that I have been back every night since. Vainly I hoped you would notice me, for I always occupy the same seat, and last night I really thought you did smile at me” (she had done nothing of the kind, and had never even seen the man), “so I went[Pg 16] home happy—oh so happy. I have sent you some roses the last two nights, and felt sorry you did not wear them. Is there any flower you like better? I hardly dare presume to ask you for a meeting, but if you only knew how much I admire you, perhaps you would grant me this great favour and make me the happiest man on earth. I cannot sleep for thinking of you. You are to me the embodiment of every womanly grace, and if you would take supper with me one night after the performance you would indeed confer a boon on a lonely man.”

“For five nights, I've been to the theater to watch you perform in——. I was so impressed by your performance last week that I’ve returned every night since. I foolishly hoped you would notice me since I always sit in the same spot, and last night I really thought you smiled at me” (she hadn’t done anything of the sort and had never even seen the man), “so I went[Pg 16] home happy—oh so happy. I’ve sent you some roses the last two nights and felt disappointed you didn’t wear them. Is there a flower you like better? I hardly dare to ask for a meeting, but if you only knew how much I admire you, maybe you would grant me this great favor and make me the happiest man on earth. I can’t sleep for thinking of you. To me, you embody every womanly grace, and if you would join me for supper one night after the show, you would truly give a boon to a lonely man.”

No answer does not mean the end of the matter. Some men—and, alas! some women—write again and again, send flowers and presents, and literally pester the object of their so-called adoration.

No response doesn't mean it's over. Some men—and unfortunately, some women—keep reaching out, sending flowers and gifts, and really annoy the person of their so-called affection.

For weeks and weeks a man sent a girl violets; one night a diamond ring was tied up in the bunch—those glittering stones began her ruin—she wrote to acknowledge them, a correspondence ensued.

For weeks, a guy sent a girl violets; one night, a diamond ring was tied up in the bouquet—those sparkling stones started her downfall—she wrote to thank him, and a conversation started.

That man proved her curse. She, the once beautiful and virtuous girl, who was earning a good income before she met her evil genius, died lately in poverty and obscurity. The world had scoffed at her and turned aside, while it still smiled upon the man, although he was the villain; but can he get away from his own conscience?

That man proved her curse. She, the once beautiful and virtuous girl, who was making a decent living before she met her evil genius, died recently in poverty and obscurity. The world mocked her and looked away, while still smiling upon the man, even though he was the villain; but can he escape his own conscience?

Every vice carries with it a sting, every virtue a balm.

Every vice has a sting, and every virtue has a healing touch.

There are many perils on the stage, to which of course only the weak succumb; but the temptations are necessarily greater than in other professions. Its[Pg 17] very publicity spells mischief. There is the horrid man in all audiences who tries to make love and ogle pretty women across the footlights, the class of creature who totally forgets that the best crown a man or woman can wear is a good reputation.

There are many dangers on stage, and only the weak give in to them; but the temptations are definitely greater than in other professions. Its[Pg 17] very visibility causes trouble. There’s the creepy guy in every audience who tries to hit on and stare at pretty women from across the footlights, the type of person who completely forgets that the best title someone can have is a good reputation.

Temptations lie open on all sides for the actor and actress, and those who pass through the ordeal safely are doubly to be congratulated, for the man who meets temptation and holds aloof is surely a finer character than he who is merely “good” because he has never had a chance of being anything else.

Temptations surround actors and actresses from every direction, and those who navigate this challenge successfully deserve extra praise, because a person who faces temptation and remains strong is undoubtedly a better person than someone who is just "good" because they've never had the opportunity to be anything different.

Journalism, domestic service, and the stage probably require less knowledge and training for a beginning than any other occupations.

Journalism, domestic work, and acting probably require less knowledge and training to start than any other jobs.

It costs money and time to learn to be a dressmaker, a doctor, an architect, even a shorthand writer; but given a certain amount of cleverness, experience is not necessary to do “scissor-and-paste” work in journalism, rough housework, or to “walk on” on the stage; but oh! what an amount of work and experience is necessary to ensure a satisfactory ending, more particularly upon the boards, where all is not gold that glitters. At best the crown is only brass, the shining silver merely tin, and in nine theatres out of every ten the regal ermine but a paltry rabbit-skin.

It takes money and time to become a dressmaker, a doctor, an architect, or even a shorthand writer; but with a bit of smarts, you don’t need experience to do basic “scissor-and-paste” tasks in journalism, simple manual work, or to perform on stage; but oh! how much work and experience you need to guarantee a good outcome, especially on stage, where not everything that shines is valuable. At best, the crown is just brass, the shiny silver is just tin, and in nine out of ten theaters, the royal fur is just cheap rabbit skin.

Glitter dazzles the eye. Nevertheless behind it beat good hearts and true; while hard work, patient endurance, and courage mark the path of the successful player.

Glitter dazzles the eye. Yet behind it are good hearts and true; while hard work, patient endurance, and courage define the journey of the successful player.

Work does not degrade a man; but a man often degrades his work.

Work doesn't diminish a person; instead, a person often diminishes their work.

[Pg 18]

If, as the old body said, it be morbid to discuss emotions, and egotistical to feel them, it is still the actor’s art, and that is probably why he is such a sensitive creature, why he is generally in the highest spirits or deepest depths of woe, why he is full of moods and as varying as a weathercock. Still he is charming, and so is his companion in stageland—the actress. Both entertain us, and amusement is absolutely essential to a healthy existence.

If, as the old saying goes, it's unhealthy to talk about emotions and selfish to feel them, it's still part of an actor's craft. That's probably why actors are so sensitive, often swinging between the highest highs and the lowest lows, full of moods and as changeable as the wind. Yet they are charming, and so is their counterpart in the theater—the actress. Both keep us entertained, and having fun is essential for a healthy life.

When one considers the wonderful success of women upon the stage to-day, and their splendid position socially, it seems almost impossible to believe that they never acted in England until the reign of Charles I., when a French Company which numbered women among its players crossed the Channel, and craved a hearing from Queen Henrietta Maria. One critic of the time called them “unwomanish and graceless”; another said, “Glad am I they were hissed and hooted”; but still they had come to stay, and slowly, very slowly, women were allowed to take part in theatrical performances. We all know the high position they hold to-day.

When you think about the incredible success of women on stage today and their impressive social standing, it’s hard to believe they didn’t perform in England until the reign of Charles I. That’s when a French company with women in its cast crossed the Channel and asked Queen Henrietta Maria for a chance to perform. One critic at the time called them “unwomanly and graceless,” while another remarked, “I’m glad they were booed and jeered.” Despite that, they were there to stay, and gradually, women were allowed to take part in theater performances. We all know the prominent roles they have today.

In 1660 there were only two theatres in London, the King’s and the Duke of York’s, the dearest seats were the boxes at four shillings, the cheapest the gallery at one shilling. Ladies wore masks at the play, probably because of the coarse nature of the performances, which gradually improved with the advent of actresses.

In 1660, there were only two theaters in London: the King’s and the Duke of York’s. The most expensive seats were the boxes at four shillings, while the least expensive were in the gallery for one shilling. Women wore masks at the theater, likely due to the explicit nature of the performances, which gradually got better with the introduction of female actors.

In days gone by the playhouse was not the orderly place it is nowadays, and the unfortunate[Pg 19] “mummers” had to put up with every kind of nuisance until Colley Cibber protested, and Queen Anne issued a Proclamation (1704) against disturbances. In those days folk arrived in sedan chairs, and their noisy footmen were allowed free admission to the upper gallery to wait for their lords and ladies, added to which the orange girls called their wares and did a brisk trade in carrying love-missives from one part of the house to the other. Before the players could be heard they had to fight their way on to the boards, where gilded youth lolled in the wings and even crossed the stage during the rendering of a scene.

In the past, theaters were far from the organized places they are today, and the unfortunate “mummers” had to endure all kinds of disturbances until Colley Cibber raised a complaint, prompting Queen Anne to issue a Proclamation (1704) against these disruptions. Back then, people arrived in sedan chairs, and their noisy footmen were granted free access to the upper gallery to wait for their lords and ladies. Additionally, the orange girls shouted out their sales and busily delivered love notes across the venue. Before the actors could be heard, they had to fight their way onto the stage, where entitled youth lounged in the wings and even crossed the stage while a scene was being performed.

It was about this time that Queen Anne made a stand against the shocking immorality of the stage, and ordered the Master of the Revels (much the same post as the Lord Chamberlain now holds) to correct these abuses. All actors, mountebanks, etc., had to submit their plays or entertainments to the Master of the Revels in Somerset House from that day, and nothing could be performed without his permission.

It was around this time that Queen Anne took a stand against the outrageous immorality of the theater and instructed the Master of the Revels (a role similar to what the Lord Chamberlain does now) to address these issues. From that point on, all actors, con artists, and others had to submit their plays or performances to the Master of the Revels at Somerset House, and nothing could be shown without his approval.

The stage has a curious effect on people. Many a person has gone to see a play, and some line has altered the whole course of his life. Some idea has been put forth, some tender note played upon which has opened his eyes to his own selfishness, his own greed of wealth, his harshness to a child, or indifference to a wife. There is no doubt about it, the stage is a great power, and that is why it is so important the influence should be used for good, and that illicit love and demoralising thoughts should be kept out[Pg 20] of the theatre with its mixed audiences and susceptible youth. According to a recent report:

The stage has a fascinating impact on people. Many have gone to see a play, and just one line has changed the entire direction of their life. A thought has been presented, or a touching note has been played that has made them realize their own selfishness, their own greed for money, their harshness towards a child, or their indifference towards a spouse. There’s no doubt about it, the stage is a powerful force, which is why it’s so important that its influence is used for good, and that inappropriate love and harmful ideas should be kept out[Pg 20] of the theater with its diverse audiences and impressionable youth. According to a recent report:

“The Berne authorities, holding that the theatre is a powerful instrument for the education of the masses, have decided that on two days of the week the seats in the theatre, without exception, shall be sold at a uniform price of fivepence. ‘Under the direction of the manager,’ writes a correspondent, ‘the tickets are enclosed in envelopes, and in this form are sold to the public. The scheme has proved a great success, especially among the working classes, whom it was meant to benefit. To prevent ticket speculators making a “corner,” the principle of one ticket for one person has been adopted, and the playgoer only knows the location of his seat after he enters the theatre. No intoxicants are sold and no passes are given. The expenses exceed the receipts, but a reserve fund and voluntary contributions are more than sufficient to meet the deficit.’”

“The Berne authorities, believing that theater is a powerful tool for educating the masses, have decided that on two days of the week, all seats in the theater will be sold at a flat price of fivepence. ‘Under the management’s direction,’ a correspondent writes, ‘the tickets are placed in envelopes and sold to the public in this way. The scheme has been very successful, especially among the working class, which is the group it aimed to help. To prevent ticket scalpers from dominating the market, the rule of one ticket per person has been implemented, and attendees only find out where their seat is after they enter the theater. No alcohol is sold and no comp tickets are given. The expenses exceed the revenue, but a reserve fund and voluntary donations more than cover the shortfall.’”

Constantly seeing vice portrayed tends to make one cease to think it horrible. Love of gain should not induce a manager to put on a piece that is public poison. Some queer plays teach splendid moral lessons—well and good; but some strange dramas drag their audience through mire for no wise end whatever. The manager who puts such upon his stage is a destroyer of public morality.

Constantly seeing bad behavior represented tends to make people stop thinking it’s terrible. The desire for profit shouldn’t lead a manager to present something that harms the public. Some unusual plays convey great moral lessons—that's fine; but some odd dramas just drag their audience through the mud for no good reason. The manager who stages such works is harming public morality.

Photo by Window & Grove, Baker Street, W.

MRS. KENDAL AS MISTRESS FORD IN “MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.”

[Pg 21]

CHAPTER II

CRADLED IN THE THEATRE

Three Great Aristocracies—Born on Stage—Inherited Talent—Interview with Mrs. Kendal—Her Thoughts and Warning to Young Aspiring Actors—Typical Salary—Struggling to Make a Living—No Dress Rehearsal—Overdressing—A Look at Harley Street—Voice and Expression—American Friends—Mrs. Kendal’s Marriage—Forbes Robertson’s Love Story—Why He Left Art for the Stage—Great Elocutionist—Poor Enunciation and Loud Music—Ellen Terry—Gillette—Expressionless Faces—Long Runs—Charles Warner—Misuse of Success.

LONDON is a great world: it contains three aristocracies:

LONDON is a vast world; it has three aristocracies:

The aristocracy of blood, which is limited;

The aristocracy of blood, which is exclusive;

The aristocracy of brain, which is scattered;

The elite of intellect, which is dispersed;

And the aristocracy of wealth, which threatens to flood the other two.

And the wealthy elite, which threatens to overwhelm the other two.

The most powerful book in the world at the beginning of the twentieth century is the cheque-book. Foreigners are adored, vulgarity is sanctioned; indeed, all are welcomed so long as gold hangs round their skirts and diamonds and pearls adorn their bodies. Wealth, wealth, wealth, that is the modern cry, and there seems nothing it cannot buy, even a transient position upon the stage.

The most powerful book in the world at the start of the twentieth century is the checkbook. Foreigners are celebrated, crudeness is accepted; in fact, everyone is welcome as long as they carry gold and wear diamonds and pearls. Money, money, money, that is the modern mantra, and there appears to be nothing it can't purchase, even a temporary spot in the spotlight.

Many of our well-known actors and actresses have,[Pg 22] however, been “born on the stage”—that is to say, they were the children of theatrical folk, and have themselves taken part in the drama almost from babyhood.

Many of our famous actors and actresses have,[Pg 22] however, been “born on the stage”—meaning they came from theatrical families and have participated in drama almost since they were babies.

The most successful members of the profession are those possessed of inherited talent, or that have gone on the stage from necessity rather than choice, men and women who since early life have had to fight for themselves and overcome difficulties. It is pleasant to give a prominent example of the triumph which may result from the blending of both influences in the person of one of our greatest actresses, Mrs. Kendal, who has led a marvellously interesting life.

The most successful people in the profession are those with natural talent or those who entered the stage out of necessity rather than desire; individuals who have had to fend for themselves and overcome challenges since childhood. It’s inspiring to highlight a prime example of how these influences can come together in the life of one of our greatest actresses, Mrs. Kendal, who has lived an incredibly fascinating life.

She was born early in the fifties, and her grandfather, father, uncles, and brother (T. W. Robertson) were all intimately connected with the stage as actors and playwrights. When quite a child she began her theatrical career, and made her London début in 1865, when she appeared as Ophelia under her maiden name of Madge Robertson, Walter Montgomery playing the part of Hamlet. Little Madge was only three years old when she first trod the boards, whereon she was to portray a blind child, but when she espied her nurse in the distance, she rushed to the wings, exclaiming, “Oh, Nannie, look at my beautiful new shoes!”

She was born in the early 1950s, and her grandfather, father, uncles, and brother (T. W. Robertson) were all closely involved with the theater as actors and playwrights. As a young child, she began her acting career and made her London debut in 1865 when she appeared as Ophelia under her maiden name, Madge Robertson, with Walter Montgomery playing Hamlet. Little Madge was just three years old when she first stepped onto the stage to play a blind child, but when she spotted her nurse in the distance, she ran to the wings, exclaiming, “Oh, Nannie, look at my beautiful new shoes!”

Her bringing up was strict; she had no playfellows and never went to school, a governess and her father were her teachers. Every morning that father took her for a walk, explaining all sorts of things as they went along, or teaching her baby lips[Pg 23] to repeat Shelley’s “Ode to a Foxglove.” On their return home, he would read Shakespeare with her, so that the works of the bard were known to her almost before she learnt nursery rhymes.

Her upbringing was strict; she had no playmates and never attended school, with a governess and her father as her teachers. Every morning, her father took her for a walk, explaining all sorts of things as they strolled or teaching her little lips[Pg 23] to recite Shelley’s “Ode to a Foxglove.” When they returned home, he would read Shakespeare with her, so she knew the works of the bard almost before she learned nursery rhymes.

“I was grown up at ten,” exclaimed Mrs. Kendal, “and first began to grow young at forty.”

“I was grown up at ten,” said Mrs. Kendal, “and I first started to feel young again at forty.”

When about fourteen, she was living with her parents in South Crescent, off Tottenham Court Road. One Sunday—a dreary heavy, dull, rainy London day—her father and mother had been talking together for hours, and she wearily went to the window to look out, the mere fact of watching a passer-by seeming at the moment to afford relaxation. Tears rolled down the girl’s cheeks—she was longing for companions of her own age, she was leaving the dolls of childhood behind and learning to be a woman. Her father noticed that she was crying, and exclaimed in surprise, “Why, Daisy, what’s the matter?”

When she was about fourteen, she lived with her parents in South Crescent, near Tottenham Court Road. One Sunday—a dreary, heavy, dull, rainy day in London—her mom and dad had been talking for hours, and she tiredly went to the window to look outside, the simple act of watching someone walk by seeming to bring her a little relief. Tears streamed down the girl’s cheeks—she was yearning for friends her own age, leaving the dolls of childhood behind and growing into a young woman. Her father saw that she was crying and exclaimed in surprise, “Why, Daisy, what’s wrong?”

“I feel dull,” she said.

“I feel bored,” she said.

“Dull, dear?—dull, with your mother and me?”

“Boring, sweetheart?—boring, with your mom and me?”

A pathetic little story, truly: the parents were so wrapped up in themselves, they never realised that sometimes the rising generation might feel lonely.

A sad little story, really: the parents were so caught up in their own lives that they never noticed that sometimes the younger generation might feel lonely.

“My father and mother were then old,” said Mrs. Kendal, “I was their youngest child. All the others were out in the world, trying to find a place.”

“My dad and mom were pretty old back then,” Mrs. Kendal said, “I was their youngest kid. All my siblings were out in the world, trying to find their way.”

Early struggles, hopes and fears, poverty and luxury, followed in quick succession in this remarkable woman’s life, but any one who knows her must[Pg 24] realise it was her indomitable will and pluck, coupled, of course, with good health and exceptional talent, which brought her the high position she holds to-day.

Early struggles, hopes and fears, poverty and luxury, followed one after another in this remarkable woman’s life, but anyone who knows her must[Pg 24] realize it was her unbreakable will and courage, along with good health and exceptional talent, that brought her the high position she holds today.

If Mrs. Kendal makes up her mind to do a thing, by hook or by crook that object is accomplished. She has great powers of organisation, and a capacity for choosing the right people to help her. “Never say die” is apparently her watchword.

If Mrs. Kendal decides to do something, she'll get it done one way or another. She has excellent organizational skills and knows how to pick the right people to support her. “Never give up” seems to be her motto.

She, like Miss Geneviève Ward, was originally intended for a singer, and songs were introduced into her parts in such plays as The Palace of Truth. Unfortunately she contracted diphtheria, which in those days was not controlled and arrested by antitoxin as it is now, and an operation had to be performed. All this tended to weaken her voice, which gradually left her. Consequently she gave up singing, or rather, singing gave her up, and she became a “play-actress.” She so thoroughly realises the disappointments and struggles of her profession that one of Mrs. Kendal’s pet hobbies is to try and counteract the evil arising from the wish of inexperienced girls to “go upon the stage.”

She, like Miss Geneviève Ward, was originally meant to be a singer, and songs were included in her roles in plays like The Palace of Truth. Unfortunately, she contracted diphtheria, which back then couldn't be treated effectively with antitoxin like it is now, and she had to undergo surgery. This weakened her voice, which eventually faded away. As a result, she stopped singing, or rather, singing stopped for her, and she became a “play-actress.” She understands the disappointments and struggles of her profession so well that one of Mrs. Kendal’s favorite pastimes is trying to discourage inexperienced girls from wanting to “go upon the stage.”

“If only the stage-struck young woman could realise all that an actress’ life means!” she said to me on one occasion. “To begin with, she is lucky if she gets a chance of ‘walking on’ at a pound a week. She has to attend rehearsals as numerous and as lengthy as the leading lady, who may be drawing £40 or £50 for the same period; though, mark you, there are very few leading ladies, while there are thousands and thousands of walkers-on who will never be anything[Pg 25] else. This ill-paid girl has not the interest of a big part, which stimulates the ‘star’ to work; she has only the dreariness of it all. Unless she be in a ballet, chorus, or pantomime, the girl has to find herself in shoes, stockings, and petticoats for the stage—no light matter to accomplish out of twenty shillings a week. Of course, in a character-part the entire costume is found, but in an ordinary case the girl has to board, lodge, dress herself, pay for her washing, and get backwards and forwards to the theatre in all weathers and at all hours on one pound a week, besides supplying those stage necessaries. Thousands of women are starving in the attempt.

“If only the young woman obsessed with the stage could understand what an actress' life truly entails!” she said to me once. “First of all, she's lucky if she gets a chance to perform as a 'walker-on' for a pound a week. She has to attend rehearsals just as often and for just as long as the leading lady, who might be earning £40 or £50 for that same time. But keep in mind, there are very few leading ladies, while there are thousands of walk-ons who will never be anything[Pg 25] else. This poorly paid girl doesn’t get the excitement of a significant role to motivate her like the 'star' does; she’s just left with the monotony of it all. Unless she’s in a ballet, chorus, or pantomime, she has to provide her own shoes, stockings, and petticoats for the stage—definitely not easy to manage on twenty shillings a week. Of course, in a character role, the entire costume is provided, but in most cases, the girl has to pay for her food, accommodation, clothing, laundry, and transportation to and from the theater in any weather at all hours on just one pound a week, all while covering those stage essentials. Thousands of women are struggling to get by in this pursuit.

“A girl has to dress at the theatre in the same room with others, she is thrown intimately amongst all sorts of women, and the result is not always desirable. For instance, some years ago, a girl was playing with us, and, mentioning another member of the company, she remarked, ‘She has real lace on her under-linen.’

“A girl has to get dressed at the theater in the same room with others; she is thrown together with all kinds of women, and the outcome isn’t always great. For instance, a few years back, a girl was performing with us and, while talking about another member of the company, she said, ‘She has real lace on her underwear.’”

“I said nothing, but sent for that lace-bedecked personage and had a little private talk with her, telling her that things must be different or she must go. I tried to show her the advantages of the straight path, but she preferred the other, and has since been lost in the sea of ultimate despair.”

“I didn’t say anything, but I called for that lace-covered person and had a private chat with her, telling her that things had to change or she had to leave. I tried to explain the benefits of the right path, but she chose the other one and has since been lost in a sea of hopelessness.”

So spoke Mrs. Kendal, the famous actress, in 1903, standing at the top of her profession; later we will see what a girl struggling at the bottom has to say on the same subject.

So said Mrs. Kendal, the famous actress, in 1903, at the peak of her career; later we will see what a girl fighting at the bottom has to say on the same topic.

“Remember,” continued Mrs. Kendal, “patience,[Pg 26] courage, and talent may bring one to the winning-post, but few ever reach that line; by far the greater number fall out soon after the start—they find the pay inadequate, the hours too long; the back of a stage proves to be no enchanted land, only a dark, dreary, dusty, bustling place; and, disheartened, they wisely turn aside. Many of them drift aimlessly into stupid marriages for bread and butter’s sake, where discontent turns the bread sour and the butter rancid.

“Remember,” continued Mrs. Kendal, “patience,[Pg 26] courage, and talent can get you to the finish line, but few actually cross it; most people drop out shortly after they start—they find the pay isn’t worth it, the hours are too long; the backstage area is not a magical land, just a dark, dreary, dusty, chaotic space; and feeling discouraged, they wisely step away. Many of them drift aimlessly into unsatisfying marriages for the sake of survival, where discontent makes the bread stale and the butter go bad.

“The theatrical profession is not to blame—it is this terrible overcrowding. There are numbers of excellent men and women upon the stage who know that there is nothing so gross but what a good man or woman can elevate, nothing so lofty that vice cannot cause to totter.

“The acting profession isn’t at fault—it’s this awful overcrowding. There are many talented men and women on stage who realize that nothing is so low that a good person can’t uplift it, and nothing is so noble that wrongdoing can’t bring it down.”

“I entirely disapprove of a dress rehearsal,” continued Mrs. Kendal. “It exhausts the actors and takes off the excitement and bloom. One must have one’s real public, and play for them and to them, and not to empty benches. We rehearse in sections. Every one in turn in our company acts in costume, so that we know each individual get-up and make-up is right; but we never dress all the characters of the play at the same time until the night of production.”

“I completely disagree with holding a dress rehearsal,” Mrs. Kendal continued. “It drains the energy of the actors and takes away the excitement and freshness. You need to have a real audience, to perform for them and to them, not to empty seats. We rehearse in segments. Everyone in our company takes turns acting in costume, so we can ensure each individual outfit and makeup is correct; but we never have all the characters of the play dressed at the same time until the night of the production.”

Mrs. Kendal is very severe on the subject of overdressing a part.

Mrs. Kendal is very strict about overdoing it with costumes.

“Feathers and diamonds,” she said “are not worn upon the river. Why, then, smother a woman with them when she is playing a boating scene?[Pg 27] The dress should be entirely subservient to the character. If one is supposed to be old and dowdy, one should look old and dowdy. I believe in clothing the character in character, and not striving after effect. Overdressing is as bad as over-elaboration of stage-setting: it dwarfs the acting and handicaps the performers.”

“Feathers and diamonds,” she said, “aren’t appropriate for the river. So why overwhelm a woman with them when she’s in a boating scene?[Pg 27] The costume should completely support the character. If someone is meant to be old and frumpy, they should look old and frumpy. I believe in dressing a character in a way that reflects their character, not trying to make a flashy statement. Overdressing is just as detrimental as overdoing the set design: it overshadows the acting and puts the performers at a disadvantage.”

Mrs. Kendal is an abused, adored, and wonderful woman. Like all busy people, she finds time for everything, and has everything in its place. Her house is neatness exemplified, her table well arranged, the dishes dainty, and the attendance of spruce parlourmaids equally good. She believes in women and their work and employs them whenever possible.

Mrs. Kendal is an admired, cherished, and amazing woman. Like all busy people, she manages to make time for everything and keeps everything organized. Her house is the definition of neatness, her table is well-set, the dishes are delicate, and the service from her stylish maids is just as good. She believes in women and their work, hiring them whenever she can.

There is an old-fashioned idea that women who earn their living are untidy in their dress and slovenly in their household arrangements, to say nothing of being unhappy in their home life. Those of us who know women workers can refute the charge: the busier they are, the more method they bring to bear; the more highly educated they are, the more capable in the management of their affairs. Mrs. Kendal is no exception to this rule, and in spite of her many labours, she lately encroached upon her time by undertaking another self-imposed task, namely, some charity work, which entailed endless correspondence, to say nothing of keeping books, and lists, and sorting cheques; but she managed all most successfully, and kept what she did out of the papers.

There’s an outdated belief that women who work are messy in their clothing and careless with their home lives, not to mention unhappy at home. Those of us who know working women can prove this wrong: the busier they are, the more organized they become; the more educated they are, the better they manage their lives. Mrs. Kendal is no exception to this, and despite her many responsibilities, she recently took on another self-imposed task: charity work, which involved endless emails, managing accounts, keeping track of donations, and sorting checks. Yet she handled it all very successfully and kept her work out of the spotlight.

[Pg 28]

“Dissuade every one you know,” Mrs. Kendal entreated me one day, “from going on the stage. There are so few successes and so many failures! So many lives are shattered and hearts broken by that everlasting waiting for an opportunity which only comes to a few. In no profession is harder work necessary, the pay in the early stages more insignificant or less secure. To be a good actress it is essential to have many qualifications: first of all, health and herculean strength; the sweetest temper and most patient temperament, although my remark once made about having ‘the skin of a rhinoceros’ was delivered in pure sarcasm, which, however, was unfortunately taken seriously.

“Talk everyone you know out of going into acting,” Mrs. Kendal urged me one day. “There are so few successes and so many failures! So many lives get ruined and hearts broken by that constant waiting for a chance that only comes to a select few. No profession requires harder work, and the pay early on is more insignificant and less secure. To be a good actress, you need a lot of qualities: first and foremost, good health and immense strength; a sweet disposition and a patient temperament, even though my comment about needing ‘the skin of a rhinoceros’ was made purely sarcastically, which, unfortunately, was taken seriously.”

“I really feel very strongly about this rush to go on the stage. In the disorganisation of this democratic period we have all struggled to ascend one step, and many of us have tumbled down several in the attempt. Domestic servants all want to be shop-girls, and shop-girls want to be actresses—stars, mind you! Everything is upside-down, for are not the aristocracy themselves selling wine, coals, tea-cakes, and millinery?”

“I really feel strongly about this rush to hit the stage. In the chaos of this democratic era, we've all tried to climb up one step, and many of us have fallen down several in the process. Domestic workers all want to be shop girls, and shop girls want to be actresses—big stars, do you hear? Everything is turned upside down, because aren't the aristocrats themselves selling wine, coal, tea cakes, and hats?”

“Why have you succeeded?” I asked.

“Why have you been successful?” I asked.

“Because I was born to it, cradled in the profession, my family have been upon the stage for some hundred years. To make a first-class actress, talent, luck, temperament, and opportunity must combine; but, mark you, the position of the stage does not depend upon her. It is those on the second and third rungs of the ladder who do the hardest of the work, and most firmly uphold the dignity of the stage, just as[Pg 29] it is the middle classes which rivet and hold together this vast Empire.”

“Because I was born into it, raised in the profession, my family has been on stage for about a hundred years. To be a top-notch actress, talent, luck, temperament, and opportunity all have to come together; but, remember, the position of the stage doesn't depend solely on her. It's those on the second and third rungs of the ladder who do the hardest work and most strongly uphold the dignity of the stage, just as[Pg 29] it is the middle classes that bind and support this vast Empire.”

Although married to an actor-manager, Mrs. Kendal has nothing whatever to do with the arrangements of the theatre. She does not interfere with anything.

Although she's married to an actor-manager, Mrs. Kendal has nothing to do with the theater's arrangements. She doesn't interfere with anything.

“I never signed an agreement in all my life, either for myself or for anyone else. I never engage or dismiss a soul. Once everything is signed, sealed, and delivered, and all is ready, then, but not till then, my work begins, and I become stage-manager. On the stage I supervise everything, and attend to all the smallest details myself. To be stage-manager is not an enviable position, for one is held responsible for every fault.”

“I've never signed a contract in my life, either for myself or anyone else. I never hire or fire anyone. Once everything is signed, sealed, and delivered, and everything is ready, then, and only then, does my work start, and I become the stage manager. On stage, I oversee everything and take care of all the little details myself. Being a stage manager isn’t a desirable role because you’re held accountable for every mistake.”

The Kendals lived for years in Harley Street, which is chiefly noted for its length, and being the home of doctors. Their house was at the end farthest from Cavendish Square, at the top on the left. I know the street well, for I was born in the house where Baroness Burdett-Coutts spent her girlhood, and have described in my father’s memoirs how, when he settled in Harley Street in 1860 as a young man, there was scarcely a doctor’s plate in that thoroughfare, or, indeed, in the whole neighbourhood. Sir William Jenner, Sir John Williams, Sir Alfred Garrod, Sir Richard Quain, and Sir Andrew Clark became his neighbours; and later Sir Francis Jeune, Lord Russell of Killowen, the present Speaker of the House of Commons (Mr. Gully), Sir William McCormac, Sir William Church, and[Pg 30] Mr. Gladstone settled quite near. Mr. Sothern (the original impersonator of Lord Dundreary and David Garrick) lived for some time in the street; but, so far as I know, he and the Kendals were the only representatives of the stage. A few years ago, not being able to add to the house they then occupied as they wished, the Kendals migrated to Portland Place, which is now their London residence, while Filey claims them for sea air and rest.

The Kendals lived for years on Harley Street, which is mainly known for its length and being home to doctors. Their house was at the far end, the one furthest from Cavendish Square, at the top on the left. I know the street well because I was born in the house where Baroness Burdett-Coutts spent her childhood, and I've written in my father's memoirs about how, when he moved to Harley Street in 1860 as a young man, there were hardly any doctor's plaques on that street, or even in the entire neighborhood. Sir William Jenner, Sir John Williams, Sir Alfred Garrod, Sir Richard Quain, and Sir Andrew Clark became his neighbors; later, Sir Francis Jeune, Lord Russell of Killowen, the current Speaker of the House of Commons (Mr. Gully), Sir William McCormac, Sir William Church, and[Pg 30] Mr. Gladstone moved in nearby. Mr. Sothern (the original impersonator of Lord Dundreary and David Garrick) lived on the street for a while; as far as I know, he and the Kendals were the only ones from the stage. A few years ago, unable to expand their house as they wanted, the Kendals moved to Portland Place, which is now their London home, while Filey draws them in for the sea air and relaxation.

The Kendals spent five years in the United States. It was during those long and tedious journeys in Pullman-cars that Mrs. Kendal organised her “Unselfish Club.” It was an excellent idea for keeping every one in a good temper. At one end of the car the women used to meet to mend, make, and darn every afternoon, while one male member of the company was admitted to read aloud, each taking this duty in turn. Many pleasant and useful hours were spent in speeding over the dreary prairie in this manner. Only those who have traversed thousands of miles of desert can have any idea of the weariness of those days passed on the cars. The railway system is excellent, everything possible is done for one’s comfort, but the monotony is appalling.

The Kendals spent five years in the United States. During those long and tedious journeys on sleeper trains, Mrs. Kendal started her “Unselfish Club.” It was a great way to keep everyone in a good mood. Each afternoon, the women would gather at one end of the car to sew, create, and repair things, while one of the men was invited to read aloud, with each person taking a turn. Many enjoyable and productive hours were spent passing the time on the dull prairie like this. Only those who have traveled thousands of miles across desert landscapes can understand how tiring those days on the train were. The rail system is excellent, and they do everything possible to ensure comfort, but the monotony can be overwhelming.

Two things are particularly interesting about this great actress—her keen sense of humour and her love of soap. She is always merry and cheerful, has endless jokes to tell, has a quick appreciation of the ridiculous, and can be just as amusing off the stage as on it.

Two things are especially interesting about this amazing actress—her sharp sense of humor and her love of soap operas. She's always happy and cheerful, has countless jokes to share, quickly sees the absurd, and can be just as entertaining off the stage as she is on it.

Her love of soap-and-water is apparent in all her surroundings; she is always most carefully groomed;[Pg 31] there is nothing whatever artificial about her—anything of that sort which is necessary upon the boards is left behind at the theatre. That is one of her greatest charms. She uses no “make-up,” and, consequently, she looks much younger off the stage than she does upon it.

Her love for cleanliness is obvious in everything around her; she is always well-groomed;[Pg 31] there’s nothing fake about her—anything like that needed for performances is left at the theater. That’s one of her greatest charms. She doesn’t use any makeup, so she looks much younger offstage than she does on it.

Her expressions and her voice are probably Mrs. Kendal’s greatest attractions. Speaking of the first, she laughingly remarked, “My face was made that way, I suppose; and as for my acting voice, I have taken a little trouble to train it. We all start in a high key, but as we get older our voices often grow two or three notes lower, and generally more melodious, so that, while we have to keep them down in our youth, we must learn to get them up in our old age, for the head voice of comedy becomes a throat voice if not properly produced, and tends to grow hard and rasping.”

Her expressions and her voice are probably Mrs. Kendal’s biggest draws. Talking about the first, she jokingly said, “I guess my face was made this way; and as for my acting voice, I’ve put in some effort to train it. We all start off with a higher pitch, but as we get older, our voices usually drop by two or three notes and become more harmonious. So, while we need to keep them lower when we're young, we have to learn to raise them as we age, because the head voice used in comedy can turn into a throaty voice if it's not produced correctly, and can end up sounding hard and harsh.”

We had been discussing plays, good, bad, and indifferent.

We had been talking about plays, whether they were good, bad, or just okay.

“I have the greatest objection to the illicit love of the modern drama,” she remarked. “It is quite unnecessary. Every family has its tragedy, and many of these tragedies are far more thrilling, far more heart-breaking, than the unfortunate love-scenes put upon the stage.”

“I have the biggest issue with the forbidden romance in modern drama,” she said. “It’s completely unnecessary. Every family has its own tragedy, and many of these are much more exciting, much more heart-wrenching than the sad love scenes performed on stage.”

The charming impersonator of the “Elder Miss Blossom,” one of the most delightful touches of comedy-acting on record, almost invariably dresses in black. A strong, healthy-looking woman, untouched by art, and gently dealt with by years, Mrs.[Pg 32] Kendal wears her glorious auburn hair neatly parted in front and braided at the back. Fashion in this line does not disturb her; she has always worn it in the same way, and even upon the stage has rarely donned a wig. She tells a funny little story of how a dear friend teased and almost bullied her to be more fashionable about her head. Every one was wearing fringes at the time, and the lady begged her not to be so “odd,” but to adopt the new and becoming mode. Just to try the effect, Mrs. Kendal went off to a grand shop, told the man to dress her hair in the very latest style, paid a guinea for the performance, and went home. Her family and servants were amazed; but when she arrived at her friend’s house that evening her hostess failed to recognise her. So the fashionable hairdressing was never repeated.

The charming impersonator of the “Elder Miss Blossom,” one of the most delightful comedy performances ever, almost always dresses in black. A strong, healthy-looking woman, unaffected by makeup and gently aged by time, Mrs.[Pg 32] Kendal wears her beautiful auburn hair neatly parted in the front and braided in the back. Fashion doesn’t faze her; she has always styled her hair this way, and even on stage, she rarely wears a wig. She shares a funny little story about how a dear friend teased and nearly pressured her to be more fashionable with her hair. Everyone was wearing fringes at the time, and her friend urged her not to stand out too much but to adopt the new and trendy look. Just to see how it would look, Mrs. Kendal went to a fancy shop, asked the stylist to do her hair in the latest style, paid a guinea for the service, and went home. Her family and servants were shocked; but when she showed up at her friend’s house that evening, her hostess didn’t recognize her. So, she never tried the fashionable hairdo again.

“I worked the hardest,” said Mrs. Kendal, in reply to a question, “in America. For months we gave nine performances a week. The booking was so heavy in the different towns, and our time so limited, that we actually had to put in a third matinée, and as occasionally rehearsals were necessary, and long railway journeys always essential, it was really great labour.

“I worked the hardest,” said Mrs. Kendal in response to a question, “in America. For months we put on nine shows a week. The schedule was so packed in the different towns, and our time so tight, that we actually had to add a third matinée, and since rehearsals were sometimes needed and long train rides were always necessary, it was truly a lot of hard work.

Photo by Alfred Ellis, Upper Baker Street, W.

MR. W. H. KENDAL.

Mr. W.H. Kendal.

“As a rule I was dressed by ten, and managed to get in an hour’s walk before the matinée. Back to the hotel after the performance for a six o’clock meal, generally composed of a cutlet and coffee, quickly followed by a return to the theatre and another performance. To change one’s dress fourteen [Pg 33]times a day, as I did when playing The Ironmaster, becomes a little wearisome when it continues for months.”

“As a rule, I was dressed by ten and managed to get in an hour’s walk before the matinée. After the performance, I would head back to the hotel for a six o’clock meal, usually consisting of a cutlet and coffee, which was quickly followed by a return to the theatre for another show. Changing my outfit fourteen [Pg 33] times a day, as I did while performing in The Ironmaster, becomes a bit exhausting when it goes on for months.”

“Did you not find that people in America were extraordinarily hospitable?” I inquired, remembering the great kindness I received in Canada and the States.

“Didn't you find that people in America were incredibly hospitable?” I asked, recalling the great kindness I experienced in Canada and the States.

“Undoubtedly; but we had little time for anything of that sort, which has always been a great regret to me. It is hard lines to be in a place one wants to see, among people one wants to know, and never to have time for play, only everlasting work. We did make many friends on Sundays, however, and I have the happiest recollections of America.”

“Definitely; but we had barely any time for that kind of thing, which has always been a big regret for me. It’s tough to be in a place you want to explore, around people you want to meet, and never have time for fun, just constant work. We did make a lot of friends on Sundays, though, and I have the fondest memories of America.”

Pictures are a favourite hobby of the Kendals, and they have many beautiful canvases in their London home. Every corner is filled by something in the way of a picture, every one of which they love for itself, and for the memories of the way they came by it, more often than not as the result of some successful “run.” They have built their home about them bit by bit. Hard work and good management have slowly and gradually attained their ends, and they laugh over the savings necessary to buy such and such a treasure, and love it all the more for the little sacrifices made for its attainment. How much more we all appreciate some end or some thing we have had difficulty in acquiring. That which falls at our feet seems of little value compared with those objects and aims secured by self-denial.

Pictures are a favorite hobby of the Kendals, and they have many beautiful canvases in their London home. Every corner is filled with a picture that they cherish not only for its beauty but also for the memories associated with how they acquired it, usually as a result of a successful "run." They have built their home around these pieces, gradually adding to it bit by bit. Through hard work and good management, they've slowly achieved their goals, and they often laugh about the savings needed to purchase certain treasures, loving them even more because of the little sacrifices made to acquire them. We all value things more when we’ve faced challenges to obtain them. What simply falls into our lap seems far less valuable compared to the objects and goals we achieve through self-denial.

“There is no doubt about it,” Mrs Kendal finished[Pg 34] by saying, “theatrical life is hard; hard in the beginning, and hard in the end.”

“There’s no doubt about it,” Mrs. Kendal finished[Pg 34] by saying, “theatrical life is tough; tough at the start, and tough at the finish.”

Such words from a woman in Mrs. Kendal’s position are of vast import. She knows what she is talking about; she realises the work, the drudgery, the small pay, and weary hours, and when she says, “Dissuade girls from rushing upon the stage,” those would-be aspirants for dramatic fame should listen to the advice of so experienced an actress and capable woman.

Such words from a woman in Mrs. Kendal’s position carry a lot of weight. She knows what she’s talking about; she understands the hard work, the grind, the low pay, and the long hours, and when she says, “Dissuade girls from rushing onto the stage,” aspiring actresses should take the advice of such an experienced actress and capable woman seriously.

As said at the beginning of this chapter, Mrs. Kendal was cradled in the theatre: she was also married on the stage.

As mentioned at the start of this chapter, Mrs. Kendal grew up in the theater: she also got married on stage.

Madge Robertson and William Kendal Grimston were playing in Manchester when one fine day they were married by special licence. A friend of Mr. Kendal’s had the Town Hall bells rung in honour of the event, and the young couple were ready to start off for their honeymoon, when Henry Compton, the great actor, who was “billed” for the following nights, was telegraphed for to his brother’s deathbed.

Madge Robertson and William Kendal Grimston were playing in Manchester when one lovely day they got married by special license. A friend of Mr. Kendal's had the Town Hall bells rung to celebrate the occasion, and the young couple was all set to head off for their honeymoon when Henry Compton, the famous actor who was scheduled to perform the following nights, received a telegram about his brother's deathbed.

At once the arrangements had to be altered. As You Like It was ordered, and Mr. and Mrs. Kendal were caught just as they were leaving the town, and bidden to play Orlando and Rosalind to the Touchstone of Buckstone. The honeymoon had to be postponed.

At once the plans had to be changed. As You Like It was scheduled, and Mr. and Mrs. Kendal were stopped just as they were leaving town and invited to play Orlando and Rosalind alongside Buckstone's Touchstone. The honeymoon had to be delayed.

The young couple found the house unusually full on their wedding night, although they believed no one knew of their marriage until they came to the words, “Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?[Pg 35]” when the burst of applause and prolonged cheering assured them of the good wishes of their public friends.

The young couple discovered that the house was surprisingly crowded on their wedding night, even though they thought no one was aware of their marriage until they heard the words, “Will you, Orlando, take this Rosalind as your wife?[Pg 35]” At that point, the loud applause and extended cheers confirmed to them the support and best wishes of their friends.

Another little romance of the stage happened to the Forbes Robertsons. Just before I sailed for Canada, in August, 1900, Mr. Johnston Forbes Robertson came to dinner. He had been away in Italy for some months recruiting after a severe illness, and was just starting forth on an autumn tour of his own.

Another little romance of the stage occurred with the Forbes Robertsons. Just before I left for Canada in August 1900, Mr. Johnston Forbes Robertson came over for dinner. He had been in Italy for several months recovering from a serious illness and was just getting ready to head out on his own autumn tour.

“Have you a good leading lady?” I inquired.

“Do you have a good leading lady?” I asked.

“I think so,” he replied. “I met her for the first time this morning, and had never seen her before.”

“I think so,” he replied. “I met her for the first time this morning and had never seen her before.”

“How indiscreet,” I exclaimed. “How do you know she can act?”

“How bold,” I exclaimed. “How do you know she can perform?”

“While I was abroad I wrote to two separate friends in whose judgment I have much confidence, asking them to recommend me a leading lady. Both replied suggesting Miss Gertrude Elliott as suitable in every way. Their opinions being identical, and so strongly expressed, I considered she must be the lady for me, and telegraphed, offering her an engagement accordingly. She accepted by wire, and at our first rehearsal this morning promised very well.”

“While I was overseas, I wrote to two friends whose judgment I trust a lot, asking them to recommend a leading lady. Both responded, suggesting Miss Gertrude Elliott as a perfect fit. Their opinions were the same and expressed strongly, so I figured she must be the right choice for me and sent a telegram offering her a job. She accepted via wire, and at our first rehearsal this morning, she performed very well.”

I left England almost immediately afterwards, and eight or ten weeks later, while in Chicago, saw a big newspaper headline announcing the engagement of a pretty American actress to a well-known English actor. Naturally I bought the paper at once to see who the actor might be, and lo! it was Mr. Forbes Robertson. It seemed almost impossible: but impossible things have a curious knack of being true,[Pg 36] and the signed photograph I had with me of Forbes Robertson, among those of other distinguished English friends, proved useful to the American press, who were glad of a copy for immediate reproduction. Almost as quickly as this handsome couple were engaged, they were married. Was not that a romance?

I left England right after that, and about eight or ten weeks later, while I was in Chicago, I saw a big newspaper headline announcing the engagement of a beautiful American actress to a well-known English actor. Naturally, I bought the paper right away to find out who the actor was, and guess what? It was Mr. Forbes Robertson. It seemed almost unbelievable, but strange things do have a way of being true,[Pg 36] and the signed photograph I had of Forbes Robertson, along with those of other distinguished English friends, came in handy for the American press, which was eager to have a copy for immediate reproduction. Almost as soon as this attractive couple got engaged, they got married. Wasn't that a romance?

Mr. Forbes Robertson originally intended to be an artist, and his going on the stage came about by chance. He was a student at the Royal Academy, when his friend the late W. G. Wills was in need of an actor to play the part of Chastelard in his Mary Stuart, then being given at the Princess’s Theatre. It was difficult to procure exactly the type of face he wanted, for well-chiselled features are not so common as one might suppose. Young Forbes Robertson possessed those features, his clear-cut profile being exactly suitable for Chastelard. Consequently, after much talk with the would-be artist, who was loth to give up his cherished profession, W. G. Wills introduced his friend to the beautiful Mrs. Rousby, with the result that young Forbes Robertson undertook the part at four days’ notice.

Mr. Forbes Robertson originally wanted to be an artist, and his move to the stage happened by chance. He was a student at the Royal Academy when his friend, the late W. G. Wills, needed an actor to play Chastelard in his Mary Stuart, which was being performed at the Princess’s Theatre. It was tough to find the exact type of face he wanted because well-defined features aren’t as common as you might think. Young Forbes Robertson had those features, with a clear-cut profile that was perfect for Chastelard. After a lot of discussion with the aspiring artist, who was reluctant to give up his beloved profession, W. G. Wills introduced his friend to the stunning Mrs. Rousby, leading to young Forbes Robertson taking on the role with just four days’ notice.

Thus it was his face that decided his fate. From that moment the stage had been his profession and art his hobby; but a newer craze is rapidly driving paints and brushes out of the field, for, like many another, the actor has fallen a victim to golf.

Thus it was his face that determined his destiny. From that point on, the stage became his career and art his pastime; however, a newer obsession is quickly pushing paints and brushes aside, as, like many others, the actor has become a victim of golf.

There is no finer elocutionist on the stage than Forbes Robertson, and therefore it is interesting to know that he expresses it as his opinion that:

There is no better speaker on stage than Forbes Robertson, and so it's interesting to know that he believes that:

“Elocution can be taught.”

"Public speaking can be taught."

From a painting by Hugh de T. Glazebrook.

MR. J. FORBES-ROBERTSON.

Mr. J. Forbes-Robertson.

[Pg 37]

Phelps was his master, and he attributes much of his success to that master’s careful training. What a pity Phelps cannot live among us again, to teach some of the younger generation to speak more clearly than they do.

Phelps was his mentor, and he credits a lot of his success to that mentor’s thorough training. It’s such a shame Phelps can’t be here with us again to teach some of the younger generation to speak more clearly than they do.

Bad enunciation and noisy music often combine to make the words from the stage inaudible to the audience. Why an old farmer should arrive down a country lane to a blare of trumpets is unintelligible: why a man should plot murder to a valse, or a woman die to slow music, is a conundrum, but such is the fashion on the stage. One sometimes sits through a performance without hearing any of what ought to be the most thrilling lines.

Bad enunciation and loud music often come together to make the words from the stage impossible to hear for the audience. It's baffling why an old farmer would show up on a country road to the sound of trumpets; why a man would plan murder to a waltz or a woman would die to slow music is a puzzle, but that’s just how things are done on stage. Sometimes you sit through a show without catching any of what should be the most exciting lines.

Johnston Forbes Robertson has lived from the age of twenty-one in Bloomsbury. His father was a well-known art critic until blindness overtook him, and then the responsibility of the home fell on the eldest son’s shoulders. His father was born and bred in Aberdeen, and came as a young man to London, where he soon got work as a journalist, and wrote much on art for the Sunday Times, the Art Journal, etc. His most important work was The Great Painters of Christendom.

Johnston Forbes Robertson has lived in Bloomsbury since he was twenty-one. His father was a well-known art critic until he became blind, putting the responsibility of the household on the eldest son's shoulders. His father was born and raised in Aberdeen and moved to London as a young man, where he quickly found work as a journalist, writing extensively about art for the Sunday Times, the Art Journal, and others. His most significant work was The Great Painters of Christendom.

The West Central district of London, with its splendid houses, its Adams ceilings and overmantels, went quite out of fashion for more than a quarter of a century. With the dawn, however, of 1900, people began to realise that South Kensington stood on clay, was low and damp, and consequently they gradually migrated back to the Regent’s Park and those fine old[Pg 38] squares in Bloomsbury. One after another the houses were taken, and among Mr. Forbes Robertson’s neighbours are George Grossmith and his brother Weedon, Mr. and Mrs. Seymour Hicks, Lady Monckton, “Anthony Hope,” and many well-known judges, aldermen, solicitors, and architects.

The West Central district of London, with its beautiful homes, its Adams ceilings and overmantels, fell out of style for over twenty-five years. However, with the arrival of 1900, people started to notice that South Kensington was built on clay, was low-lying and damp, and gradually began to move back to Regent’s Park and those charming old[Pg 38] squares in Bloomsbury. One by one, the houses were taken, and among Mr. Forbes Robertson’s neighbors are George Grossmith and his brother Weedon, Mr. and Mrs. Seymour Hicks, Lady Monckton, “Anthony Hope,” and many well-known judges, aldermen, solicitors, and architects.

In the old home in Bloomsbury the artistic family of Forbes Robertson was reared. Johnston, as we know, suddenly neglected his easel for the stage; his sister Frances took up literature as a profession; and his brothers, known as Ian Robertson and Norman Forbes, both adopted the theatrical profession. So the Robertsons may be classed among the theatrical families.

In the old home in Bloomsbury, the artistic family of Forbes Robertson was raised. Johnston, as we know, suddenly left his easel for the stage; his sister Frances pursued a career in literature; and his brothers, known as Ian Robertson and Norman Forbes, both chose to work in theater. So the Robertsons can be considered one of the theatrical families.

Who in the latter end of the nineteenth century did not weep with Miss Terry?—who did not laugh with her well-nigh to tears? A great personality, a wondrous charm of voice and manner, a magnetic influence on all her surroundings—all these are possessed by Ellen Terry.

Who in the late nineteenth century didn't cry with Miss Terry?—who didn't laugh with her until they were nearly in tears? Ellen Terry had a great personality, an incredible charm in her voice and manner, and a magnetic presence that captivated everyone around her.

In the days of their youth Mrs. Kendal and Miss Ellen Terry played together, but many years elapsed between then and the Coronation year of Edward VII., when they met again behind the footlights, in a remarkable performance which shall be duly chronicled in these pages.

In their younger days, Mrs. Kendal and Miss Ellen Terry performed together, but many years passed between that time and the Coronation year of Edward VII., when they reunited on stage in a remarkable performance that will be properly recorded in these pages.

Like Mrs. Kendal, Miss Ellen Terry began her theatrical life as a child. She was born in Coventry in 1848—not far from Shakespeare’s home, which later in life became such an attractive spot for her. Her parents had theatrical engagements at Coventry[Pg 39] at the time of her birth, so that verily she was cradled on the stage. She was one of four remarkable sisters, Kate, Ellen, Marion, and Florence, all clever actresses and sisters of Fred Terry; while another brother, although not himself an actor, was connected with the stage, Miss Minnie Terry being his daughter. Altogether ten or twelve members of the Terry family have been in the profession.

Like Mrs. Kendal, Miss Ellen Terry started her acting career as a child. She was born in Coventry in 1848—not far from Shakespeare’s home, which later became a charming place for her. Her parents were working in theater in Coventry[Pg 39] when she was born, so she was literally raised on the stage. She was one of four impressive sisters: Kate, Ellen, Marion, and Florence, all talented actresses and siblings of Fred Terry; another brother, although not an actor himself, was involved in theater, with Miss Minnie Terry as his daughter. In total, about ten or twelve members of the Terry family have been in the profession.

Ellen Terry, like Irving, Wyndham, Hare, Mrs. Kendal, and Lady Bancroft, learnt her art in stock companies.

Ellen Terry, just like Irving, Wyndham, Hare, Mrs. Kendal, and Lady Bancroft, learned her craft in stock companies.

Miss Ellen Terry has always had the greatest difficulty in learning her parts, and as years have gone on, even in remembering her lines in oft-acted plays; but every one knows how apt she is to be forgetful, and prompt her over her difficulties. Irving, on the other hand, is letter-perfect at the first rehearsal, and rarely wants help of any kind.

Miss Ellen Terry has always struggled to learn her roles, and over the years, she has even had trouble remembering her lines in frequently performed plays; but everyone knows how forgetful she can be, and how they encourage her to push through her challenges. Irving, on the other hand, knows his lines perfectly from the first rehearsal and hardly ever needs any assistance.

Ellen Terry is so clever that even when she has forgotten her words she knows how to “cover” herself by walking about the stage or some other pretty by-play until a friend comes to her aid. Theatrical people are extremely good to one another on these occasions. Somebody is always ready to come to the rescue. After the first week everything goes smoothly as a rule, until the strain of a long run begins to tell, and they all in turn forget their words, much to the discomfiture of the prompter.

Ellen Terry is so talented that even when she forgets her lines, she knows how to “cover” by moving around the stage or engaging in some other attractive distraction until a friend comes to help her. People in theater are really supportive of each other in these moments. There's always someone ready to step in. Typically, everything goes smoothly after the first week, until the fatigue of a long run starts to kick in, and they all end up forgetting their lines, much to the annoyance of the prompter.

Forgetting the words is a common thing during a long run. I remember Miss Geneviève Ward telling me that after playing Forget-Me-Not some five[Pg 40] hundred times she became perfectly dazed, and that Jefferson had experienced the same with Rip van Winkle, which he has to continually re-study. Miss Gertrude Elliott suffered considerably in the same way during the long run of Mice and Men.

Forgetting the lines is pretty common during a long run. I remember Miss Geneviève Ward telling me that after performing Forget-Me-Not about five[Pg 40] hundred times, she felt completely lost, and that Jefferson went through a similar experience with Rip van Winkle, which he has to keep re-studying. Miss Gertrude Elliott also struggled a lot during the long run of Mice and Men.

Much has been said for and against a long run; but surely the “against” ought to have it. No one can be fresh and natural in a part played night after night—played until the words become hazy, and that dreadful condition “forgetting the lines” arrives.

Much has been said for and against a long run; but surely the “against” should prevail. No one can be fresh and natural in a role performed night after night—performed until the words become unclear, and that terrible state of “forgetting the lines” sets in.

At a charming luncheon given by Mr. Pinero for the American Gillette, when the latter was creating such a furore in England with Sherlock Holmes, I ventured to ask that actor how long he had played the part of the famous detective.

At a delightful lunch hosted by Mr. Pinero for the American Gillette, who was causing quite a stir in England with Sherlock Holmes, I took the opportunity to ask that actor how long he had been playing the role of the famous detective.

“For three years,” he replied.

“For three years,” he said.

“Then I wonder you are not insane.”

“Then I wonder why you’re not crazy.”

“So do I, ma’am, I often wonder myself, for the strain is terrible, and sometimes I feel as if I could never walk on to the stage at all; but when the theatre is full, go I must, and go I do; though I literally shun the name of Sherlock Holmes.”

“Me too, ma’am, I often wonder about it myself, because the pressure is intense, and sometimes I feel like I could never step on stage at all; but when the theater is packed, I have to go, and I do go; even though I really avoid the name Sherlock Holmes.”

We quickly turned to other subjects, and discussed the charm of American women, a theme on which it is easy for an English woman to wax eloquent.

We quickly shifted to other topics and talked about the appeal of American women, a subject that it’s easy for an English woman to get passionate about.

If a man like Gillette, with all his success, all his monetary gain, and no anxiety—for he did not finance his own theatres—could feel like that about a long run, what horrors it must present to others less happily situated.

If a man like Gillette, with all his success, all his money, and no worries—since he didn’t fund his own theaters—could feel that way about a long run, what nightmares must it be for others who aren’t as fortunate.

Long runs, which are now so much desired by[Pg 41] managers in England and America, are unknown on the Continent. In other countries, where theatres are more or less under State control, they never occur. Of course the “long run” is the outcome of the vast sums expended on the production. Managers cannot recoup themselves for the outlay unless the play draws for a considerable while. But is this the real end and aim of acting? Does it give opportunity for any individual actor to excel?

Long runs, which are highly sought after by[Pg 41] managers in England and America, are a rarity on the Continent. In other countries, where theatres are more or less controlled by the State, they don’t happen at all. The “long run” comes from the huge amounts of money spent on the production. Managers can't recover their expenses unless the show attracts audiences for an extended period. But is this really the purpose of acting? Does it allow any individual actor to shine?

But to return to Ellen Terry. She has played many parts and won the love of a large public by her wonderful personality, for there is something in her that charms. She is not really beautiful, yet she can look lovely. She has not a strong voice, yet she can sway audiences at will to laughter or tears. She has not a fine figure, yet she can look a royal queen or simple maiden. Once asked whether she preferred comedy or tragedy, she replied:

But back to Ellen Terry. She has taken on many roles and captured the hearts of a wide audience with her amazing personality, as there’s something about her that captivates. She isn't conventionally beautiful, but she can appear stunning. She doesn't have a powerful voice, yet she can easily move audiences to laughter or tears. She doesn't have a perfect figure, yet she can look like a royal queen or a humble maiden. When asked if she preferred comedy or tragedy, she replied:

“I prefer comedy, but I should be very sorry if there were no sad plays. I think the feminine predilection for a really good cry is one that should not be discouraged, inasmuch as there are few things that yield us a truer or a deeper pleasure; but I like comedy as the foundation, coping-stone, and pillar of a theatre. Not comedies for the mere verbal display of wit, but comedies of humour with both music and dancing.”

“I prefer comedy, but I'd be really sorry if there weren't any sad plays. I believe that the female tendency to enjoy a good cry shouldn't be discouraged, since there are few things that bring us a more genuine or deeper joy. But I see comedy as the foundation, the finishing touch, and the support of a theater. Not just comedies that focus on clever wordplay, but comedies that are rich in humor with both music and dancing.”

Miss Ellen Terry has a cheery disposition, invariably looks on the bright side of things, and not only knows how to work, but has actually done so almost continuously from the age of eight.

Miss Ellen Terry has a cheerful personality, always sees the positive side of things, and not only knows how to work but has actually been doing it almost continuously since she was eight years old.

[Pg 42]

One of Miss Terry’s greatest charms is her mastery over expression. It is really strange how little facial and physical expression are understood in England. We are the most undemonstrative people. It is much easier for a Frenchman to act than for an Englishman; the former is always acting; the little shrug of the shoulders, the movement of the hand and the head, or a wink of the eye, accompany every sentence that falls from his lips. He is full of movement, he speaks as much with his body as with his mouth, and therefore it is far less difficult for him to give expression to his thoughts upon the stage than it is for the stolid Britisher, whose public school training has taught him to avoid showing feeling, and squeezed him into the same mould of unemotional conventionality as all his other hundreds of schoolfellows. There is no doubt about it that everything on the stage must be exaggerated to be effective. It is a world of unreality, and the more pronounced the facial and physical expression brought to bear, the more effective the representation of the character.

One of Miss Terry’s greatest charms is her ability to express emotions. It’s really surprising how little facial and physical expression is understood in England. We are one of the least expressive people. It’s much easier for a Frenchman to perform than for an Englishman; the former is always in character—the little shrug of the shoulders, the movement of the hands and head, or a wink of the eye accompanies every sentence he says. He’s full of movement and communicates as much with his body as with his words, which makes it much easier for him to convey his thoughts on stage than it is for the reserved Brit, whose public school training has taught him to hide his feelings, conforming to the same unemotional conventionality as all his other schoolmates. There’s no doubt that everything on stage needs to be exaggerated to be effective. It’s a world of unreality, and the more pronounced the facial and physical expressions, the more impactful the character portrayal.

To realise the truth of these remarks, one should visit a small theatre in France, a theatre in some little provincial town, where a quite unimportant company is playing. They all seem to act, to be thoroughly enamoured of their parts, and to play them with their whole heart and soul. It is quite wonderful, indeed, to see the extraordinary capacity of the average French actor and actress for expressing emotion upon the stage. Of course it is their characteristic; but on the other hand, the German nation is[Pg 43] quite as stolid as our own, and yet the stage is held by them in high esteem, and the amount of drilling gone through is so wonderful that one is struck by the perfect playing of an ordinary provincial German. At home these Teutonic folk are hard and unemotional, but on the boards they expand. One has only to look at the German company that comes over to London every year to understand this remark. They play in a foreign tongue, the dresses are ordinary, one might say poor, the scenery is meagre, there is nothing, in fact, to help the acting in any way; and yet no one who goes to see one of their performances can fail to be impressed by the wonderful thoroughness and the general playing-in-unison of the entire company. Of course they do not aim so high as the Meiningen troupe, for they were a State company and the personal hobby of the Duke whose name they bore. We have no such band of players in England, although F. R. Benson has done much without State aid to accomplish the same result, and in many cases has succeeded admirably.

To appreciate the truth of these comments, you should visit a small theater in France, a theater in some little provincial town, where a seemingly unimportant company is performing. They all seem to act with genuine passion, fully immersed in their roles, pouring their heart and soul into the performance. It’s truly amazing to witness the average French actor and actress's remarkable ability to express emotion on stage. Of course, this is typical of them; however, the German people are[Pg 43] just as reserved as we are, yet they hold the theater in high regard, and the amount of training they undergo is so impressive that one can’t help but notice the exceptional performances of an ordinary provincial German actor. At home, these Teutonic individuals may seem tough and unemotional, but on stage, they come alive. You only need to look at the German company that visits London each year to see what I mean. They perform in a foreign language, their costumes are plain, you could say lacking, the scenery is sparse, and there’s nothing to support the acting in any way; yet, anyone who attends one of their shows can't help but be struck by the incredible dedication and the cohesive performance of the entire company. Of course, they don't aim as high as the Meiningen troupe, which was a State company and the personal passion project of the Duke who led it. We don't have such a group of performers in England, though F. R. Benson has achieved a lot without government support to reach a similar effect, and in many instances, he has succeeded wonderfully.

We have heard a great deal lately about the prospect of a State-Aided Theatre and Opera in London; and there is much to be said for and against the scheme. Municipal administration is often extravagant and not unknown to jobbery, neither of which would be advisable; but the present system leads to actor-managers and powerful syndicates, which likewise have their drawbacks. There is undoubtedly much to be said both for and against each system, and the British public has to decide. Meantime we learn that the six[Pg 44] Imperial theatres in Russia (three in St. Petersburg and three in Moscow), with their schools attached, cost the Emperor some £400,000 a year. “It is possible to visit the opera for 5d., to see Russian pieces for 3d., French and German for 9d.” These cheap seats are supposed to be a source of education to the populace, but there are expensive ones as well.

We’ve been hearing a lot lately about the possibility of a state-supported theater and opera in London, and there are plenty of arguments for and against it. Local government can be wasteful and there's often corruption, which wouldn't be ideal; but the current system leads to actor-managers and powerful companies, which also come with their own issues. There’s definitely a lot to consider for both systems, and it’s up to the British public to make a choice. In the meantime, we find out that the six[Pg 44] Imperial theaters in Russia (three in St. Petersburg and three in Moscow), along with their attached schools, cost the Emperor about £400,000 a year. "You can go to the opera for 5d., see Russian performances for 3d., and French and German ones for 9d.." These affordable tickets are meant to educate the public, but there are also more expensive options available.

Some Englishmen understand the art of facial expression. A little piece was played for a short time by Mr. Charles Warner, under the management of Mrs. Beerbohm Tree. The chief scene took place in front of a telephone, through which instrument the actor heard his wife and child being murdered many miles away in the country, he being in Paris. It was a ghastly idea, but Charles Warner’s face was a study from the first moment to the last. He grew positively pale, he had very little to say, and yet he carried off an entire scene of unspeakable horror merely by his facial and physical expression.

Some Englishmen really know how to express themselves through their faces. There was a short play performed by Mr. Charles Warner, managed by Mrs. Beerbohm Tree. The main scene was set in front of a telephone, where the actor heard his wife and child being murdered many miles away in the countryside while he was in Paris. It was a chilling concept, but Charles Warner's face was captivating from start to finish. He became visibly pale, said very little, yet conveyed a whole scene of unimaginable horror solely through his facial and physical expressions.

Some of our actors are amusingly fond of posing off the stage as well as on. One well-known man was met by a friend who went forward to shake his hand.

Some of our actors really enjoy posing for photos both on stage and off. A friend once approached a well-known actor to shake his hand.

“Ah, how do you do?” gushed the Thespian, striking an attitude, “how do you do, old chap? Delighted to see you,” then assuming a dramatic air, “but who the —— are you?”

“Ah, how are you?” exclaimed the actor, posing dramatically, “how are you, my friend? So glad to see you,” then with a theatrical tone, “but who the heck are you?”

And this was his usual form of greeting after an effusive handshake.

And this was how he usually greeted people after a warm handshake.

In a busy life it is of course impossible to remember every face, and the nonentities should surely forgive the celebrities, for it is so easy to recognise a well-known[Pg 45] person owing to the constant recurrence of his name or portrait in the press, and so easy to forget a nonentity whom nothing recalls, and whose face resembles dozens more of the same type.

In a hectic life, it's obviously impossible to remember every face, and ordinary people should definitely forgive celebrities, since it's so easy to recognize a well-known[Pg 45] person due to the regular appearance of their name or photo in the media, while it's just as easy to forget someone who's not in the spotlight, whose face looks like many others of the same kind.

One often hears actors and actresses abused—that is the penalty of success. Mediocrity is left alone, but, once successful, out come the knives to flay the genius to pieces; in fact, the more abused a man is, the more sure he may feel of his achievements. Abuse follows success in proportion to merit, just as foolish hopes make the disappointments of life.

One often hears actors and actresses criticized—that’s the cost of success. Mediocrity gets ignored, but once you achieve success, the critics come out to tear the genius apart; in fact, the more someone is criticized, the more confident they can feel about their accomplishments. Criticism comes with success in relation to talent, just like unrealistic expectations lead to the disappointments in life.

[Pg 46]

CHAPTER III

THEATRICAL FOLK

Miss Winifred Emery—Funny Critiques—An Actress’s Home Life—Cyril Maude’s First Theatrical Project—First Performance—A Lunch Party—A Bride as the Lead Actress—No Games, No Vacations—A Gathering at the Haymarket—Miss Ellaline Terriss and Her Debut—Seymour Hicks—Ben Webster and Montagu Williams—The Sothern Family—Edward Sothern as a Fisherman—A Terrifying Moment—Nearly a Panic—Asleep as Dundreary—Frohman at Daly’s Theatre—English and American Partnership—Performers.

ANOTHER striking instance of hereditary theatrical talent is Miss Winifred Emery, than whom there is no more popular actress in London. This pretty, agreeable little lady—who, like Mrs. Kendal and Miss Terry, may be said to have been born in the theatre—is the only daughter of Samuel Sanderson Emery, a well-known actor, and grand-daughter of John Emery, who was well known upon the stage. Her first appearance was at Liverpool, at the advanced age of eight.

ANOTHER striking example of inherited theatrical talent is Miss Winifred Emery, who is one of the most popular actresses in London. This charming and pleasant young woman—who, like Mrs. Kendal and Miss Terry, can be said to have been born into the theater—is the only daughter of Samuel Sanderson Emery, a well-known actor, and the granddaughter of John Emery, who was also notable on the stage. She made her first appearance in Liverpool at the young age of eight.

The oldest theatrical names upon the stage to-day are William Farren and Winifred Emery. Miss Emery’s great-grandfather was also an actor, so she is really the fourth generation to adopt that profession, but her grandmother and herself are the[Pg 47] only two women of the name of Emery who have appeared on playbills.

The longest-standing names in theater today are William Farren and Winifred Emery. Miss Emery’s great-grandfather was also an actor, making her the fourth generation in her family to pursue that career, but only her grandmother and she are the[Pg 47] only two women with the Emery name who have been featured on playbills.

As is well known, Miss Emery is the wife of Mr. Cyril Maude, lessee with Mr. Frederick Harrison—not the world-renowned Positivist writer—of the Haymarket Theatre.

As everyone knows, Miss Emery is the wife of Mr. Cyril Maude, who co-rents the Haymarket Theatre with Mr. Frederick Harrison—not the famous Positivist writer.

Although Mrs. Maude finds her profession engrossing, she calls it a very hard one, and the necessity of being always up to the mark at a certain hour every day is, she owns, a great strain even when she is well, and quite impossible when she is ill.

Although Mrs. Maude finds her job fascinating, she considers it very challenging, and she admits that having to be at her best at a specific time every day is a significant strain, even when she's feeling well, and totally impossible when she's sick.

Some years ago, when she was even younger than she is now, and not overburdened with this world’s gold, she was acting at the Vaudeville. It was her custom to go home every evening in an omnibus. One particularly cold night she jumped into the two-horse vehicle and huddled herself up in the farthest corner, thinking it would be warmer there than nearer the door in such bitter weather. She pulled her fur about her neck, and sat motionless and quiet. Presently two women at the other end arrested her attention; one was nudging the other, and saying:

Some years ago, when she was younger than she is now and not weighed down by the world's riches, she was performing at the Vaudeville. It was her routine to go home every evening on a bus. One particularly cold night, she climbed into the two-horse vehicle and snuggled up in the farthest corner, thinking it would be warmer there than by the door in such freezing weather. She wrapped her fur around her neck and sat still and quiet. Soon, two women at the other end caught her attention; one was nudging the other and saying:

“It is ’er, I tell yer; I know it’s ’er.”

“It’s her, I’m telling you; I know it’s her.”

“Nonsense, it ain’t ’er at all; she couldn’t have got out of the theayter so quick.”

“Nonsense, it’s not her at all; she couldn’t have gotten out of the theater that quickly.”

“It is ’er, I tell yer; just look at ’er again.”

“It’s her, I’m telling you; just take another look at her.”

The other looked.

The other person looked.

“No it ain’t; she was all laughing and fun, and that ’ere one looks quite sulky.”

“No, it’s not; she was all laughing and having fun, and that one seems pretty moody.”

The “sulky one,” though thoroughly tired and weary, smiled to herself.

The "sulky one," despite being completely worn out, smiled to herself.

[Pg 48]

I asked Miss Emery one day if she had ever been placed in any awkward predicament on the stage.

I asked Miss Emery one day if she had ever found herself in any awkward situation on stage.

“I always remember one occasion,” she replied, “tragedy at the time, but a comedy now, perhaps. I was acting with Henry Irving in the States when I was about eighteen or nineteen, and felt very proud of the honour. We reached Chicago. Louis XI. was the play. In one act—I think it was the second—I went on as usual and did my part. Having finished, as I thought, I went to my room and began to wash my hands. It was a cold night, and my lovely white hands robbed of their paint were blue. The mixture was well off when the call boy shouted my name. Thinking he was having a joke I said:

“I always remember one occasion,” she replied, “a tragedy back then, but maybe a comedy now. I was performing with Henry Irving in the States when I was about eighteen or nineteen, and I felt really proud of the honor. We arrived in Chicago. Louis XI. was the play. In one scene—I think it was the second—I went on as usual and did my part. After I thought I was done, I went to my room and started to wash my hands. It was a cold night, and my lovely white hands, stripped of their makeup, turned blue. I was almost finished when the call boy shouted my name. Thinking he was joking, I said:

“‘All right, I’m here.’

"Okay, I'm here."

“‘But Mr. Irving is waiting for you.’

“‘But Mr. Irving is waiting for you.’”

“‘Waiting for me? Why, the act isn’t half over.’

“‘Waiting for me? The show isn't even halfway done.’”

“‘Come, Miss Emery, come quick,’ gasped the boy, pushing open the door. ‘Mr. Irving’s on the stage and waiting for you.’

“‘Come on, Miss Emery, hurry,’ the boy said breathlessly, opening the door. ‘Mr. Irving’s on stage and is waiting for you.’”

“Horrors! In a flash I remembered I had two small scenes as Marie in that act, and usually waited in the wing. Had I, could I have forgotten the second one?

“Horrors! In a flash I remembered I had two small scenes as Marie in that act, and usually waited in the wings. Had I, could I have forgotten the second one?

Photo by Window & Grove, Baker Street, W.

MISS WINIFRED EMERY AND MR. CYRIL MAUDE IN “THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.”

“With wet red hands, dry white arms, my dress not properly fastened at the back, towel in hand, along the passage I flew. On the stage was poor Mr. Irving walking about, talking—I know not what. On I rushed, said my lines, gave him my lobster-coloured wet hand to kiss—a pretty contrast to my[Pg 49] ashen cheeks, and when the curtain fell, I dissolved in tears.

“With wet red hands, dry white arms, my dress not fully done up at the back, towel in hand, I raced down the hallway. On stage was poor Mr. Irving, walking around, talking—I don’t know about what. I rushed on, said my lines, offered him my lobster-colored wet hand to kiss—a pretty contrast to my[Pg 49] ashen cheeks, and when the curtain fell, I broke down in tears.”

“Mr. Irving sent for me to his room. In fear and trembling I went.

“Mr. Irving called for me to come to his room. Feeling scared and anxious, I went.”

“‘This was terrible,’ he said. ‘How did it happen?’

“This is terrible,” he said. “How did it happen?”

“‘I forgot, I forgot, why I know not, but I forgot,’ I said, and my tears flowed again. He patted me on the back.

“I forgot, I forgot, why I don’t know, but I forgot,” I said, and my tears started flowing again. He patted me on the back.

“‘Never mind,’ he said kindly, ‘but please don’t let it occur again.’”

“‘No worries,’ he said kindly, ‘but please don’t let it happen again.’”

Once when I was talking to this clever little lady the conversation turned on games.

Once, while I was chatting with this smart little lady, the conversation shifted to games.

“Games!” she exclaimed. “I know nothing of them: as a child I never had time to play, and when I was sixteen years old I had to keep myself and my family. Of late years I have been far too busy even to take up golf.”

“Games!” she exclaimed. “I don’t know anything about them: as a kid, I never had time to play, and by the time I was sixteen, I had to support myself and my family. Lately, I’ve been way too busy to even think about playing golf.”

Mrs. Maude has two charming daughters, quaint, old-fashioned little creatures, and some years their junior is a small brother.

Mrs. Maude has two lovely daughters, quirky, old-fashioned little girls, and a few years younger is a little brother.

The two girls were once invited to a fancy dress ball in Harley Street: it happened to be a Saturday, and therefore matinée day. Their mother arranged their dresses. The elder was to wear the costume of Lady Teazle, an exact replica of the one reproduced in this volume, and which Mrs. Maude wore when playing that part, while the younger was to be dressed as a Dutch bride, also a copy of one of Miss Emery’s dresses in the Black Tulip. They all lunched together, and as the mother was going off[Pg 50] to the theatre, she told the nurse to see that the children were dressed properly, and take them to the house at a certain hour.

The two girls were invited to a fancy dress ball on Harley Street. It happened to be a Saturday, so it was a matinée day. Their mom picked out their costumes. The older girl was going to dress as Lady Teazle, just like the outfit shown in this book, which Mrs. Maude wore when she performed that role, while the younger girl would be wearing a Dutch bride costume, also based on one of Miss Emery’s dresses in the Black Tulip. They had lunch together, and as their mom was leaving[Pg 50] for the theatre, she told the nurse to make sure the kids were dressed properly and to take them to the house at a specific time.

“Oh, but, mummy, we can’t go unless you dress us,” exclaimed the elder child; “we should never be right.” And therefore it was settled that the two little people should be arrayed with the exception of the final touches, and then driven round by way of the Haymarket Theatre, so that their mother might attend to their wigs, earrings, hat or cap, as the case might be.

“Oh, but mom, we can't go unless you get us ready,” the older child exclaimed. “We'd never look right.” So it was decided that the two little ones would be dressed, except for the final touches, and then taken for a drive past the Haymarket Theatre, so their mother could fix their wigs, earrings, hat, or cap, depending on what they were wearing.

What a pretty idea. The mother, who was attracting rounds of applause from a crowded house every time she went on the stage, running back to her dressing-room between the scenes, to drop down on her knees and attend to her little girls, so that they should be all right for their party.

What a lovely thought. The mother, who was getting applause from a packed house every time she went on stage, would run back to her dressing room between scenes to drop down on her knees and make sure her little girls were ready for their party.

Admiring the costume of the younger one, I said:

Admiring the younger one's costume, I said:

“Why, you have got on your mother’s dress.”

“Hey, you’re wearing your mom’s dress.”

“No, it’s not mother’s,” she replied. “It’s my dress, and my shoes, and my stockings—all my very own; but it’s mother’s gold cap, and mother’s earrings, and mother’s necklace, and mother’s apron—with a tuck in,” and she nodded her wise little head.

“No, it’s not mom’s,” she replied. “It’s my dress, and my shoes, and my stockings—all my very own; but it’s mom’s gold cap, and mom’s earrings, and mom’s necklace, and mom’s apron—with a tuck in,” and she nodded her wise little head.

This was a simple child, not like the small American girl whose mother was relating wonderful stories of her precocity to an admiring friend, when a shrill voice from the corner called out:

This was a simple child, not like the little American girl whose mother was sharing amazing stories about her talents to an impressed friend, when a loud voice from the corner called out:

“But you haven’t told the last clever thing I said,[Pg 51] mamma,” evidently wishing none of her brilliant wit to be lost.

“But you haven’t mentioned the last clever thing I said,[Pg 51] mom,” clearly wanting to make sure none of her brilliant remarks went unnoticed.

They looked sweet, those two children of Mrs. Maude’s, and the way the elder one attended upon her smaller sister was pretty to see.

They looked adorable, those two kids of Mrs. Maude’s, and it was nice to see how the older one took care of her younger sister.

In a charming little house near the Brompton Oratory Mrs. Maude lived for years, surrounded by her family, perfectly content in their society. She is in every sense a thoroughly domesticated woman, and warmly declares she “loves housekeeping.”

In a lovely little house near the Brompton Oratory, Mrs. Maude lived for years, surrounded by her family, completely happy in their company. She is in every way a truly home-oriented woman and enthusiastically says she “loves housekeeping.”

One cannot imagine a happier home than the Maudes’, and no more charming gentleman walks upon the stage than this well-known descendant of many distinguished army men. Mr. Maude was at Charterhouse, one of our best public schools, and is a most enthusiastic old Carthusian. So is General Baden-Powell, whose interest in the old place went so far as to make him spend his last night in England among his old schoolfellows at the City Charterhouse when he returned invalided on short leave from the Transvaal. The gallant soldier gave an excellent speech, referring to Founders’ Day, which they were then commemorating, and delighted his boy hearers and “Ancient Brethren” equally.

You can't imagine a happier home than the Maudes', and no more charming man takes the stage than this well-known descendant of many distinguished army officers. Mr. Maude attended Charterhouse, one of our top public schools, and he's a very enthusiastic alumni. So is General Baden-Powell, who was so invested in his old school that he chose to spend his last night in England among his classmates at the City Charterhouse when he returned home on short leave from the Transvaal. The brave soldier delivered an excellent speech, referencing Founders’ Day, which they were commemorating at that time, and thrilled both the young students and the “Ancient Brethren.”

On Charterhouse anniversaries Mr. Maude drops his jester’s cap and solemnly, long stick in hand, takes part in the ceremony at the old Carthusian Church made popular by Thackeray’s Newcomes.

On Charterhouse anniversaries, Mr. Maude puts away his jester’s cap and, seriously holding a long stick, participates in the ceremony at the old Carthusian Church, made famous by Thackeray’s Newcomes.

Cyril Maude was originally intended for another profession, but, in spite of family opposition, elected to go upon the stage, and as his parents did not[Pg 52] approve of such a proceeding, he commenced his theatrical career in America, where he went through many vicissitudes. He began in a Shakespearian rèpertoire company, playing through the Western mining towns of the States, where he had to rough it considerably.

Cyril Maude was originally meant for a different career, but despite his family's objections, he chose to pursue acting. Since his parents did not[Pg 52] approve of this decision, he kicked off his theater career in America, facing many challenges along the way. He started in a Shakespearean repertoire company, traveling through the Western mining towns in the States, where he had to endure quite a bit.

“I even slept on a bit of carpet on a bar-room floor one night,” he said; “but our beautiful company burst up in ’Frisco, and I had to come home emigrant fashion, nine days and nine nights in the train, with a little straw mattress for my bed, and a small tin can to hold my food. They were somewhat trying experiences, yet most interesting, and gave great opportunities for studying mankind. I have played in every conceivable sort of play, and once ‘walked on’ for months made up as Gladstone in a burlesque, to a mighty dreary comic song.”

“I even slept on a piece of carpet on a barroom floor one night,” he said; “but our amazing group broke up in San Francisco, and I had to come home like an immigrant, nine days and nine nights on the train, with a little straw mattress for a bed and a small tin can for my food. Those experiences were pretty tough, yet really interesting, and provided great opportunities to study people. I’ve performed in every kind of play imaginable, and once I ‘walked on’ for months dressed as Gladstone in a burlesque, to a really boring comic song.”

So Mr. Maude, like the rest who have climbed to the top, began at the bottom of the ladder, and has worked his way industriously up to his present position, which he has held at the Haymarket since 1896, and where—he laughingly says—he hopes to die in harness.

So Mr. Maude, like everyone else who has reached the top, started at the bottom and has worked his way up diligently to his current position, which he has held at the Haymarket since 1896, and where—he jokingly says—he hopes to die still working.

Cyril Maude gives rather an amusing description of his first theatrical performance. When he was a boy of eighteen his family took a house at Dieppe for six months, and he was sent every day to study French with Monsieur le Pasteur.

Cyril Maude offers a rather funny account of his first theater performance. When he was eighteen, his family rented a house in Dieppe for six months, and he was sent every day to learn French with Monsieur le Pasteur.

“One day, when I had been working with him for three or four weeks, he asked me what I was going to make my profession.

“One day, after I had been working with him for three or four weeks, he asked me what I was planning to do for a career.

[Pg 53]

“‘Comédien,’ I replied.

"'Comedian,' I replied."

“‘Comment? Comédien? Etes-vous fou?’ he exclaimed, horrified and astounded at such a suggestion, and added more gravely, ‘I am quite sure you have not the slightest idea how to act; so, my boy, you had better put such a ridiculous idea out of your head and stick to your books. Besides, you must choose a profession fit for a gentleman.’

“‘What? An actor? Are you crazy?’ he exclaimed, horrified and shocked by the suggestion, and added more seriously, ‘I’m sure you have no idea how to act; so, my boy, you should definitely forget that ridiculous idea and focus on your studies. Besides, you need to choose a profession suitable for a gentleman.’”

“Of course I felt piqued, and as I walked home that evening I just wondered if there were not some way by which I could show the old man that I could act if I chose.

“Of course I felt annoyed, and as I walked home that evening I just wondered if there was some way I could show the old man that I could take action if I wanted to.

“The Pasteur had a resident pupil of the name of Bishop, a nice young fellow, and to him I related my indignation.

“The Pasteur had a resident pupil named Bishop, a nice young guy, and I told him about my anger.

“‘Of course you can act,’ he said; so between us we concocted the brilliant idea that I should dress up as Bishop’s aunt and go and call upon the Pasteur, with the ostensible view of sending another nephew to his excellent establishment. Overjoyed at the scheme I ransacked my mother’s wardrobe, and finally dressed myself up to resemble a somewhat lean, cadaverous English old maid.

“‘Of course you can act,’ he said; so together we came up with the clever idea that I should dress as the bishop's aunt and visit the pastor, supposedly to discuss sending another nephew to his wonderful school. Excited about the plan, I searched through my mother’s wardrobe and finally got myself looking like a somewhat thin, ghostly English old maid.

“I walked down the street to the house, and to my joy the servant did not recognise me. The old man received me with great cordiality and politeness. I told him in very bad French, with a pronounced Cockney accent, that I was thinking of sending another of my nephews to him if he had room. At this suggestion the Pasteur was delighted, took me upstairs, showed me all the rooms, and made[Pg 54] quite a fuss over me. Then he called ‘my nephew,’ who nearly gave the show away by choking with laughter when I affectionately greeted him with a chaste salute. This was the only part of the business I did not really enjoy! As we were coming downstairs, the Pasteur well in front, I smiled—perhaps I winked—at Bishop, anyhow I slipped, whereupon the polite old gentleman turned round, was most désolé at the accident, gave me his arm, and assisted me most tenderly all the rest of the way to the dining-room, his wife following and murmuring:—

“I walked down the street to the house, and to my delight, the servant didn’t recognize me. The old man welcomed me warmly and politely. I told him in very poor French, with a strong Cockney accent, that I was thinking of sending another one of my nephews to him if he had space. At this suggestion, the pastor was thrilled, took me upstairs, showed me all the rooms, and made[Pg 54] a big fuss over me. Then he called for ‘my nephew,’ who almost blew our cover by bursting into laughter when I greeted him affectionately with a formal salute. This was the only part of the situation I didn’t really enjoy! As we were coming downstairs, with the pastor well ahead, I smiled—maybe I winked—at Bishop, and then I slipped. The polite old gentleman turned around, was extremely désolé about the accident, offered me his arm, and helped me very kindly all the way to the dining room, his wife following behind and murmuring:—

“‘Prenez garde, madame, prenez garde.’

“'Be careful, madam, be careful.'”

“Having arrived at the salle-à-manger the dear old Pasteur said he would leave me for a moment with his wife, in case there was anything I might like to discuss with her, and to my horror I was left closeted with madame, nervously fearing she might touch on subjects fit only for ladies’ ears, but not for the tender years of my manly youth. Needless to say I escaped from her clutches as quickly as possible.

“Having arrived at the dining room, the dear old Pasteur said he would leave me for a moment with his wife, in case there was anything I might like to discuss with her, and to my horror, I was left alone with madame, nervously fearing she might bring up topics suitable only for women's ears, but not for the naive youth of my manly age. Without a doubt, I escaped from her grasp as quickly as possible.”

“For two days I kept up the joke. Then it became too much for me, and as we were busily working at French verbs, in the curé’s study, I changed my voice and returned to the old lady’s Cockney French intonations, which was not in the least difficult, as my own French was none of the brightest. The Pasteur turned round, looked hard at me for a moment, and then went back to the verbs. I awaited another opportunity, and began again. This time he almost glared at me, and then,[Pg 55] clapping his hands to his head and bursting into laughter, he exclaimed:

“For two days, I kept the joke going. Then it became too much for me, and while we were busy working on French verbs in the curé’s study, I switched my voice back to the old lady’s Cockney French intonations, which wasn’t hard since my own French wasn't great. The Pasteur turned to look at me for a moment, then went back to the verbs. I waited for another chance and started again. This time, he practically glared at me, and then,[Pg 55] clutching his head and laughing, he exclaimed:

“‘Mais c’était vous, c’était vous la tante de Bishop?’

“‘But it was you, it was you, Bishop's aunt?’”

“It turned out he had written that morning to Bishop’s real aunt, accepting her second nephew as a pupil, and arranging all the details of his arrival. How surprised the good lady must have been.”

“It turned out he had written that morning to Bishop’s actual aunt, confirming her second nephew as a student, and sorting out all the details of his arrival. How surprised the poor lady must have been.”

June 3rd, 1899, was the eleventh anniversary of Cyril Maude and Winifred Emery’s wedding day, and they gave a delightful little luncheon party at their pretty house in Egerton Crescent, where they then lived. The host certainly looked ridiculously young to have been married eleven years, or to be the father of the big girl of nine and the smaller one of six who came down to dessert.

June 3rd, 1899, was the eleventh anniversary of Cyril Maude and Winifred Emery’s wedding, and they hosted a lovely little luncheon at their charming house on Egerton Crescent, where they lived at the time. The host definitely looked way too young to have been married for eleven years or to be the father of a nine-year-old girl and a six-year-old who came down for dessert.

Their home was a very cosy one—not big or grand in those days, but thoroughly carried out on a small scale, with trees in the gardens in front, trees in the back-yard behind, and the aspect was refreshing on that frightfully hot Oaks day.

Their home was quite cozy—not big or fancy back then, but well-made on a small scale, with trees in the front yard, trees in the backyard, and the view felt refreshing on that unbearably hot day in Oaks.

Winifred Emery had a new toy—a tiny little dog, so small that it could curl itself up quite happily in the bottom of a man’s top hat, but yet wicked enough to do a vast amount of damage, for it had that morning pulled a blouse by the sleeves from the bed to the floor, and had calmly dissevered the lace from the cambric.

Winifred Emery had a new toy—a tiny dog, so small it could happily curl up in the bottom of a man's top hat, but mischievous enough to cause a lot of trouble. That morning, it had pulled a blouse by the sleeves from the bed to the floor and had calmly ripped the lace off the cambric.

The Maudes are a most unconventional theatrical pair. They love their home and their children, and seem to wish to get rid of every remembrance of[Pg 56] the theatre once they pass their own front door. And yet it is impossible to get rid of the theatre in the summer, for besides having eight performances a week of The Manœuvres of Jane at that time—which was doing even better business at the end of nine months than it was at the beginning—those unfortunate people were giving charity performances every week for seven consecutive weeks, which of course necessitated rehearsals apart from the performances themselves. Really the charity distributed by the theatrical world is enormous.

The Maudes are a really unconventional theater couple. They love their home and their kids, and they seem to want to leave behind everything related to the theater as soon as they cross their front door. Yet, it's impossible to escape the theater in the summer. Not only do they have eight performances a week of The Manœuvres of Jane—which was actually doing even better business nine months in than when it started—but they were also doing charity performances every week for seven straight weeks, which, of course, meant extra rehearsals on top of the performances. Honestly, the amount of charity given by the theater world is huge.

We had a delightful luncheon: much of my time was spent gazing at Miss Ellaline Terriss, who is even prettier off the stage than she is on.

We had a wonderful lunch: I spent a lot of time just looking at Miss Ellaline Terriss, who is even more beautiful off stage than she is on.

When Mrs. Maude said she had been married for eleven years, with the proudest air in the world Mrs. Hicks remarked:

When Mrs. Maude said she had been married for eleven years, with the proudest attitude in the world Mrs. Hicks remarked:

“And we have been married nearly six.”

“And we have been married for almost six years.”

But certainly to look at Ellaline Terriss and Seymour Hicks made it seem impossible to believe that such could be the case. Hard work seems to agree with some people, and the incessant labour of the stage had left no trace on these young couples.

But looking at Ellaline Terriss and Seymour Hicks, it really seems hard to believe that could be true. Hard work seems to suit some people, and the constant grind of the stage had left no mark on these young couples.

After luncheon the Maudes’ eldest little girl recited a French poem she had learnt at school, and it was quite ridiculous to see the small child already showing inherited talent. She was calm and collected, and when she had done and I congratulated her, she said in the simplest way in the world:

After lunch, the Maudes' oldest daughter recited a French poem she had learned at school, and it was pretty amusing to see the little girl already displaying inherited talent. She was calm and composed, and when she finished and I congratulated her, she replied in the simplest way possible:

“I am going to be an actress when I am grown up, and so is Baby,” nodding her head at the other small[Pg 57] thing of six, for the boy had not then arrived to usurp “Baby’s” place.

“I’m going to be an actress when I grow up, and so is Baby,” she said, nodding her head at the other little[Pg 57] one who was six, since the boy hadn’t arrived yet to take “Baby’s” spot.

“Oh yes, so am I,” said little six-year-old. But when I asked her to recite something, she said:

“Oh yeah, me too,” said the little six-year-old. But when I asked her to say something, she replied:

“I haven’t learnt yet, but I shall soon.”

“I haven’t learned yet, but I will soon.”

The Maudes were then eagerly looking forward to some weeks’ holiday which they always enjoy every autumn.

The Maudes were eagerly looking forward to a few weeks of vacation, which they always enjoy every autumn.

“I like a place where I need not wear gloves, and a hat is not a necessity,” she said. “I have so much dressing-up in my life that it is a holiday to be without it.”

“I like a place where I don’t have to wear gloves, and a hat isn’t required,” she said. “I have so much dressing up in my life that it feels like a vacation to be without it.”

Somehow the conversation turned on a wedding to which they had just been, and Winifred Emery exclaimed:

Somehow the conversation shifted to a wedding they had just attended, and Winifred Emery exclaimed:

“I love going to weddings, but I always regret I am not the bride.”

“I love going to weddings, but I always wish I were the bride.”

“Come, come,” said her husband, “that would be worse than the Mormons. However many husbands would you have?”

“Come on,” her husband said, “that would be worse than the Mormons. How many husbands would you want?”

“Oh, I always want to keep my own old husband, but I want to be the bride.” At which he laughed immoderately, and said:

“Oh, I always want to keep my old husband, but I want to be the bride.” At that, he laughed heartily and said:

“I declare, Winifred, you are never happy unless you are playing the leading lady.”

“I swear, Winifred, you’re never happy unless you’re in the spotlight.”

“Of course not,” she retorted; “women always appreciate appreciation.”

“Of course not,” she shot back; “women always appreciate being appreciated.”

They were much amused when I told them the story of my small boy, who, aged about seven, was to go to a wedding as a page in gorgeous white satin with lace ruffles and old paste buttons.

They were really entertained when I shared the story about my little boy, who, at around seven years old, was going to a wedding as a page dressed in beautiful white satin with lace ruffles and vintage paste buttons.

[Pg 58]

“I don’t want to go,” he remarked; “I hate weddings”—for he had officiated twice before. Something he said leading me to suppose he was a little shy, I soothingly answered:

“I don’t want to go,” he said. “I hate weddings”—he had already officiated twice before. Something he mentioned made me think he was a bit shy, so I replied comfortingly:

“Oh, well, every one will be so busy looking at the bride that they will never look at you.”

“Oh, don’t worry, everyone will be so focused on the bride that they won’t even notice you.”

To which the small gentleman indignantly replied:

To which the little man replied, annoyed:

“If they aren’t even going to look at me, then I don’t see why I need go at all!”

“If they aren’t even going to look at me, then I don’t see why I need to go at all!”

So after all there is a certain amount of vanity even in a small boy of seven.

So after all, even a seven-year-old boy has some level of vanity.

“I cannot bear a new play,” Mrs. Maude once said. “I am nervous, worried, and anxious at rehearsal, and it is not until I have got on my stage clothes that it ceases to be a trouble to me. Not till I have played it for weeks that I feel thoroughly at home in a new part.

“I can’t handle a new play,” Mrs. Maude once said. “I get nervous, worried, and anxious during rehearsals, and it’s not until I put on my stage clothes that it stops being a hassle for me. It’s only after I’ve performed it for weeks that I feel completely comfortable in a new role.”

“It is positively the first real holiday I have ever had in my life,” she exclaimed to me at the time of her illness; “for although we always take six weeks’ rest in the summer, plays have to be studied and work is looming ahead, whereas now I have six months of complete idleness in front of me. It is splendid to have time to tidy my drawers in peace, ransack my bookshelves, see to a hundred and one household duties without any hurry, have plenty of time to spend with the children, and actually to see something of my friends, whom it is impossible to meet often in my usually busy life.”

“It’s definitely the first real holiday I’ve ever had in my life,” she said to me during her illness. “Even though we always take six weeks off in the summer, I have to study plays and work is always on the horizon. But now I have six months of complete free time ahead of me. It’s amazing to finally have time to organize my drawers without rushing, go through my bookshelves, handle a hundred household tasks at my own pace, spend plenty of time with the kids, and actually catch up with my friends, whom I hardly ever get to see in my usually hectic life.”

So spoke Miss Winifred Emery, and a year later Mrs. Kendal wrote, “I’ve had ten days’ holiday[Pg 59] this year, and am now rehearsing literally day and night.”

So said Miss Winifred Emery, and a year later Mrs. Kendal wrote, “I’ve had ten days off this year, and I’m now rehearsing literally day and night.”

After that who can say the life of the successful actress is not a grind? A maidservant or shopgirl expects her fortnight’s holiday in a twelvemonth, while one of the most successful actresses of modern times has to be content with ten days during the same period. Yet Mrs. Kendal is not a girl or a beginner, she is in full power and at the top of her profession.

After that, who can say that the life of a successful actress isn't tough? A maid or shopgirl looks forward to two weeks off in a year, while one of the most successful actresses today has to settle for just ten days during that same time. Yet Mrs. Kendal isn't inexperienced or just starting out; she's at the peak of her career and in full command of her skills.

All theatrical life is not a grind, however, and it has its brighter moments. For instance, one beautiful warm sunny afternoon, the anniversary of their own wedding day—the Cyril Maudes gave an “At Home” at the Haymarket. Guests arrived by the stage door at the back of the famous theatre, and to their surprise found themselves at once upon the stage, for the back scene and Suffolk Street are almost identical. Mrs. Maude, with a dear little girl on either side, received her friends, and an interesting group of friends they were. Every one who was any one seemed to have been bidden thither. The stage was, of course, not large enough for this goodly throng, so a great staircase had been built down from the footlights to where the stalls usually stand. The stalls, however, had gone—disappeared as though they had never existed—and where the back row generally cover the floor a sumptuous buffet was erected. It was verily a fairy scene, for the dress-circle (which at the Haymarket is low down) was a sort of winter garden of palms and flowers behind which the band was ensconced.

All theater life isn't all work, though; it has its bright spots. For example, one beautiful, warm, sunny afternoon—the anniversary of their wedding—the Cyril Maudes hosted an “At Home” event at the Haymarket. Guests arrived through the stage door at the back of the famous theater and were surprised to find themselves suddenly on stage, since the back of the stage and Suffolk Street are nearly the same. Mrs. Maude, with a sweet little girl on each side, welcomed her friends, and they were quite an interesting group. Everyone who was anyone seemed to have been invited. The stage, of course, wasn't big enough for this large crowd, so a grand staircase was built from the footlights down to where the stalls usually are. However, the stalls were gone—vanished as if they had never existed—and where the back row typically covered the floor, a lavish buffet was set up. It was truly a magical scene, as the dress circle (which at the Haymarket is quite low) resembled a winter garden filled with palms and flowers, behind which the band was hidden.

[Pg 60]

What would the players of old, Charles Mathews, Colley Cibber, Edmund Kean, Liston, and Colman, have said to such a sight? What would old Mr. Emery have thought could he have known that one day his grand-daughter would reign as a very queen on the scene of his former triumphs? What would he have said had he known that periwigs and old stage coaches would have disappeared in favour of closely-cut heads, electric broughams, shilling hansoms with C springs and rubber tyres, or motor cars? What would he have thought of the electric light in place of candle dips and smelling lamps? How surprised he would have been to find neatly coated men showing the audience to their seats at a performance, instead of fat rowdy women, to see the orange girls and their baskets superseded by dainty trays of tea and ices, and above all to note the decorous behaviour of a modern audience in contrast to the noisy days when Grandpapa Emery trod the Haymarket boards.

What would the old-school performers, Charles Mathews, Colley Cibber, Edmund Kean, Liston, and Colman, have thought of such a sight? What would Mr. Emery have thought if he had known that one day his granddaughter would reign like a queen on the stage of his past triumphs? What would he have said if he had known that wigs and old stage coaches would be replaced by short hairstyles, electric broughams, shilling hansoms with C springs and rubber tires, or cars? What would he have thought of the electric light instead of candle dips and smelly lamps? How surprised he would have been to see neatly dressed men guiding the audience to their seats at a performance, instead of loud, overweight women, to notice orange sellers and their baskets replaced by elegant trays of tea and ice cream, and above all, to see the polite behavior of a modern audience compared to the noisy days when Grandpa Emery walked the Haymarket stage.

Almost the most youthful person present, if one dare judge by appearances, was the actor-manager, Cyril Maude. There is something particularly charming about Mr. Maude—there is a merry twinkle in his eyes, with a sound of tears in his voice, and it is this combination, doubtless, which charms his audience. He is a low comedian, a character-actor, and yet he can play on the emotional chord when necessity arises. He and his co-partner, Mr. Harrison, are warm friends—a delightful situation for people so closely allied in business.

Almost the youngest person there, if you go by looks, was the actor-manager, Cyril Maude. There’s something especially charming about Mr. Maude—he has a merry twinkle in his eyes and a hint of sadness in his voice, and it’s this mix that surely captivates his audience. He’s a low comedian and a character actor, but he can hit the emotional notes when needed. He and his business partner, Mr. Harrison, are close friends—a lovely situation for those so closely connected in work.

[Pg 61]

Immediately off the stage is the green-room, now almost unused. Formerly the old green-room on the other side of the stage was a fashionable resort, and the green-rooms at the Haymarket and Drury Lane were crowded nightly at the beginning of the last century with all the fashionable men of the day. Kings went there to be amused, plays began at any time, the waits between the acts were of any length, and general disorder reigned in the candle and oil-lighted theatres—a disorder to which a few visitors did not materially add. All is changed nowadays. The play begins to the minute, and ends with equal regularity. Actors do not fail to appear without due notice, so that the under-study has time to get ready, and order reigns both before and behind the footlights. Therefore at the Haymarket no one is admitted to the green-room, in fact, no one is allowed in the theatre “behind the scenes” at all, except to the dressing-room of the particular star who has invited him thither.

Immediately off the stage is the green room, which is now almost never used. In the past, the old green room on the other side of the stage was a trendy hangout, and the green rooms at the Haymarket and Drury Lane were packed every night at the start of the last century with all the fashionable men of the time. Kings went there for entertainment, plays would start whenever, the breaks between acts could last as long as they pleased, and there was complete chaos in the candle and oil-lit theaters—a chaos that a few visitors didn’t really help with. Everything has changed these days. The play starts on time and finishes just as reliably. Actors show up without fail after proper notice, allowing the understudy enough time to prepare, and order prevails both in front of and behind the stage. Therefore, at the Haymarket, no one is allowed in the green room; in fact, no one is permitted “backstage” at all, except for the dressing room of the specific star who has invited them there.

Mrs. Maude made a charming hostess at that party.

Mrs. Maude was a delightful hostess at that party.

I think the hour at which we were told on the cards “to leave” was 6.0, or it may have been 6.30; at any rate, we all streamed out reluctantly at the appointed time, and the stage carpenters streamed in. Away went the palms, off came the bunting, down came the staircase, and an hour later the evening audience were pouring in to the theatre, little knowing what high revelry had so lately ended.

I believe the time when we were told on the cards to "leave" was 6:00, or maybe it was 6:30; regardless, we all left reluctantly at the scheduled time, and the stage crew came in. The palms were taken away, the bunting was removed, the staircase was taken down, and an hour later, the evening audience was streaming into the theater, unaware of the wild celebration that had just wrapped up.

Some people seem to be born old, others live long and die young; judging by their extraordinary[Pg 62] juvenility, Mr. Seymour Hicks and his charming wife, née Ellaline Terriss, belong to the latter category. They are a boyish man and a girlish woman, in the best sense of lighthearted youthfulness, yet they have a record of successes behind them, of which many well advanced in years might be proud. No daintier, prettier, more piquante little lady trips upon our stage than Ellaline Terriss. She is the personification of everything mignonne, and whether dressed in rags as Bluebell in Fairyland, or as a smart lady in a modern play, she is delightful.

Some people seem to be born old, while others live long but die young; judging by their incredible[Pg 62] youthfulness, Mr. Seymour Hicks and his lovely wife, née Ellaline Terriss, fall into the latter category. They are a youthful man and a playful woman, in the best sense of carefree youth, yet they have an impressive track record of achievements that many older individuals would be proud of. There is no daintier, prettier, or more charming little lady on our stage than Ellaline Terriss. She represents everything cute, and whether she’s dressed in rags as Bluebell in Fairyland or looking chic in a modern play, she is simply delightful.

It is a curious thing that so many of our prominent actors and actresses have inherited their histrionic talents from their parents and even grandparents, and Mrs. Hicks is no exception, for she is the daughter of the late well-known actor, William Terriss. She was not originally intended for the stage, and her adoption of it as a profession was almost by chance. A letter of her own describes how this came about.

It’s interesting how many of our famous actors and actresses have inherited their dramatic talents from their parents and even grandparents, and Mrs. Hicks is no exception since she’s the daughter of the late well-known actor, William Terriss. She wasn’t originally meant for the stage, and her decision to pursue it as a career was almost by chance. A letter from her describes how this happened.

“I was barely sixteen when Mr. Calmour, who wrote The Amber Heart and named the heroine after me, suggested we should surprise my father one day by playing Cupid’s Messenger in our drawing-room, and that I should take the leading part. We had a brass rod fixed up across the room, and thus made a stage, and on the preceding night informed a few friends of the morrow’s performance. The news greatly astonished my father, who laughed. I daresay he was secretly pleased, though he pretended not to be. A couple of months passed, and I heard that Miss Freke was engaged at the Haymarket to play the part I[Pg 63] had sustained. Oh, how I wished it was I! Little did I think my wish was so near fulfilment. I was sitting alone over the fire one day when a telegram was handed to me, which ran:

“I was barely sixteen when Mr. Calmour, who wrote The Amber Heart and named the heroine after me, suggested we surprise my dad one day by performing Cupid’s Messenger in our living room, with me in the leading role. We set up a brass rod across the room to create a stage, and the night before, we told a few friends about the performance the next day. My dad was really surprised by the news and laughed. I’m sure he was secretly happy, even though he acted like he wasn’t. A couple of months went by, and I heard that Miss Freke was cast at the Haymarket to play the part I[Pg 63] had played. Oh, how I wished it were me! Little did I know that my wish was about to come true. I was sitting alone by the fire one day when a telegram was delivered to me, which said:

“‘Haymarket Theatre. Come up at once. Play Cupid’s Messenger, to-night.’

“Haymarket Theatre. Come up right away. Perform Cupid’s Messenger tonight.”

“I rushed to catch a train, and found myself at the stage door of the theatre at 7.15 p.m. All was hurry and excitement. I did not know how to make-up. I did not know with whom I was going to appear, and Miss Freke’s dress was too large for me. The whole affair seemed like a dream. However, I am happy to say Mr. Tree stood by and saw me act, and I secured the honour of a ‘call.’ I played for a week, when Mr. Tree gave me a five-pound note, and a sweet letter of thanks. My father then said that if it would add to my happiness I might go on the stage, and he would get me an engagement.”

“I rushed to catch a train and found myself at the stage door of the theater at 7:15 p.m. Everything was chaotic and exciting. I didn’t know how to do my make-up. I had no idea who I was going to perform with, and Miss Freke's dress was way too big for me. The whole thing felt like a dream. However, I’m happy to say Mr. Tree was there to watch me act, and I earned the honor of a ‘call.’ I performed for a week, and then Mr. Tree gave me a five-pound note and a lovely letter of thanks. My father then said that if it would make me happy, I could pursue acting, and he would help me get a job.”

How proud the girl must have been of that five-pound note, for any person who has ever earned even a smaller sum knows how much sweeter money seems when acquired by one’s own exertions. Five-pound notes have come thick and fast since then, but I doubt if any gave the actress so much pleasure as Mr. Beerbohm Tree’s first recognition of her talent.

How proud the girl must have felt with that five-pound note, because anyone who has ever earned even a smaller amount knows how much better money feels when it's made through your own effort. Since then, five-pound notes have come in abundance, but I doubt any brought the actress as much joy as Mr. Beerbohm Tree’s first acknowledgment of her talent.

Thus it really was quite by accident Miss Terriss entered on a theatrical career. Her father, knowing the hard work and many disappointments attendant on stage life, had not wished his daughter to follow his own calling. But talent will out. It waits its[Pg 64] opportunity, and then, like love, asserts itself. The opportunity came in a kindly way; the talent was there, and Miss Terriss was clever and keen enough to take her chance when it came and make the most of it. From that moment she has never been idle, even her holidays have been few and far between.

Thus, it really was quite by accident that Miss Terriss started her theatrical career. Her father, aware of the hard work and many disappointments that come with stage life, didn't want his daughter to follow in his footsteps. But talent can't be contained. It waits for its[Pg 64] opportunity and then, like love, makes itself known. The opportunity came in a kind way; the talent was there, and Miss Terriss was smart and ambitious enough to seize her chance and make the most of it. Since then, she has never been idle; even her holidays have been few and far between.

Every one in London must have seen Bluebell in Fairyland, which ran nearly a year. Indeed, at one time it was being played ten times a week. Think of it. Ten times a week. To go through the same lines, the same songs, the same dances, to look as if one were enjoying oneself, to enter into the spirit and fun of the representation, was indeed a herculean task, and one which the Vaudeville company successfully carried through. But poor Mrs. Hicks broke down towards the close, and was several times out of the bill.

Everyone in London must have seen Bluebell in Fairyland, which ran for almost a year. At one point, it was being performed ten times a week. Just think about that—ten times a week. Going through the same lines, the same songs, the same dances, all while trying to look like you were enjoying it, and really getting into the spirit and fun of the show was indeed a huge challenge, and one that the Vaudeville company handled successfully. But poor Mrs. Hicks had a breakdown towards the end and missed several performances.

Photo by London Stereoscopic Co., Ltd., Cheapside, E.C.

MR. AND MRS. SEYMOUR HICKS.

Mr. and Mrs. Seymour Hicks.

It is doubtful whether Seymour Hicks will be better known as an actor or an author in the future, for he has worked hard at both professions successfully. He was born at St. Heliers, Jersey, in 1871, and is the eldest son of Major Hicks, of the 42nd Highlanders. His father intended him for the army, but his own taste did not lie in that direction, and when only sixteen and a half he elected to go upon the stage, and five years later was playing a principal light comedy part at the Gaiety Theatre. Like his wife, he has been several times in America, where both have met with success, and when not acting, at which he is almost constantly employed, this energetic man occupies his time by writing plays, of a light and [Pg 65]musical nature, which are usually successful. One of the Best, Under the Clock, The Runaway Girl, Bluebell in Fairyland, and The Cherry Girl have all had long runs.

It’s uncertain whether Seymour Hicks will be remembered more as an actor or an author in the future, as he has excelled in both fields. He was born in St. Heliers, Jersey, in 1871, and is the oldest son of Major Hicks from the 42nd Highlanders. His father planned for him to join the army, but he wasn’t interested in that path. At just sixteen and a half, he chose to pursue acting, and five years later, he landed a leading role in a light comedy at the Gaiety Theatre. Like his wife, he has spent considerable time in America, where both have achieved success. When he’s not acting, which is almost always, this driven individual keeps busy by writing light-hearted plays and musicals, which tend to do well. One of the Best, Under the Clock, The Runaway Girl, Bluebell in Fairyland, and The Cherry Girl have all enjoyed long runs.

When the Hicks find time for a holiday their idea of happiness is an out-of-door existence, with rod or gun for companions. Most of our actors and actresses, whose lives are necessarily so public, love the quiet of the country coupled with plenty of exercise when able to take a change. The theatre is barely closed before they rush off to moor or fen, to yacht or golf—to anything, in fact, that carries them completely away from the glare of the footlights.

When the Hicks get some time off for a holiday, they find happiness in being outdoors, with a fishing rod or a gun as their companions. Most of our actors and actresses, whose lives are so public, enjoy the peace of the countryside along with plenty of exercise when they can take a break. As soon as the theatre wraps up, they quickly head off to the moors or marshes, to yacht or play golf—pretty much anything that completely takes them away from the spotlight.

Another instance of theatrical heredity is Ben Webster, whose talent for acting doubtless comes from his grandfather. Originally young Ben read for the Bar with that eminent and amusing man, Mr. Montagu Williams. It was just at that time that poor Montagu Williams’s throat began to trouble him: later on, when no longer able to plead in court, he was given an appointment as magistrate. I only remember meeting him once—it was at Ramsgate. When walking along the Esplanade one day—I think about the year 1890—I found my father talking to a neat, dapper little gentleman in a fur coat, thickly muffled about the throat. He introduced his friend as Montagu Williams, a name very well known at that time. Alas! the eminent lawyer was hardly able to speak—disease had assailed his throat well-nigh to death, and the last time I saw that wonderful painter and charming man Sir John Everett Millais,[Pg 66] at a private view at the Royal Academy, he was almost as speechless, poor soul.

Another example of theatrical talent running in the family is Ben Webster, whose acting skills clearly come from his grandfather. Young Ben initially studied law with the well-known and witty Mr. Montagu Williams. It was around this time that poor Montagu Williams started having throat issues; later, when he could no longer represent clients in court, he was appointed as a magistrate. I only remember meeting him once—it was in Ramsgate. One day, while walking along the Esplanade—I think it was around 1890—I came across my father talking to a smartly dressed little man in a fur coat, wrapped up tightly around his neck. He introduced his friend as Montagu Williams, a name that was quite famous back then. Sadly, the prominent lawyer could barely speak—illness had ravaged his throat nearly to the point of no return, and the last time I saw that incredible artist and delightful person Sir John Everett Millais,[Pg 66] at a private exhibition at the Royal Academy, he was almost as mute, poor thing.

Well, Montagu Williams was made a magistrate, and young Ben Webster, realising his patron’s influence was to a certain extent gone, and his own chances at the Bar consequently diminished, gladly accepted an offer of Messrs. Hare and Kendal to play a companion part to his sister in the Scrap of Paper, then on tour. He had often acted as an amateur; and earned some little success during his few weeks’ professional engagement, so that when he returned to town and found Montagu Williams removed from active practice at the Bar, he went at once to Mr. Hare and asked for the part of Woodstock in Clancarty. Thus he launched himself upon the stage, although his grandfather had been dead for three years, and so had not directly had anything to do with his getting there.

Well, Montagu Williams became a magistrate, and young Ben Webster, realizing that his patron’s influence was somewhat diminished and his own prospects at the Bar were therefore reduced, happily accepted an offer from Messrs. Hare and Kendal to play a supporting role alongside his sister in the Scrap of Paper, which was currently on tour. He had often performed as an amateur and had enjoyed some success during his brief professional stint, so when he returned to the city and discovered that Montagu Williams had stepped away from active practice at the Bar, he immediately went to Mr. Hare and requested the role of Woodstock in Clancarty. This is how he made his debut on the stage, even though his grandfather had passed away three years earlier and had not directly influenced his ascent.

Old Grandfather Ben seems to have been a very irascible old gentleman, and a decidedly obstinate one. On one occasion his obstinacy saved his life, however, so his medical man stoutly declared.

Old Grandfather Ben seems to have been a very grumpy old guy and pretty stubborn too. One time, his stubbornness actually saved his life, or so his doctor firmly said.

The doctor had given Ben Webster up: he was dying. Chatterton and Churchill were outside the room where he lay, and the medico when leaving told them “old Ben couldn’t last an hour.”

The doctor had given up on Ben Webster: he was dying. Chatterton and Churchill were outside the room where he lay, and the doctor, when leaving, told them, “Old Ben couldn’t last an hour.”

“Ah, dear, dear!” said Chatterton; “poor old Ben going at last,” and he sadly nodded his head as he entered the room.

“Ah, dear, dear!” said Chatterton; “poor old Ben is finally leaving us,” and he sadly nodded his head as he entered the room.

“Blast ye! I’m not dead yet,” roared a voice from the bed, where old Ben was sitting bolt upright. “I’m not going to die to please any of you[Pg 67].”

“Damn it! I’m not dead yet,” shouted a voice from the bed, where old Ben was sitting up straight. “I’m not going to die just to make any of you happy[Pg 67].”

He fell back gasping; but from that moment he began to get better.

He fell back, gasping, but from that moment on, he started to improve.

Another eminent theatrical family, the Sotherns, were born on the stage, so to speak, and took to the profession as naturally as ducks to water, while their contemporaries the Irvings and Boucicaults have done likewise.

Another famous theatrical family, the Sotherns, were born on stage, so to speak, and took to the profession as naturally as ducks take to water, just like their contemporaries the Irvings and Boucicaults.

It must have been towards the end of the seventies that my parents took a house one autumn in Scarborough. We had been to Buxton for my father’s health, and after a driving tour through Derbyshire, finally arrived at our destination. To my joy, Mr. Sothern and his daughter, who was then my schoolfellow in London, soon appeared upon the scene. He had come in consequence of an engagement to play at the Scarborough Theatre in Dundreary and Garrick, and had secured a house near us. Naturally I spent much of my time with my girl friend, and we used often to accompany her father in a boat when he went on his dearly-loved fishing expeditions. Never was there a merrier, more good-natured, pleasanter gentleman than this actor. He was always making fun which we children enjoyed immensely. Practical jokes to him seemed the essence of life, and I vaguely remember incidents which, though amusing to him, rather perturbed my juvenile mind. At the time I had been very little to theatres, but as he had a box reserved every night, I was allowed now and then to go and gaze in wild admiration at Garrick and Dundreary.

It must have been toward the end of the seventies when my parents rented a house one autumn in Scarborough. We had gone to Buxton for my father’s health, and after a drive through Derbyshire, we finally reached our destination. To my delight, Mr. Sothern and his daughter, who was my school friend in London, soon showed up. He had come because he was booked to perform at the Scarborough Theatre in Dundreary and Garrick, and had found a house nearby. Naturally, I spent a lot of time with my girlfriend, and we often joined her father on his beloved fishing trips in a boat. There was never a merrier, kinder, or more pleasant gentleman than this actor. He was always joking, which we kids found hilarious. Practical jokes seemed to him the essence of life, and I vaguely remember some incidents that, while funny to him, left my young mind a bit unsettled. At that time, I hadn’t been to many theatres, but since he had a box reserved every night, I was occasionally allowed to go and watch in awe at Garrick and Dundreary.

One afternoon I went to the Sotherns for a meat[Pg 68] tea before proceeding to the theatre, but the great comedian was not there. “Pops,” for so he was called by his family, had gone out at four o’clock that morning with a fisherman, and still remained absent. The weather had turned rough, and considerable anxiety was felt as to what could have become of him. His eldest son, Lytton, since dead, appeared especially distressed. He had been down to the shore to inquire of the boatmen, but nothing could be heard of his father. We finished our meal—Mr. Sothern’s having been sent down to be kept warm—and although he had not appeared, it was time to go to the theatre. Much perturbed in his mind, Lytton escorted his sister and myself thither, and leaving us in the box, went off once more to inquire if his father had arrived at the stage door; again without success.

One afternoon, I went to the Sotherns' for a meat[Pg 68] tea before heading to the theater, but the great comedian wasn't there. “Pops,” as his family called him, had left at four that morning with a fisherman and hadn't come back. The weather had gotten rough, and everyone was worried about what might have happened to him. His eldest son, Lytton, who has since passed away, looked particularly distressed. He went down to the shore to ask the boatmen, but no one had seen his father. We finished our meal—Mr. Sothern's had been sent down to stay warm—and even though he still hadn't shown up, it was time to go to the theater. Lytton, clearly troubled, took his sister and me there, then left us in the box to check again if his father had arrived at the stage door; once more, he came up empty.

This seemed alarming; the wind was still boisterous and the stage manager in a fright because he knew the only attraction to his audience was the appearance of Edward Sothern as Lord Dundreary. It was the height of the season, and the house was packed. Lytton started off again to the beach, this time in a cab; the stage manager popped his head into our box to inquire if the missing hero had by chance arrived, the orchestra struck up, but still no Mr. Sothern. It was a curious experience. The “gods” became uneasy, the pit began to stamp, the orchestra played louder, and at last, dreading a sudden tumult, the stage manager stepped forward and began to explain that “Mr. Sothern, a devoted fisherman, had gone out at four o’clock that morning; but had[Pg 69] failed to return. As they knew, the weather was somewhat wild, therefore, they could only suppose he had been detained by the storm——”

This was concerning; the wind was still strong and the stage manager was in a panic because he knew the only draw for his audience was Edward Sothern’s performance as Lord Dundreary. It was the peak of the season, and the theater was full. Lytton headed back to the beach, this time in a cab; the stage manager popped his head into our box to ask if the missing star had perhaps arrived, the orchestra started playing, but still no Mr. Sothern. It was a strange situation. The audience in the upper levels grew restless, the front rows began to stomp, the orchestra played louder, and finally, fearing a sudden uproar, the stage manager stepped forward and started to explain that “Mr. Sothern, a dedicated fisherman, had gone out at four o’clock that morning; but had[Pg 69] not returned. As you know, the weather was quite rough, so they could only assume he had been held up by the storm——”

At this juncture an unexpected and dishevelled figure appeared on the scene. The usually spick-and-span, carefully groomed Mr. Sothern, with his white locks dripping wet and hanging like those of a terrier dog over his eyes, hurried up, exclaiming:

At this moment, an unexpected and messy figure showed up. The normally neat and well-groomed Mr. Sothern, with his white hair soaking wet and hanging over his eyes like a terrier's, rushed in, exclaiming:

“I am here, I am here. Will be ready in a minute,” and the weird apparition disappeared through the opposite wing. Immense relief and some amusement kept the audience in good humour, while with almost lightning rapidity the actor changed and the play began.

“I’m here, I’m here. I’ll be ready in a minute,” and the strange figure vanished through the opposite side. A huge sense of relief and a bit of amusement kept the audience in a good mood, while the actor quickly changed and the play started.

In one of the scenes the hero goes to bed and draws the curtain to hide him from the audience. Mr. Sothern went to bed as usual, but when remarks should have been heard proceeding from behind the curtain, no sound was forthcoming. The other player went on with his part; still silence from the bed. The stage manager became alarmed, knowing that Sothern was terribly fatigued and had eaten but little food, he tore a small hole in the canvas which composed the wall of the room, and, peeping through, saw to his horror that the actor was fast asleep. This was an awkward situation. He called him—no response. The poor man on the stage still gagged on gazing anxiously behind him for a response, till at last, getting desperate, the stage manager seized a broom and succeeded in poking Sothern’s ribs with the handle. The actor awoke with a huge yawn, quite[Pg 70] surprised to find himself in bed wearing Dundreary whiskers, which proved a sharp reminder he ought to have been performing antics on the stage.

In one of the scenes, the hero goes to bed and pulls the curtain to hide from the audience. Mr. Sothern went to bed as usual, but when comments were supposed to be heard from behind the curtain, there was only silence. The other actor continued with his lines, still no sound from the bed. The stage manager got worried, knowing that Sothern was extremely tired and hadn’t eaten much, so he tore a small hole in the canvas wall of the room and, peeking through, was horrified to see that the actor was fast asleep. This was an awkward situation. He called to him—no reply. The poor guy on stage kept looking back anxiously for a response until, getting desperate, the stage manager grabbed a broom and managed to poke Sothern's ribs with the handle. The actor woke up with a big yawn, quite surprised to find himself in bed wearing Dundreary whiskers, which reminded him he should have been performing on stage.

Actor and fisherman had experienced a terrible time in their boat. The current was so strong that when they turned to come back they were borne along the coast, and as hour after hour passed poor Sothern realised that not only might he not be able to keep his appointment at the theatre, but was in peril of ever getting back any more. He made all sorts of mental vows never to go out fishing again when he was due to play at night; never to risk being placed in such an awkward predicament, never to do many things; but in spite of this experience, when once safe on land, his ardour was not damped, for he was off fishing again the very next day.

Actor and fisherman had a rough time on their boat. The current was so strong that when they turned to head back, they were swept along the coast. As the hours went by, poor Sothern realized that not only might he miss his appointment at the theater, but he was also in danger of never getting back at all. He made all kinds of mental promises to never go fishing again when he had a performance that night; to avoid putting himself in such a tough spot, and to refrain from many things. But despite this experience, once he was safely back on land, his enthusiasm wasn’t diminished, because he was out fishing again the very next day.

When I went to America in 1900 Mrs. Kendal kindly gave me some introductions, and one among others to Mr. Frohman. His is a name to conjure with in theatrical circles on that side of the Atlantic, and is becoming so on this side, for he controls a vast theatrical trust which either makes or mars stage careers.

When I went to America in 1900, Mrs. Kendal generously gave me some introductions, including one to Mr. Frohman. His name is well-known in theater circles over there and is becoming recognized here as well, since he runs a major theatrical company that can either make or break acting careers.

I called one morning by appointment at Daly’s Theatre, and as there happened to be no rehearsal in progress all was still except at the box office. I gave my card, and was immediately asked to “step along to Mr. Frohman’s room.”

I called one morning by appointment at Daly’s Theatre, and since there wasn't a rehearsal going on, everything was quiet except for the box office. I handed over my card and was quickly told to “head over to Mr. Frohman’s room.”

Up dark stairs and along dimly lighted passages I followed my conductor, till he flung open the door of a beautiful room, where at a large writing-table[Pg 71] sat Mr. Frohman. He rose and received me most kindly, and was full of questions concerning the Kendals and other mutual friends, when suddenly, to my surprise, I saw a large photograph hanging on the wall, of a Hamlet whose face I seemed to know.

Up dark stairs and along dimly lit hallways, I followed my guide until he swung open the door to a beautiful room, where Mr. Frohman was sitting at a large writing desk[Pg 71]. He stood up and greeted me warmly, asking a bunch of questions about the Kendals and other mutual friends. Then, to my surprise, I noticed a large photograph hanging on the wall of a Hamlet whose face looked familiar.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“Mr. Edward Sothern, the greatest Hamlet in America, the son of the famous Dundreary.”

“Mr. Edward Sothern, the best Hamlet in America, the son of the famous Dundreary.”

“I had the pleasure of playing with that Hamlet many times when I was a little girl,” I remarked; “for although ‘Eddy’ was somewhat older, he used often to come to the nursery in Harley Street to have games with us children when his mother lived a few doors from the house in which I was born.”

“I had the pleasure of playing with that Hamlet many times when I was a kid,” I said; “because even though ‘Eddy’ was a bit older, he often came to the nursery on Harley Street to play games with us kids when his mom lived just a few doors down from the house where I was born.”

Mr. Frohman was interested, and so was I, to hear of the great success of young Edward Sothern, for of course Sam Sothern is well known on the English stage.

Mr. Frohman was interested, and so was I, to hear about the great success of young Edward Sothern, since Sam Sothern is obviously well-known on the English stage.

The sumptuous office of Mr. Frohman is at the back of Daly’s Theatre. It is a difficult matter to gain admittance to that sacred chamber, but preliminaries having been arranged, the attendant who conducts one thither rings a bell to inform the great man that his visitor is about to enter. Mr. Frohman was interesting and affable. He evidently possesses a fine taste, for pieces of ancient armour, old brocade, and the general air of a bric-à-brac shop pervaded his sitting-room.

The lavish office of Mr. Frohman is located at the back of Daly’s Theatre. It's not easy to get access to that special room, but once everything is set up, the attendant who takes you there rings a bell to let the important man know that his visitor is about to come in. Mr. Frohman was engaging and friendly. He clearly has great taste, as his sitting room is filled with pieces of ancient armor, old fabric, and the overall vibe of an antique shop.

“English actors are as successful over here,” he said, “as Americans are in London, and the same may be said of plays, the novelty, I suppose, in each case[Pg 72].”

“English actors are just as successful here,” he said, “as American actors are in London, and the same goes for the plays; it’s probably the novelty in each case[Pg 72].”

The close alliance between England and America is becoming more emphasised every day. Why, in the matter of acting alone we give them our best and they send us their best in return. So much is this the case that most of the people mentioned in these pages are as well known in New York as in London; for instance, Sir Henry Irving, Miss Ellen Terry, Mr. and Mrs. Kendal, Mr. Weedon Grossmith, Mr. E. S. Willard, Miss Fay Davis, Madame Sarah Bernhardt, Miss Winifred Emery, Mr. Cyril Maude, Miss Ellaline Terriss, Mr. Seymour Hicks, Mr. and Mrs. Beerbohm Tree, Mr. W. S. Gilbert, Mr. Anthony Hope, Mr. A. W. Pinero, and a host of others. Sir Henry Irving has gone to America, for the eighth time during the last twenty years, with his entire company. That company for the production of Dante consists of eighty-two persons, and no fewer than six hundred and seventy-three packages, comprising scenery, dresses, and properties.

The close partnership between England and America is becoming more evident every day. When it comes to performing alone, we give them our best, and they send us their best in return. This is so true that most of the people mentioned in these pages are just as well-known in New York as they are in London. For example, Sir Henry Irving, Miss Ellen Terry, Mr. and Mrs. Kendal, Mr. Weedon Grossmith, Mr. E. S. Willard, Miss Fay Davis, Madame Sarah Bernhardt, Miss Winifred Emery, Mr. Cyril Maude, Miss Ellaline Terriss, Mr. Seymour Hicks, Mr. and Mrs. Beerbohm Tree, Mr. W. S. Gilbert, Mr. Anthony Hope, Mr. A. W. Pinero, and many others. Sir Henry Irving has gone to America for the eighth time in the last twenty years, this time with his entire company. That company for the production of Dante includes eighty-two people and no fewer than six hundred seventy-three packages, containing scenery, costumes, and props.

“No author should ever try to dramatise his own books: he nearly always fails,” Mr. Frohman added later during our pleasant little chat, after which he took me round his theatre, probably the most celebrated in the United States, for it was built by the famous Daly, and still maintains its position at the head of affairs. On the whole, American theatres are smaller than our own, the entire floor is composed of stalls which only cost 8s. 4d. each, and there is no pit. In the green-room, halls, and passages Mr. Frohman pointed out with evident delight various pictures of Booth as Hamlet, since whose time no one[Pg 73] had been so successful till Edward Sothern junior took up that rôle in 1900. There was also a large portrait of Charlotte Cushman, and several pictures of Irving, Ellen Terry, Jefferson, and others, as well as some photographs of my old friend Mr. Sothern.

“No author should ever try to dramatize their own books; they almost always fail,” Mr. Frohman added later during our enjoyable little chat. After that, he took me around his theater, probably the most famous in the United States, since it was built by the renowned Daly and still holds its top position in the industry. Overall, American theaters are smaller than ours, with the entire floor made up of stalls that only cost 8s. 4d. each, and there is no pit. In the green room, halls, and corridors, Mr. Frohman pointed out with obvious pleasure various pictures of Booth as Hamlet, since no one[Pg 73] had been as successful until Edward Sothern Jr. took on that rôle in 1900. There was also a large portrait of Charlotte Cushman and several pictures of Irving, Ellen Terry, Jefferson, and others, along with some photographs of my old friend Mr. Sothern.

I have quoted the Terrys, Kendals, Ellaline Terriss, Ben Webster, Winifred Emery, and the Sotherns as products of the stage, but there are many more, including Dion and Nina Boucicault, whose parents were a well-known theatrical couple, George and Weedon Grossmith, the sons of an entertainer, and George’s son is also on the stage. Both the Irvings are sons of Sir Henry of that ilk, and so on ad infinitum.

I’ve mentioned the Terrys, Kendals, Ellaline Terriss, Ben Webster, Winifred Emery, and the Sotherns as examples from the stage, but there are many others, including Dion and Nina Boucicault, whose parents were a famous theatrical couple, George and Weedon Grossmith, the sons of an entertainer, and George’s son is also in theater. Both the Irvings are sons of Sir Henry of that name, and so on ad infinitum.

From the above list it will be seen that most of our successful actors and actresses were cradled in the profession. They were “mummers” in the blood, if one may be forgiven the use of such a quaint old word to represent the modern exponents of the drama.

From the list above, you can see that most of our successful actors and actresses grew up in the profession. They were born performers, if one may be excused for using such an old-fashioned term to describe today's representatives of the theater.

[Pg 74]

CHAPTER IV

PLAYS AND PLAYWRIGHTS

Interview with Ibsen—His Look—His Home—Plays Without Storylines—His Writing Desk—His Talismans—Old at Seventy—A True Tragedy and Comedy—Ibsen’s First Book—Winter in Norway—A Conclusion—Arthur Wing Pinero—Trained for Law—As a Caricaturist—An Enjoyable Luncheon—How Pinero Writes His Plays—A Dedicated Worker—Opening Night of Letty.

PROBABLY the man who has had the most far-reaching influence on modern drama is Henrik Ibsen. Half the dramatic world of Europe admire his work as warmly as the other half deplore it.

PROBABLY the person who has had the most significant impact on modern drama is Henrik Ibsen. Half of the theatrical world in Europe appreciates his work as passionately as the other half criticizes it.

Ibsen has a strange personality. The Norwegian is not tall, on the contrary, rather short and thick-set—one might almost say stout—in build, broad-shouldered, and with a stooping gait. His head is splendid, the long white hair is a glistening mass of tangled locks. He has an unusually high forehead, and in true Norse fashion wears his plentiful hair brushed straight back, so that, being long, it forms a complete frame for the face. He has whiskers, which, meeting in the middle, beneath his chin, leave the chin and mouth bare. Under the upper lip one sees by the indentation the decision of the mouth,[Pg 75] and the determination of those thin lips, which through age are slightly drawn to one side. He has a pleasant smile when talking; but in repose the mouth is so firmly set that the upper lip almost disappears.

Ibsen has a unique personality. The Norwegian isn’t tall; rather, he’s quite short and stocky—almost stout—broad-shouldered with a slight stoop. His head is impressive, topped with a mass of long, white hair that's a bit tangled. He has a notably high forehead and, in classic Norse style, wears his thick hair slicked straight back, framing his face. He sports whiskers that meet beneath his chin, leaving his chin and mouth exposed. The indentation under his upper lip shows the firmness of his mouth and the determination of his thin lips, which have slightly drawn to one side with age. He smiles pleasantly while speaking, but when at rest, his mouth is set so tightly that his upper lip nearly vanishes.[Pg 75]

The great dramatist has lived for many years in Christiania, and it was in that town, on a cold snowy morning in 1895 I first met him. The streets were completely buried in snow; even the tram-lines, despite all the care bestowed upon them, were embedded six or seven inches below the surface of the frozen mass. It can be very cold during winter in Christiania, and frost-bite is not unknown, for the thermometer runs down many degrees below zero. That is the time to see Norway. Then everything is at its best. The sky clear, the sun shining—all Nature bright, crisp, and beautiful. Icicles many feet long hung like a sparkling fringe in the sunlight as I walked—or rather stumbled—over the snow to the Victorian Terrasse to see the celebrated man. Tall posts leaning from the street gutters to the houses reminded pedestrians that deep snow from the roofs might fall upon them.

The great playwright had lived in Oslo for many years, and it was in that city, on a chilly snowy morning in 1895, that I first met him. The streets were completely covered in snow; even the tram tracks, despite all the attention given to them, were buried six or seven inches beneath the surface of the frozen layer. Winters in Oslo can be very cold, and frostbite isn’t uncommon, as temperatures often drop far below zero. That’s the perfect time to see Norway. Everything is at its best then. The sky is clear, the sun is shining—all of nature is bright, crisp, and beautiful. Icicles stretching for feet hung like a sparkling fringe in the sunlight as I walked—or rather stumbled—over the snow to the Victorian Terrasse to see the famous man. Tall poles leaning from the street gutters to the houses served as a warning to pedestrians that heavy snow from the roofs might fall on them.

The name of Dr. Henrik Ibsen was written in golden letters at the entrance to the house, with the further information that he lived on the first floor. There was nothing grand about his home, just an ordinary Norwegian flat, containing eight or ten good rooms; and yet Ibsen is a rich man. His books have been translated into every tongue, his plays performed on every stage. His work has undoubtedly revolutionised the drama. He started the idea of a[Pg 76] play without plot, a character-sketch in fact, a psychological study, and introduced the “no-ending” system. Much he left to the imagination, and the imagination of various nationalities has run in such dissimilar lines that he himself became surprised at the thoughts he was supposed to have suggested.

The name Dr. Henrik Ibsen was displayed in golden letters at the entrance of the house, with a note that he lived on the first floor. There was nothing impressive about his home, just a typical Norwegian apartment with eight or ten decent rooms; yet Ibsen is a wealthy man. His books have been translated into every language, and his plays are performed on every stage. His work has clearly changed the landscape of drama. He introduced the concept of a[Pg 76] play without a plot, essentially a character sketch, a psychological study, and he brought in the “no-ending” approach. He left much to the imagination, and the imaginations of different nationalities have taken such varied paths that he himself was surprised by the ideas he was thought to have inspired.

Brilliant as much of his work undoubtedly is, there is quite as much which is repellent and certainly has not added to the betterment of mankind. His characters are seldom happy, for they too often strive after the impossible.

Brilliant as much of his work undoubtedly is, there's just as much that is off-putting and definitely hasn't contributed to the betterment of humanity. His characters are rarely happy, as they too often chase after the unattainable.

The hall of his home looked bare, the maid was capless and apronless, according to Norwegian fashion, while rows of goloshes stood upon the floor. The girl ushered me along a passage, at the end of which was the great man’s study. He rose, warmly shook me by the hand, and finding I spoke German, at once became affable and communicative. He is of Teutonic descent, and in many ways has inherited German characteristics. When he left Norway in 1864—when, in fact, Norway ceased to be a happy home for him—he wandered to Berlin, Dresden, Paris, and Rome, remaining many years in the Fatherland.

The hall of his home looked empty, the maid was without a cap and apron, as is typical in Norway, while rows of galoshes were lined up on the floor. The girl guided me down a hallway to the great man’s study at the end. He stood up, shook my hand warmly, and when he realized I spoke German, he immediately became friendly and talkative. He has Teutonic roots and has inherited many German traits. After leaving Norway in 1864—when, in fact, Norway stopped being a happy place for him—he traveled to Berlin, Dresden, Paris, and Rome, spending many years in Germany.

“The happiest summer I ever spent in my life was at Berchtesgaden in 1880,” he exclaimed. “But to me Norway is the most lovely country in the world.”

“The happiest summer I ever had in my life was at Berchtesgaden in 1880,” he exclaimed. “But for me, Norway is the most beautiful country in the world.”

DR. HENRIK IBSEN.

Dr. Henrik Ibsen.

Ibsen’s writing-table, which is placed in the window so that the dramatist may look out upon the street, was strewn with letters, all the envelopes of which [Pg 77]had been neatly cut, for he is faddy and tidy almost to the point of old-maidism. He has no secretary, it worries him to dictate, and consequently all communications requiring answers have to be written by the Doctor himself. His calligraphy is the neatest, smallest, roundest imaginable. It is representative of the man. The signature is almost like a schoolboy’s—or rather, like what a schoolboy’s is supposed to be—it is so carefully lettered; the modern schoolboy’s writing is, alas! ruined by copying “lines” for punishment, time which could be more profitably employed learning thought-inspiring verses.

Ibsen’s writing desk, positioned by the window so he can look out at the street, was covered with letters, all of which had their envelopes neatly opened, as he is particular and organized almost to a fault. He has no secretary, finds dictating stressful, and as a result, all correspondence that needs responses has to be written by the Doctor himself. His handwriting is the neatest, smallest, roundest you can imagine. It reflects his character. His signature looks almost like a schoolboy's—or rather, like what a schoolboy's should look like—it’s so carefully crafted; unfortunately, today’s schoolboys have their writing ruined by copying “lines” as punishment, time that could be better spent learning inspiring verses.

On the table beside the inkstand was a small tray. Its contents were extraordinary—some little wooden carved Swiss bears, a diminutive black devil, small cats, dogs, and rabbits made of copper, one of which was playing a violin.

On the table next to the inkstand was a small tray. Its contents were remarkable—some tiny carved wooden Swiss bears, a small black devil, little cats, dogs, and rabbits made of copper, one of which was playing a violin.

“What are those funny little things?” I ventured to ask.

“What are those funny little things?” I dared to ask.

“I never write a single line of any of my dramas unless that tray and its occupants are before me on the table. I could not write without them. It may seem strange—perhaps it is—but I cannot write without them,” he repeated. “Why I use them is my own secret.” And he laughed quietly.

“I never write a single line of any of my plays unless that tray and its contents are right in front of me on the table. I couldn’t write without them. It might sound weird—maybe it is—but I can’t write without them,” he repeated. “Why I use them is my own secret.” And he laughed softly.

Are these little toys, these fetishes, and their strange fascination, the origin of those much-discussed dolls in The Master Builder? Who can tell? They are Ibsen’s secret.

Are these little toys, these fetishes, and their weird charm, the source of those talked-about dolls in The Master Builder? Who knows? They are Ibsen’s mystery.

In manner Henrik Ibsen is quiet and reserved; he speaks slowly and deliberately, so slowly as to[Pg 78] remind one of the late Mr. Bayard, the former American Minister to the Court of St. James, when he was making a speech. Mr. Bayard appeared to pause between each word, and yet the report in the papers the following day read admirably. This slowness may with Ibsen be owing to age, for he was born in 1828 (although in manner and gait he appears at least ten years older), or it may be from shyness, for he is certainly shy. How men vary. Ibsen at seventy seemed an old man; General Diaz, the famous President of Mexico, young at the same age. The one drags his feet and totters along; the other walks briskly with head erect. Ibsen was never a society man in any sense of the word, a mug of beer and a paper at the club being his idea of amusement. Indeed, in Christiania, until 1902, he could be seen any afternoon at the chief hotel employed in this way, for after his dinner at two o’clock he strolled down town past the University to spend a few hours in the fashion which pleased him.

In demeanor, Henrik Ibsen is quiet and reserved; he speaks slowly and thoughtfully, so slowly that it reminds one of the late Mr. Bayard, the former American Minister to the Court of St. James, when he was giving a speech. Mr. Bayard seemed to pause between each word, yet the reports in the papers the next day were excellent. This slowness in Ibsen might be due to age, as he was born in 1828 (though in demeanor and movement he seems at least ten years older), or it could be from shyness, as he is definitely shy. How differently men age. Ibsen at seventy seemed like an old man; General Diaz, the well-known President of Mexico, appeared young at the same age. One drags his feet and shuffles along; the other walks briskly with his head held high. Ibsen was never a socialite in any sense; a mug of beer and a newspaper at the club were his idea of fun. In fact, in Christiania, until 1902, he could be seen most afternoons at the main hotel doing just that, as after his two o’clock dinner, he would stroll downtown past the University to enjoy a few hours in the way that suited him.

Norwegian life is much more simple than ours. The inhabitants dine early and have supper about eight o’clock. Entertainments are hospitable and friendly, but not as a rule costly, and although Ibsen is a rich man, the only hobby on which he appears to have spent much money is pictures. He loves them, and wherever he has wandered his little gallery has always gone with him.

Norwegian life is much simpler than ours. The locals have dinner early and eat supper around eight o'clock. Social gatherings are warm and welcoming, but generally not expensive. Even though Ibsen is wealthy, the only hobby he seems to have invested much money in is collecting paintings. He loves them, and wherever he travels, his little gallery always goes with him.

Ibsen began to earn his own living at the age of sixteen, and for five or six years worked in an apothecary’s shop, amusing himself during the time by[Pg 79] reading curious books and writing weird verses. Only twenty-three copies of his first book were sold, the rest were disposed of as waste paper to buy him food. Those long years of struggle doubtless embittered his life, but relief came when he was made manager of the Bergen Theatre with a salary of £67 a year. For seven years he kept the post, and learnt the stage craft which he later utilised in his dramas.

Ibsen started earning his own living at sixteen, and for about five or six years, he worked in a pharmacy. He kept himself entertained during that time by[Pg 79] reading interesting books and writing strange poetry. Only twenty-three copies of his first book sold; the rest were thrown away as waste paper to buy him food. Those long years of struggle probably made his life miserable, but things improved when he became the manager of the Bergen Theatre with a salary of £67 a year. He held that position for seven years and learned the craft of stage production, which he later used in his plays.

A strange comedy and tragedy was woven into the lives of Ibsen and Björnson. As young men they were great friends; then politics drove them apart; they quarrelled, and never met for years and years. Strange fate brought the children of these two great writers together, and Björnson’s daughter married Ibsen’s only child. The fathers met after years of separation at the wedding of their children.

A bizarre mix of comedy and tragedy shaped the lives of Ibsen and Björnson. They were close friends in their youth, but politics pulled them apart; they argued and didn’t see each other for many years. Ironically, the children of these two great writers ended up together, and Björnson’s daughter married Ibsen’s only child. The fathers reunited after years of being apart at their children’s wedding.

Verily a real comedy and tragedy, woven into the lives of Scandinavia’s two foremost writers of tragedy and comedy.

Truly a real blend of comedy and tragedy, woven into the lives of Scandinavia’s two leading writers of these genres.

I spent part of two winters in Norway, wandering about on snow-shoes (ski) or in sledges, and during various visits to Christiania tried hard to see some plays by Ibsen or Björnson acted; but, strange as it may seem, plays by a certain Mr. Shakespeare were generally in the bill, or else amusing doggerel such as The Private Secretary.

I spent part of two winters in Norway, exploring on snowshoes (skis) or in sleds, and during several trips to Christiania, I really tried to catch some plays by Ibsen or Björnson; but, strangely enough, plays by a certain Mr. Shakespeare were usually on the program, or else entertaining light verse like The Private Secretary.

At last, however, there came a day when Peer Gynt was put on the stage. This play has never been produced in England, and yet it is one of Ibsen’s best, at all events one of his most poetic. The hero is supposed to represent the Norwegian character,[Pg 80] vacillating, amusing, weak, bound by superstition, and lacking worldly balance. The author told me he himself thought it was his best work, though The Master Builder gave him individually most satisfaction.

At last, though, there came a day when Peer Gynt was performed on stage. This play has never been produced in England, yet it's one of Ibsen’s best, certainly one of his most poetic. The main character is meant to represent the Norwegian personality, [Pg 80] indecisive, entertaining, weak, bound by superstition, and lacking practical judgment. The author told me he personally believed it was his best work, although The Master Builder brought him the most personal satisfaction.

In 1898 Ibsen declared, “My life seems to me to have slipped by like one long, long, quiet week”; adding that “all who claimed him as a teacher had been wrong—all he had done or tried to do was faithfully, closely, objectively to paint human nature as he saw it, leaving deductions and dogmatism to others.” He declared he had never posed as a reformer or as a philosopher; all he had attempted was to try and work out that vein of poetry which had been born in him. “Poetry has served me as a bath, from which I have emerged cleaner, healthier, freer.” Thus spoke of himself the man who practically revolutionised modern drama.

In 1898, Ibsen stated, “My life feels like it has passed by as one long, quiet week,” adding that “anyone who viewed him as a teacher was mistaken—everything he did or tried to do was just a faithful, accurate, and objective portrayal of human nature as he saw it, leaving conclusions and dogma to others.” He asserted he had never positioned himself as a reformer or philosopher; all he tried to do was explore the poetic instincts that resided within him. “Poetry has been like a cleansing bath for me, from which I have come out feeling cleaner, healthier, and freer.” Thus spoke the man who nearly transformed modern drama.

In the early days of the twentieth century Ibsen finished his life’s work—he relinquished penmanship. The celebrity he had attained failed to interest him, just as attack and criticism had failed to arouse him in earlier years. His social and symbolical dramas done, his work in dramatic reform ended, he folded his hands to await the epilogue of life. It is a pathetic picture. He who had done so much, aroused such enthusiasm and hatred, himself played out—he whose works had been read in every Quarter of the globe, living in quiet obscurity, waiting for that end which comes to all.

In the early days of the twentieth century, Ibsen completed his life's work—he put down his pen for good. The fame he had achieved didn't interest him, just like the attacks and criticism hadn't affected him in the past. With his social and symbolic dramas finished and his dramatic reform efforts completed, he sat back to wait for the end of his life. It's a sad image. He, who had accomplished so much and sparked such strong feelings, had faded away—he, whose works had been read all over the world, now living in quiet obscurity, waiting for the inevitable end that comes to everyone.

It is a proud position to stand at the head of English dramatists; a position many critics allot to Arthur[Pg 81] Wing Pinero. The Continent has also paid him the compliment of echoing that verdict by translating and producing many of his plays: and if in spite of translation they survive the ordeal of different interpretations and strange surroundings, may it not be taken as proof that they soar above the ordinary drama?

It’s a proud achievement to be recognized as a leading figure among English playwrights, a title that many critics give to Arthur[Pg 81] Wing Pinero. The Continent has also acknowledged this by translating and staging many of his plays. If his work can withstand the challenges of translation, diverse interpretations, and unfamiliar settings, isn’t that a sign that his plays stand apart from typical dramas?

About the year 1882 Mr. Pinero relinquished acting as a profession—like Ibsen, it was in the theatre he learnt his stage craft—and devoted himself to writing plays instead. Since that period he has steadily and surely climbed the rungs of that fickle ladder “Public Opinion” and planted his banner on the top.

About 1882, Mr. Pinero gave up acting as a profession—like Ibsen, he learned his craft in the theater—and focused on writing plays instead. Since then, he has consistently and surely risen through the unpredictable ranks of “Public Opinion” and planted his banner at the top.

Look at him. See the strength of the man’s mind in his face. Those great shaggy eyebrows and deep-set, dark, penetrating eyes, that round bald head, within which the brain is apparently too busy to allow anything outside to grow. Though still young he is bald, so bald that his head looks as if it had been shaven for the priesthood. The long thin lips and firm mouth denote strength of purpose, which, coupled with genius make the man. Under that assumed air of self-possession there is a merry mind. His feelings are well under control—part of the actor’s art—but he is human to the core. Pinero is no ordinary person, his face with its somewhat heavy jaw is full of thought and strength. He has a vast fund of imagination, is a keen student of human nature, and above all possesses the infinite capacity for taking pains, no details being too small for him. He and Mr. W. S. Gilbert will,[Pg 82] at rehearsals, go over a scene again and again. They never get angry, even under the most trying circumstances; but politely and quietly show every movement, every gesture, give every intonation of the voice, and in an amiable way suggest:

Look at him. You can see the strength of his mind in his face. Those thick, bushy eyebrows and deep, dark, penetrating eyes, that round bald head, seem too busy to let anything grow outside. Even though he’s still young, he’s bald—so bald that his head looks like it’s been shaved for the priesthood. The long, thin lips and firm mouth show strength of purpose, which, along with his genius, defines him. Beneath that confident exterior, there’s a playful mind. His feelings are well controlled—part of the actor's craft—but he’s truly human at heart. Pinero is no ordinary person; his face, with its somewhat heavy jaw, reflects thought and strength. He has a vast imagination, is a keen observer of human nature, and above all, has an incredible capacity for diligence, with no detail being too small for him. He and Mr. W. S. Gilbert will,[Pg 82] during rehearsals, go over a scene repeatedly. They never get angry, even in the most challenging situations; instead, they calmly and quietly demonstrate every movement, every gesture, and every intonation of the voice, suggesting in a friendly manner:

“Don’t you think that so and so might be an improvement?”

“Don’t you think that so-and-so could be an upgrade?”

They always get what they want, and no plays were ever more successful or better staged.

They always get what they want, and no performances have ever been more successful or better produced.

Mr. Pinero believes in one-part dramas, and women evidently fascinate him. Think of Mrs. Tanqueray and Mrs. Ebbsmith, for instance, both are women’s plays; in both are his best work. He is always individual; individual in his style, and individual in the working out of his characters. During the whole of one August Mr. Pinero remained in his home near Hanover Square finishing a comedy of which he superintended rehearsals in the September following. He must be alone when he works, and apparently barred windows and doors, and a charwoman and her cat, when all London is out of town, give him inspiration.

Mr. Pinero believes in one-act plays, and he’s clearly fascinated by women. Take Mrs. Tanqueray and Mrs. Ebbsmith, for example; both are centered around women and showcase his best work. He has a unique style and brings individuality to his characters. Throughout one August, Mr. Pinero stayed at his home near Hanover Square, finishing a comedy that he oversaw rehearsals for the following September. He needs to be alone when he works, and it seems that locked windows, doors, a cleaner, and her cat, while all of London is away, provide him with inspiration.

London is particularly proud of Arthur Pinero, who was born amid her bustle in 1855. The only son of a solicitor in the City, he was originally intended for the law, but when nineteen he went upon the stage, where he remained for about seven years. One can only presume, however, that he did not like it, or he would not so quickly have turned his attention to other matters. Those who remember his stage life declare he showed great promise as a[Pg 83] young actor. But be this as it may, it is a good thing he turned his back upon that branch of the profession and adopted the rôle of a dramatist, for therein he has excelled. Among his successful plays are The Magistrate, Dandy Dick, Sweet Lavender, The Cabinet Minister, The Second Mrs. Tanqueray, The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith, Trelawny of the Wells, The Gay Lord Quex, and Iris.

London is especially proud of Arthur Pinero, who was born amidst its hustle and bustle in 1855. The only son of a solicitor in the City, he was originally meant to follow a career in law, but at nineteen he took to the stage, where he stayed for about seven years. However, it's easy to guess that he wasn’t satisfied, or he wouldn't have quickly shifted his focus to other pursuits. Those who remember his time as an actor say he showed a lot of potential as a[Pg 83] young performer. But regardless of that, it turned out to be a good thing he moved away from acting and embraced the role of a playwright, as he has truly thrived in that area. Among his successful plays are The Magistrate, Dandy Dick, Sweet Lavender, The Cabinet Minister, The Second Mrs. Tanqueray, The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith, Trelawny of the Wells, The Gay Lord Quex, and Iris.

Among other attributes not usually known, Mr. Pinero is an excellent draughtsman, and can make a remarkable caricature of himself in a few moments. His is a strong and striking head which lends itself to caricature, and he is one of those people who, while poking fun at others, does not mind poking fun at himself.

Among other traits that aren’t commonly recognized, Mr. Pinero is a fantastic sketch artist and can create a remarkable caricature of himself in just a few moments. He has a strong and distinctive face that's perfect for caricature, and he’s the kind of person who, while making jokes about others, doesn’t mind making jokes about himself.

When asked to what he attributed his success, Mr. Pinero replied:

When asked what he believed contributed to his success, Mr. Pinero replied:

“Such success as I have obtained I attribute to small powers of observation and great patience and perseverance.”

“Any success I've achieved, I owe to my keen observation skills and a lot of patience and determination.”

His work is always up-to-date, for Mr. Pinero is modern to his finger-tips.

His work is always current, as Mr. Pinero is modern to the core.

How delightful it is to see people who have worked together for years remaining staunch friends. One Sunday I was invited to a luncheon the Pineros gave at Claridge’s. The room was marked “Private” for the occasion, and there the hospitable couple received twenty guests, while beyond was a large dining-room, to which we afterwards adjourned. That amusing actor and charming man, John Hare, with whom Pinero has been associated for many years,[Pg 84] was present; Miss Irene Vanbrugh, his Sophy Fullgarney in the Gay Lord Quex, and Letty, in the play of that name, that dainty and fascinating American actress, Miss Fay Davis, and Mr. Dion Boucicault. There they were, all these people who had worked so long together, and were still such good friends as to form a merry, happy little family party.

How wonderful it is to see people who have worked together for years staying such good friends. One Sunday, I was invited to a lunch the Pineros hosted at Claridge’s. The room was marked “Private” for the occasion, and there the gracious couple welcomed twenty guests, before we moved to a larger dining room afterward. The funny actor and charming guy, John Hare, who has been associated with Pinero for many years,[Pg 84] was there; Miss Irene Vanbrugh, his Sophy Fullgarney in the Gay Lord Quex, Letty from the same play, the graceful and captivating American actress, Miss Fay Davis, and Mr. Dion Boucicault. There they all were, those who had worked together for so long, still such good friends that they made a cheerful, happy little family gathering.

Gillette, the American hero of the hour, was also present, and charming indeed he proved to be; but he was an outsider, so to speak, for most of the party had acted in Pinero’s plays, and that was what seemed so wonderful; because just as a secretary sees the worst side of his employer’s character, the irritability, the moments of anxious thought and worry, so the actor generally finds out the angles and corners of a dramatist. Only those who live in the profession can realise what such a meeting as that party at Claridge’s really meant, what a fund of good temper it proclaimed, what strength of character it represented, what forbearance on all sides it proved.

Gillette, the American hero of the moment, was also there, and he turned out to be quite charming; however, he was somewhat of an outsider, as most of the guests had performed in Pinero’s plays, which was what made the gathering so remarkable. Just like a secretary sees the less flattering traits of their boss—the irritability and moments of worry—the actor typically discovers the nuances and complexities of a playwright. Only those who work in the industry can truly appreciate what an event like that party at Claridge’s really meant: the level of good humor it showcased, the strength of character it represented, and the patience displayed by everyone involved.

That party was representative of friendship, which, like health, is seldom valued until lost.

That party was a symbol of friendship, which, like health, is rarely appreciated until it's gone.

Photo by Langfier, 23a, Old Bond Street, London, W.

MR. ARTHUR W. PINERO.

Mr. Arthur W. Pinero.

There are as many ways of writing a play as there are of trimming a hat. Some people, probably most people, begin at the end, that is to say, they evolve some grand climax in their minds and work backwards, or they get hold of the chief situations as a nucleus, from which they work out the whole. Some writers let the play write itself, that is to say, they [Pg 85]start with some sort of idea which develops as they go on, but the most satisfactory mode appears to be for the writer to decide everything even to the minutest detail, and then sketch out each situation. In a word, he ought to know exactly what he means to do before putting pen to paper.

There are as many ways to write a play as there are to trim a hat. Some people, probably most, start with the end in mind, meaning they think of a big climax first and work backward, or they focus on key situations as a core from which they develop the entire play. Some writers let the play unfold on its own, starting with a basic idea that grows as they write, but the most effective approach seems to be for the writer to plan everything, even the smallest details, and then outline each situation. In short, they should know exactly what they want to achieve before putting pen to paper.

The plots of Mr. Pinero’s plays are all conceived and born in movement. He walks up and down the room. He strolls round Regent’s Park, or bicycles further afield, but the dramas are always evolved while his limbs are in action, mere exercise seeming to inspire him with ideas.

The plots of Mr. Pinero’s plays are all created and developed through movement. He paces around the room. He takes walks in Regent’s Park, or rides his bike further away, but the dramas always come to life while he’s on the move, as if just exercising sparks his creativity.

It is long before he actually settles down to write his play. He thinks and ponders, plans and arranges, makes and remakes his plots, and never puts pen to paper until he has thoroughly realised, not only his characters, but the very scenes amid which these characters are to move and have their being.

It takes him a long time to finally sit down and write his play. He thinks and reflects, plans and organizes, creates and recreates his plots, and doesn’t put pen to paper until he has fully developed not just his characters, but also the very scenes where these characters will live and interact.

He knows every room in which they are to enact their parts, he sees in his mind’s eye every one of his personalities, he dresses them according to his own individual taste, and so careful is he of the minutest details that he draws a little plan of the stage for each act, on which he notifies the position of every chair, and with this before him he moves his characters in his mind’s eye as the scene progresses. His play is finished before it is begun, that is to say, before a line of it is really written.

He knows every room where they’ll perform their roles, he envisions each of his characters, he outfits them based on his personal style, and he pays such close attention to the smallest details that he sketches a layout of the stage for each act, marking the placement of every chair. With this in front of him, he mentally moves his characters as the scene unfolds. His play is complete before it even starts, meaning before a single line is actually written.

His mastery of stage craft is so great that he can definitely arrange every position for the actor, every gesture, every movement, and thus is able to give[Pg 86] those minute details of stage direction which are so well known in his printed plays.

His skill in stagecraft is so impressive that he can clearly position every actor, every gesture, every movement, and therefore provide[Pg 86] the fine details of stage direction that are well recognized in his published plays.

In his early days he wrote Two Hundred a Year in an afternoon; Dandy Dick occupied him three weeks; but as time went on and he became more critical of his own work, he spent fifteen months in completing The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith, nine months over The Second Mrs. Tanqueray, and six months over The Gay Lord Quex, helped in the latter drama, as he said, “by the invigorating influence of his bicycle.”

In his early days, he wrote Two Hundred a Year in an afternoon; Dandy Dick took him three weeks; but as time passed and he became more critical of his own work, he took fifteen months to finish The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith, nine months on The Second Mrs. Tanqueray, and six months on The Gay Lord Quex, aided in the latter play, as he said, “by the refreshing influence of his bicycle.”

He is one of the most painstaking men alive, and over Letty he spent two years.

He is one of the most meticulous men alive, and he spent two years on Letty.

“I think I have done a good day’s work if I can finish a single speech right,” he remarked, and that sums up the whole situation.

“I think I’ve done a good day’s work if I can finish a single speech correctly,” he said, and that captures the whole situation.

Each morning he sees his secretary from eleven to twelve, dictates his letters, and arranges his business; takes a walk or a ride till luncheon, after which he enjoys a pipe and a book, and in the afternoon lies down for a couple of hours’ quiet.

Each morning he meets with his secretary from eleven to twelve, dictates his letters, and organizes his work; takes a walk or a ride until lunch, after which he enjoys a smoke and a book, and in the afternoon he relaxes for a couple of hours.

When he is writing a play he never dines out, but after his afternoon rest enjoys a good tea (is it a high tea?), shuts the baize doors of that delightful study overlooking Hanover Square, and works until quite late, when he partakes of a light supper.

When he’s writing a play, he never goes out for dinner, but after his afternoon nap, he enjoys a nice tea (is it a high tea?), closes the green doors of that lovely study overlooking Hanover Square, and works until pretty late, when he has a light supper.

No one dare disturb him during those precious hours, when he smokes incessantly, walks about continually, and rarely puts a line on paper until he feels absolutely certain he has phrased that line as he wishes it to remain.

No one dares to disturb him during those precious hours when he smokes nonstop, paces around continuously, and hardly writes anything down until he is completely sure he has worded it exactly as he wants it to stay.

Pinero’s writing-table is as tidy as Ibsen’s; but[Pg 87] while Ibsen’s study is small and simply furnished, Pinero’s is large, contains handsome furniture, interesting books, sumptuous Éditions de luxe, charming sketches, portraits, caricatures, handsome carpets, and breathes an air of the owner’s luxurious taste.

Pinero’s writing desk is just as organized as Ibsen’s; but[Pg 87] while Ibsen’s study is small and minimalistic, Pinero’s is spacious, filled with elegant furniture, interesting books, lavish Éditions de luxe, delightful sketches, portraits, caricatures, beautiful rugs, and has an atmosphere that reflects the owner’s luxurious taste.

Like his writing-table, his orthography is a model of neatness. When he has completed an act he carefully copies it himself in a handwriting worthy of any clerk, and sends it off at once to the printers. But few revisions are made in the proof, so sure is the dramatist when he has perfected his scheme.

Like his writing desk, his spelling is a great example of neatness. When he finishes a draft, he carefully writes it out himself in handwriting that would impress any secretary, and sends it off immediately to the printers. However, few changes are made in the proofs, as the playwright is very confident once he has finalized his plan.

Mr. Pinero keeps a sort of “day-book,” in which he jots down characters, speeches, and plots likely to prove of use in his work. It is much the same sort of day-book as that kept by Mr. Frankfort Moore, the novelist, who has the nucleus of a hundred novels ever in his waistcoat pocket.

Mr. Pinero keeps a kind of “day-book” where he notes down characters, dialogues, and plots that might be useful for his work. It’s quite similar to the day-book kept by Mr. Frankfort Moore, the novelist, who always has the basis for a hundred novels tucked in his waistcoat pocket.

Formerly men jotted down notes on their shirt-cuffs, from which the laundress learned the wicked ways of society. The figures now covering wristbands are merely the winnings or losings at Bridge.

Formerly, guys made notes on their shirt cuffs, from which the laundress learned about the questionable behavior of society. The designs now on wristbands are just scores from Bridge games.

The dramatist loves ease and luxury, and his plays represent such surroundings.

The playwright enjoys comfort and luxury, and his plays reflect those settings.

“Wealth and leisure,” he remarked, “are more productive of dramatic complications than poverty and hard work. My characters force me in spite of myself to lift them up in the world. The lower classes do not analyse or meditate, do not give utterance either to their thoughts or their emotions, and yet it is easier to get a low life part well played than one of high society[Pg 88].”

“Wealth and leisure,” he said, “lead to more dramatic conflicts than poverty and hard work. My characters push me, despite my intentions, to elevate them in society. The lower classes don’t analyze or reflect, and they don’t express their thoughts or feelings, yet it's easier to portray a lower-class character well than one from high society[Pg 88].”

Mr. Pinero is a delightful companion and he has the keenest sense of humour. He tells a good story in a truly dramatic way, and his greatest characteristic is his simple modesty. He never boasts, never talks big; but is always a genial, kindly, English gentleman. He rarely enters a theatre; in fact, he could count on his fingers the times he has done so during the last twenty years. Life is his stage, men and women its characters, his surroundings the scenes. He does not wish a State theatre, and thinks Irving has done more for the stage than any man in any time. He has the greatest love for his old master, and considers Irving’s Hamlet the “most intelligent performance of the age.” He waxes warm on the subject of Irving’s “magnetic touch,” which influences all that great actor’s work. Pinero’s love for, and belief in, the powers of the stage for good or ill are deep-seated, and each year finds him more given to careful psychological study, the only drawback to which is the fear that in over-elaboration freshness somewhat vanishes. Ibsen always took two years over a play, and Pinero seems to be acquiring the same habit.

Mr. Pinero is a wonderful companion with a sharp sense of humor. He tells a good story in a truly dramatic way, and his greatest trait is his genuine modesty. He never brags or talks big; he’s always a friendly, kind English gentleman. He rarely goes to the theater; in fact, he could count on his fingers the number of times he’s done so in the last twenty years. Life is his stage, people are its characters, and his surroundings are the scenes. He doesn’t want a State theater and believes Irving has contributed more to the stage than anyone at any time. He has a deep admiration for his old mentor and thinks Irving’s Hamlet is the “most intelligent performance of the age.” He gets passionate when discussing Irving’s “magnetic touch,” which influences all of that great actor’s work. Pinero’s love for and belief in the stage’s power, for better or worse, run deep, and each year he seems more focused on careful psychological study, the only downside being the fear that overthinking might dull the freshness. Ibsen always took two years to write a play, and Pinero seems to be picking up the same habit.

A Pinero first night is looked upon as a great theatrical event, and rightly so. It was on a wet October evening (1903) that the long-anticipated Letty saw the light.

A Pinero opening night is seen as a significant theatrical event, and for good reason. It was on a rainy October evening in 1903 that the much-awaited Letty debuted.

Opposite is the programme.

The program is on the opposite side.

[Pg 89]

Duke of York’s Theatre,
St. Martin's Lane, WC
Proprietors		Mr. & Mrs. Frank Wyatt.
Sole Lessee and Manager		CHARLES FROHMAN.

EVERY EVENING at a Quarter to Eight
CHARLES FROHMAN
Presents
A Drama, in Four Acts and an Epilogue, entitled

By ARTHUR W. PINERO.
Nevill Letchmere		Mr. H.B. Irving
Ivor Crosbie		Mr. Ivo Dawson
Coppinger Drake		Mr. Dorrington Grimston
Bernard Mandeville		Mr. Fred Kerr
Richard Perry		Mr. Dion Boucicault
Neale		(A Commercial Traveller)Mr. Charles Troode
Ordish		(Agent for an Insurance Company)Mr. Jerrold Robertshaw
Rugg		(Mr. Letchmere’s Servant) Mr. Clayton Greene
Frédéric		(A Maître d’Hôtel) M. Edouard Garceau
Waiters		Mr. W. H. Haigh & Mr. Walter Hack
Mrs. Ivor Crosbie		Miss Sarah Brooke
Letty Shell	}	Clerks at	}	Miss Irene Vanbrugh
Marion Allardyce		Dugdale’s		Miss Beatrice Forbes-Robertson
Hilda Gunning	{"response":""}	An Assistant at Madame	}	Miss Nancy Price
		Watkins’s
A Lady’s-maid		Miss May Onslow

The setting is London: the First and Fourth Acts take place at Mr. Letchmere’s flat on Grafton Street, New Bond Street; the Second Act is set in a house on Langham Street; the Third Act unfolds in a private room at the Café Régence; and the Epilogue occurs at a photographer’s studio on Baker Street. The events of the four acts of the drama begin on a Saturday in June and happen over just a few hours. Between the Fourth Act and the Epilogue, two years and six months are assumed to pass.
THE PLAY PRODUCED UNDER THE PERSONAL DIRECTION OF THE AUTHOR.
The Scenery Painted by Mr. W. Hann.
FIRST MATINÉE SATURDAY, OCTOBER 17th, at 2 PM.
General Manager		(for Charles Frohman)	W. LESTOCQ.

[Pg 90]

For once the famous dramatist descended from dukes and duchesses to a typewriter girl and a Bond Street swell. For once he left those high-class folk he finds so full of interest, moods, whims, ideas, self-analysis, and the rest of it, and cajoled a lower stratum of life to his pen.

For once, the famous playwright came down from the world of dukes and duchesses to write about a typist and a trendy guy from Bond Street. For once, he stepped away from the high-class people he usually finds so fascinating—full of interest, moods, whims, ideas, self-reflection, and all that—and turned his attention to a different slice of life.

Almost the first actor to appear was H. B. Irving—what a reception he received, and, brilliant cynic-actor though he be, his nervousness overpowered him to the point of ashen paleness and unrestrained twitching of the fingers. His methods, his tact, his cynicism were wonderful, and as Nevill Letchmere his resemblance to his father was remarkable.

Almost the first actor to appear was H. B. Irving—what a reception he got, and, brilliant cynic-actor though he is, his nervousness overwhelmed him to the point of ashen paleness and uncontrollable twitching of the fingers. His techniques, his charm, his cynicism were incredible, and as Nevill Letchmere, his resemblance to his father was striking.

What strikes one most in a Pinero play is the harmony of the whole. Every character is a living being. One remembers them all. The limelight is turned on each in turn, and not as at so many theatres on the actor-manager only. The play is a complete picture—not a frame with the actor-manager as the dominant person. He is so often the only figure on the canvas, his colleagues mere side-show puppets, that it is a real joy to see a play in England where every one is given a chance. Mr. Pinero does that. He not only creates living breathing studies of humanity, but he sees that they are played in a lifelike way. What is the result? A perfect whole. A fine piece of mosaic work well fitted together. We may not altogether care for the design or the colour, but we all admire its aims, its completeness, and feel the touch of genius that permeates the whole.

What stands out the most in a Pinero play is the overall harmony. Every character feels real, and you remember them all. The spotlight is shared among them, not just focused on the actor-manager like in many theaters. The play feels complete—not just a frame with the actor-manager as the main focus. Often, he's the only one featured, while his colleagues play minor roles. So it's truly refreshing to see a play in England where everyone gets a chance. Mr. Pinero accomplishes that. He creates living, breathing portrayals of humanity, and makes sure they're acted out authentically. What’s the outcome? A perfect whole. A beautiful piece of mosaic art that fits together well. We might not fully appreciate the design or the colors, but we all admire its intentions, its wholeness, and recognize the touch of genius that runs throughout.

[Pg 91]

No more discriminating audience than that at the first night of Letty could possibly have been brought together. Every critic of worth was there. William Archer sat in the stalls immediately behind me, W. L. Courtney and Malcolm Watson beyond, J. Knight, A. B. Walkley, and A. E. T. Watson near by. Actors and actresses, artists, writers, men and women of note in every walk of life were there, and the enthusiasm was intense. Mr. Pinero was not in the house, no call of “author” brought him before the footlights, but his handsome wife—a prey to nervousness—was hidden behind the curtains in the stage box.

No audience could have been more discerning than the one at the opening night of Letty. Every notable critic was present. William Archer sat right behind me, with W. L. Courtney and Malcolm Watson further along, and J. Knight, A. B. Walkley, and A. E. T. Watson nearby. Actors and actresses, artists, writers, and prominent figures from all walks of life filled the seats, and the excitement was palpable. Mr. Pinero wasn’t in attendance, and no call of “author” brought him to the front, but his attractive wife—clearly nervous—was hidden behind the curtains in the stage box.

[Pg 92]

CHAPTER V

THE ARMY AND THE STAGE

Captain Robert Marshall—From Soldier to Stage—£10 for a Play—How Copyright is Maintained—I. Zangwill as an Actor—Copyright Performances—Three Initial Plays (Pinero, Grundy, Sims)—Cyril Maude at the Opera—Mice and Men—Sir Francis Burnand, Punch, Sir John Tenniel, and a Cartoon—Brandon Thomas and Charley’s Aunt—How That Play Was Written—The Gaekwar of Baroda—Changes in London—Frederick Fenn at Clement’s Inn—James Welch on Audiences.

ONE of our youngest dramatists, for it was only in 1897 that Captain Robert Marshall’s first important play appeared, has suddenly leapt into the front rank. His earlier days were in no way connected with the stage.

ONE of our youngest playwrights, as it was only in 1897 that Captain Robert Marshall’s first major play debuted, has quickly risen to the top. His earlier experiences had nothing to do with the theater.

It is not often a man can earn an income in two different professions; such success is unusual. True, Earl Roberts is a soldier and a writer; Forbes Robertson, Weedon Grossmith, and Bernard Partridge are actors as well as artists; Lumsden Propert, the author of the best book on miniatures, was a doctor by profession; Edmund Gosse and Edward Clodd have other occupations besides literature. Although known as a writer, W. S. Gilbert could earn an income at the Bar or in Art;[Pg 93] A. W. Pinero is no mean draughtsman; Miss Gertrude Kingston writes and illustrates as well as acts; and Harry Furniss has shown us he is as clever with his pen as with his brush in his Confessions of a Caricaturist. Still, it is unusual for any one to succeed in two ways.

It’s not often that someone can make a living in two different professions; that kind of success is rare. True, Earl Roberts is both a soldier and a writer; Forbes Robertson, Weedon Grossmith, and Bernard Partridge are actors and artists; Lumsden Propert, who wrote the best book on miniatures, was a doctor by trade; Edmund Gosse and Edward Clodd have jobs beyond literature. Even though W. S. Gilbert is recognized as a writer, he could also earn money as a lawyer or in art; [Pg 93] A. W. Pinero is a talented draftsman too; Miss Gertrude Kingston writes, illustrates, and acts; and Harry Furniss has demonstrated he’s just as skilled with his pen as he is with his brush in his Confessions of a Caricaturist. Nevertheless, it's still unusual for anyone to succeed in two fields.

Nevertheless Captain Robert Marshall, once in the army, is now a successful dramatist. He was born in Edinburgh in 1863, his father being a J.P. of that city. Educated at St. Andrews, the ancient town famous for learning and golf, he later migrated to Edinburgh University. While studying there his brother entered Sandhurst at the top of the list, and left in an equally exalted position. This inspired the younger brother with a desire for the army, and he enlisted in the Highland Light Infantry, then stationed in Ireland. The ranks gave him an excellent training, besides affording opportunities for studying various sides of life. Three years later he entered the Duke of Wellington’s West Riding Regiment as an officer, receiving his Captaincy in 1895, after having filled the post of District Adjutant at Cape Town and A.D.C. to the Governor of Natal, Sir W. Hely-Hutchinson.

Nevertheless, Captain Robert Marshall, who once served in the army, is now a successful playwright. He was born in Edinburgh in 1863, his father being a justice of the peace in that city. Educated at St. Andrews, the historic town known for education and golf, he later transferred to Edinburgh University. While studying there, his brother entered Sandhurst at the top of his class and graduated in an equally prestigious position. This inspired the younger brother's desire to join the army, and he enlisted in the Highland Light Infantry, which was stationed in Ireland at the time. Military service provided him with excellent training and opportunities to observe various aspects of life. Three years later, he became an officer in the Duke of Wellington’s West Riding Regiment, achieving the rank of Captain in 1895, after serving as the District Adjutant in Cape Town and as aide-de-camp to the Governor of Natal, Sir W. Hely-Hutchinson.

No one looking at Captain Marshall now would imagine that ill-health had ever afflicted him; such, however, was the case, and but for the fact that a delicate chest necessitated retiring from the army, he would probably never have become a dramatist by profession. It was about 1898 that he left the Service; but he has made good use of the time since[Pg 94] then, for such plays as His Excellency the Governor, A Royal Family, The Noble Lord, and The Second in Command have followed in quick succession. Then came an adaptation of M.M. Scribe and Legouvé’s Bataille de Dames, which he called There’s Many a Slip, but which T. Robertson translated with immense success as The Ladies’ Battle some years before.

No one looking at Captain Marshall now would think he ever had health issues; however, that was the case, and if his delicate chest hadn't forced him to leave the army, he probably would never have become a professional dramatist. He left the service around 1898, but he has made great use of his time since[Pg 94], as he has produced plays like His Excellency the Governor, A Royal Family, The Noble Lord, and The Second in Command in quick succession. Then he adapted M.M. Scribe and Legouvé’s Bataille de Dames, which he titled There’s Many a Slip, but T. Robertson translated it with amazing success as The Ladies’ Battle several years earlier.

Mrs. Kendal, àpropos of this, writes me the following:

Mrs. Kendal, regarding this, writes me the following:

“My dear brother Tom had been dead for years before I ever played in The Ladies’ Battle. He translated and sold it to Lacy, an old theatrical manager and agent, for about £10. Mr. Kendal and Mr. Hare revived it at the Court Theatre when I was under their management.”

“My dear brother Tom had been gone for years before I ever performed in The Ladies’ Battle. He translated it and sold it to Lacy, an old theater manager and agent, for about £10. Mr. Kendal and Mr. Hare brought it back to the stage at the Court Theatre when I was under their management.”

What would a modern dramatist say to a £10 note? What, indeed, would Captain Marshall say for such a small reward, instead of reaping a golden harvest as he did with his translation of the very same piece. Times have changed indeed during the last few years, for play-writing is now a most remunerative profession when it proves successful.

What would a modern playwright say about a £10 note? What would Captain Marshall think of such a small reward, instead of getting a big payoff like he did with his translation of the exact same work? Times have really changed over the last few years because writing plays is now a very profitable career when it’s successful.

I remember once at a charming luncheon given by the George Alexanders at their house in Pont Street, hearing Mr. Lionel Monckton bitterly complaining of the difficulty of getting royalties for musical plays from abroad. Since then worse things have happened, and pirated copies of favourite songs have been sold by hundreds of thousands in the streets of London for which the authors, composers, and publishers have never received a cent. Mr. J. M. Barrie, who was[Pg 95] sitting beside me, joined in, and declared, if I am not mistaken, that he had never got a penny from The Little Minister in America, or The Window in Thrums; indeed, it was not till Sentimental Tommy appeared in 1894 that he ever received anything at all from America, so The Little Minister, like Pinafore, was acted thousands of times without any royalties being paid to the respective authors by the United States.

I remember once at a lovely luncheon hosted by the George Alexanders at their home on Pont Street, hearing Mr. Lionel Monckton complaining bitterly about how hard it was to get royalties for musical plays from overseas. Since then, even worse things have happened, with pirated copies of popular songs being sold by the hundreds of thousands on the streets of London, leaving the authors, composers, and publishers with nothing. Mr. J. M. Barrie, who was[Pg 95] sitting next to me, chimed in and stated, if I remember correctly, that he had never made a dime from The Little Minister in America, nor from The Window in Thrums; in fact, it wasn't until Sentimental Tommy came out in 1894 that he received anything at all from America, so The Little Minister, like Pinafore, was performed thousands of times without any royalties being paid to the respective authors by the United States.

Of course there was no copyright at all in England till 1833, and until that date a play could be produced by any one at any time without payment. The idea was preposterous, and so much abused that the Royal Assent was given in Parliament to a copyright bill proposed by the Hon. George Lamb, and carried through by Mr. Lytton Bulwer, who afterwards became famous as Lord Lytton. Still, even this, unfortunately, does not prevent piracy. Pirate thieves of other people’s brains have had a good innings lately.

Of course, there was no copyright in England until 1833, and before that, anyone could produce a play at any time without having to pay. This idea was ridiculous and so misused that Parliament granted Royal Assent to a copyright bill introduced by Hon. George Lamb and pushed through by Mr. Lytton Bulwer, who later became well-known as Lord Lytton. Unfortunately, even this doesn't stop piracy. Copycat thieves have been doing well lately by stealing other people's ideas.

The only way to safeguard against the confiscation of a play without the author receiving any dues is to give a “copyright performance.” With this end in view the well-known writer, Mr. I. Zangwill, gave an amusing representation of his play called Merry Mary Ann, founded on his novel of the same name. The performance took place at the Corn Exchange, Wallingford, and Mr. Zangwill was himself stage manager. This took place a week before it was given with such success in Chicago, and secured the English copyright to its author as well as the American.

The only way to protect against a play being taken without the author getting paid is to hold a “copyright performance.” To achieve this, the famous writer, Mr. I. Zangwill, staged a funny performance of his play called Merry Mary Ann, based on his novel of the same name. The performance happened at the Corn Exchange in Wallingford, and Mr. Zangwill was the stage manager himself. This occurred a week before it was successfully performed in Chicago and secured both the English and American copyright for its author.

[Pg 96]

The modus operandi under these circumstances is:

The approach in these circumstances is:

(1) To pay a two-guinea fee for a licence.

(1) To pay a two-guinea fee for a license.

(2) To hire a hall which is licensed for stage performances.

(2) To rent a venue that is licensed for live performances.

(3) To notify the public by means of posters that the play will take place.

(3) To inform the public through posters that the play will happen.

To make some one pay for admission. If only one person pay one guinea, that person constitutes an audience, which, if small, is at least unanimous.

To charge someone for entry. If just one person pays one guinea, that person makes up an audience, which, even if it’s small, is at least in agreement.

Having arranged all these preliminaries the author and his friends proceed to read, or whenever possible act, the parts of the drama, and a very funny performance it sometimes is.

Having set up all these details, the author and his friends go on to read, or whenever they can, act out the parts of the play, and it can be a really funny performance at times.

Mr. Zangwill’s caste was certainly amusing. Mr. Jerome K. Jerome, author of Three Men in a Boat, was particularly good; but then he is an old actor. He lives at Wallingford-on-Thames, where he represents literature and journalism, G. F. Leslie, R.A., representing art; both joined forces for one afternoon at that strange performance which was in many ways a record. Sir Conan Doyle, of Sherlock Holmes fame, was to have played; but was called away at the last moment.

Mr. Zangwill’s caste was definitely entertaining. Mr. Jerome K. Jerome, the author of Three Men in a Boat, was particularly impressive; but then, he's a former actor. He lives in Wallingford-on-Thames, where he embodies literature and journalism, while G. F. Leslie, R.A., embodies art; both teamed up for one afternoon at that unusual performance which was in many ways remarkable. Sir Conan Doyle, famous for Sherlock Holmes, was supposed to perform; but he was called away at the last minute.

Mr. Zangwill is an old hand at this sort of thing; when a copyright performance of Hall Caine’s Mahdi was given at the Haymarket Theatre he began at first by playing his allotted part; but as one performer after another threw up their rôles he was finally left to act them all. The female parts he played in his shirt-sleeves, with a high pitched voice. Mr. Clement Scott gave a long and favourable notice in the[Pg 97] Daily Telegraph next day. Mr. Zangwill has lately taken unto himself a wife, none too soon, as he was the only member left in his Bachelor Club!

Mr. Zangwill is experienced in this kind of work. When a copyright performance of Hall Caine’s Mahdi was put on at the Haymarket Theatre, he started by playing his assigned role. However, as each actor dropped out, he ended up having to perform them all. He played the female parts in his shirt sleeves and used a high-pitched voice. Mr. Clement Scott wrote a lengthy and positive review in the[Pg 97] Daily Telegraph the next day. Mr. Zangwill has recently gotten married, which was about time since he was the last remaining member of his Bachelor Club!

It is rather amusing to contrast the first plays of various men; for instance, Mr. Pinero, writing in the Era Annual, graphically described his beginning thus:

It’s pretty funny to compare the first plays of different people; for example, Mr. Pinero, writing in the Era Annual, vividly described how he got started like this:

“First play of all: Two Hundred a Year. This was written for my old friends Mr. R. C. Carton and Miss Compton (Mrs. Carton) as a labour of love when I was an actor, and was produced at the Globe in 1877. The love, however, was and is more considerable than the composition, which did not employ me more than a single afternoon. My next venture was in the same year, and entitled Two Can Play at the Game, a farce produced at the Lyceum Theatre by Mrs. Bateman in order really to provide myself with a part. I acted in this many times in London, and afterwards under Mr. Irving, as he then was, throughout the provinces. By the way, Mrs. Bateman paid me five pounds for this piece.”

“First play of all: Two Hundred a Year. I wrote this as a labor of love for my old friends Mr. R. C. Carton and Miss Compton (Mrs. Carton) when I was an actor, and it was performed at the Globe in 1877. However, the love I put into it was much greater than the effort of writing, which only took me a single afternoon. My next project was the same year and was called Two Can Play at the Game, a farce produced at the Lyceum Theatre by Mrs. Bateman, primarily so I could have a role. I performed this many times in London and later under Mr. Irving, as he was then known, throughout the provinces. By the way, Mrs. Bateman paid me five pounds for this piece.”

Mr. Sydney Grundy tells the following story:

Mr. Sydney Grundy shares this story:

“In 1872 I amused myself by writing a comedietta. I had it printed, and across the cover of one copy I scrawled in a large bold hand, “You may play this for nothing,” addressed it to J. B. Buckstone, Esq., Haymarket Theatre, London, posted it, and forgot all about it. A week afterwards I received a letter in these terms: ‘Dear Sir,—Mr. Buckstone desires me to inform you that your comedietta is in rehearsal, and will be produced at his forthcoming Benefit. Mr. and Mrs. Kendal will play the principal parts.—Yours[Pg 98] faithfully, F. Weathersby.’ New authors were such rare phenomena in those days, that Mr. Buckstone did not know how to announce me, so adopted the weird expedient of describing me as ‘Mr. Sydney Grundy, of Manchester.’ The comedietta was a great success and received only one bad review. One critic was so tickled by the circumstance that the author lived in Manchester that he mentioned it no fewer than three times in his ‘notice.’”

“In 1872, I entertained myself by writing a short play. I had it printed, and on the cover of one copy, I wrote in big, bold letters, ‘You may perform this for free,’ addressed it to J. B. Buckstone, Esq., Haymarket Theatre, London, mailed it, and forgot about it. A week later, I got a letter that said: ‘Dear Sir,—Mr. Buckstone wants me to let you know that your play is in rehearsal and will be performed at his upcoming Benefit. Mr. and Mrs. Kendal will take the leading roles.—Yours[Pg 98] faithfully, F. Weathersby.’ New writers were so uncommon back then that Mr. Buckstone didn’t know how to introduce me, so he came up with the odd idea of referring to me as ‘Mr. Sydney Grundy, of Manchester.’ The play was a big hit and only got one bad review. One critic found it so amusing that the author lived in Manchester that he mentioned it no less than three times in his review.”

G. R. Sims describes his initial attempt thus:

G. R. Sims describes his first attempt like this:

“My first play was produced at the Theatre Royal, 113, Adelaide Road, and was a burlesque of Leah; the parts were played by my brothers and sisters and some young friends. The price of admission to the day nursery, in which the stage was erected, was one shilling, which included tea, but visitors were requested to bring their own cake and jam. The burlesque was in four scenes. Many of the speeches were lifted bodily from the published burlesque of Henry J. Byron.

“My first play was performed at the Theatre Royal, 113, Adelaide Road, and it was a burlesque of Leah; my brothers, sisters, and some young friends played the parts. Admission to the day nursery, where the stage was set up, was one shilling, which included tea, but visitors were asked to bring their own cake and jam. The burlesque had four scenes. Many of the lines were taken directly from the published burlesque by Henry J. Byron."

“That was my first play as an amateur. My first professional play was, One Hundred Years Old, and is now twenty-seven years old. It was produced July 10th, 1875, at a matinée at the Olympic Theatre, by Mr. E. J. Odell, and was a translation or adaptation of Le Centenaire, by D’Ennery and another. It was less successful than my amateur play. It did not bring me a shilling. The burlesque brought me two—one paid by my father and one by my mother.”

“That was my first play as an amateur. My first professional play was One Hundred Years Old, which is now twenty-seven years old. It premiered on July 10th, 1875, at a matinée at the Olympic Theatre, produced by Mr. E. J. Odell, and was a translation or adaptation of Le Centenaire by D’Ennery and another. It was less successful than my amateur play. It didn’t earn me a penny. The burlesque made me two—one from my father and one from my mother.”

Such were the first experiences of three eminent dramatic authors.

Such were the initial experiences of three prominent playwrights.

[Pg 99]

It must be delightful when author and actor are in unison. Such a thing as a difference of opinion cannot be altogether unknown between them; but no more united little band could possibly be found than that behind the scenes at the Haymarket Theatre, where the rehearsals are conducted in the spirit of a family party. The tyrannical author and the self-assertive representatives of his creations all work in harmony.

It must be great when the writer and actor are on the same page. They might not always agree, but there’s no tighter-knit group than the one behind the scenes at the Haymarket Theatre, where rehearsals feel like a family gathering. The demanding author and the confident performers of his characters all collaborate smoothly.

“As one gets up in the Service,” amusingly said Captain Marshall, “one receives a higher rate of pay, and has proportionately less to do. Thus it was I found time for scribbling; it was actually while A.D.C. and living in a Government House that I wrote His Excellency the Governor. Three days after it came out I left the army.”

“As you move up in the Service,” Captain Marshall joked, “you earn more money while having less to do. That’s how I found time to write; it was actually while I was A.D.C. and living in Government House that I wrote His Excellency the Governor. Three days after it was published, I left the army.”

“Was that your first play?” I inquired.

“Was that your first play?” I asked.

“No. My first was a little one-act piece which Mr. Kendal accepted. It dealt with the flight of Bonnie Prince Charlie from Scotland in 1746. My first acted play appeared at the Lyceum, and was another piece in one act, called Shades of Night, which finally migrated to the Haymarket.”

“No. My first was a short one-act play that Mr. Kendal accepted. It was about Bonnie Prince Charlie's escape from Scotland in 1746. My first play that was performed was at the Lyceum, and it was another one-act piece called Shades of Night, which eventually moved to the Haymarket.”

It is curious how success and failure follow one on the other. No play of Captain Marshall’s excited more criticism than The Broad Road at Terry’s; but nevertheless it was a failure. It was succeeded immediately by A Royal Family at the Court, which proved popular. He has worked hard during the last few years, and deserves any meed of praise that may be given him by the public. Many men on being told to relinquish[Pg 100] the profession they loved because of ill-health would calmly sit down and court death. Not so Robert Marshall. He at once turned his attention elsewhere, chose an occupation he could take about with him when driven by necessity to warmer climes, lived in the fresh air, did as he was medically advised, with the result that to-day he is a comparatively strong man, busy in a life that is full of interest.

It’s interesting how success and failure go hand in hand. No play by Captain Marshall attracted more criticism than The Broad Road at Terry’s; however, it ultimately failed. It was quickly followed by A Royal Family at the Court, which became popular. He has worked hard in the past few years and deserves any praise the public gives him. Many men, when told to give up[Pg 100] the profession they loved due to health issues, would simply resign themselves to death. But not Robert Marshall. He immediately looked for other options, picked a job he could take with him when he needed to move to warmer places, lived outdoors, followed medical advice, and as a result, today he is a relatively strong man, engaged in a life full of interest.

As a subaltern in the army the embryo dramatist once painted the scenery for a performance of The Mikado in Bermuda, and was known to write, act, stage-manage, and paint the scenes of another play himself. Enthusiasm truly; but it was all experience, and the intimate knowledge then gained of the difficulties of stage craft have since stood him in good stead.

As a junior officer in the army, the aspiring playwright once designed the sets for a production of The Mikado in Bermuda and was also known to write, act, direct, and create the sets for another play himself. Quite the enthusiastic endeavor; but it was all valuable experience, and the in-depth understanding he gained from the challenges of stagecraft has helped him immensely since then.

Captain Marshall is a broad, good-looking man, retiring by disposition, one might almost say shy—for that term applies, although he emphatically denies the charge—and certainly humble and modest as regards his own work. The author of The Second in Command is athletically inclined; he is fond of golf, fencing, and tennis—the love of the first he doubtless acquired in his childhood’s days, when old Tom Morris was so well known on the St. Andrews links.

Captain Marshall is a tall, good-looking guy who tends to be reserved—almost shy, which he strongly denies—but he's definitely humble and modest when it comes to his own work. The author of The Second in Command is into fitness; he enjoys golf, fencing, and tennis, with his love for golf likely dating back to his childhood when old Tom Morris was a famous figure at the St. Andrews links.

The playwright is also devoted to music, and nothing gives him greater pleasure than to spend an evening at the Opera. One night I happened to sit in a box between him and Mr. Cyril Maude, and probably there were no more appreciative listeners in[Pg 101] the house than these two men, both intensely interested in the representation of Tannhäuser. Poor Mr. Maude having a sore throat, had been forbidden to act that evening for fear of losing the little voice which remained to him. As music is his delight, and an evening at the Opera an almost unknown pleasure, he enjoyed himself with the enthusiasm of a child, feeling he was having a “real holiday.”

The playwright is also passionate about music, and nothing makes him happier than spending an evening at the Opera. One night, I found myself sitting in a box between him and Mr. Cyril Maude, and there were probably no more appreciative listeners in[Pg 101] the house than these two men, both deeply invested in the performance of Tannhäuser. Unfortunately, Mr. Maude had a sore throat and was advised not to perform that evening to protect the little voice he had left. Since music is his joy, and an evening at the Opera is a rare treat for him, he enjoyed the experience with the excitement of a child, feeling like he was having a “real holiday.”

Captain Marshall is so fond of music that he amuses himself constantly at his piano or pianola in his charming flat in town.

Captain Marshall loves music so much that he constantly entertains himself at his piano or pianola in his lovely apartment in the city.

“I like the machine best,” he remarked laughingly, “because it makes no mistakes, and with a little practice can be played with almost as much feeling as a pianoforte.”

“I like the machine the most,” he said with a laugh, “because it makes no mistakes, and with a bit of practice, it can be played with almost as much emotion as a piano.”

When in London Captain Marshall lives in a flat at the corner of Berkeley Square; but during the winter he migrates to the Riviera or some other sunny land. The home reflects the taste of its owner; and the dainty colouring, charming pictures, and solid furniture of the flat denote the man of artistic taste who dislikes show without substance even in furniture.

When in London, Captain Marshall lives in an apartment at the corner of Berkeley Square; but during the winter, he escapes to the Riviera or some other sunny place. His home shows off his personality; the delicate colors, lovely artwork, and sturdy furniture in the apartment reveal that he has an artistic sense and prefers quality over flashy appearances, even when it comes to furniture.

The first time I met Robert Marshall was at W. S. Gilbert’s delightful country home at Harrow Weald. The Captain has a most exalted opinion of Mr. Gilbert’s writings and witticisms. He considers him a model playwright, and certainly worships—as much as one man can worship at the shrine of another—this originator of modern comedy.

The first time I met Robert Marshall was at W. S. Gilbert’s charming country home in Harrow Weald. The Captain has a very high opinion of Mr. Gilbert’s writing and humor. He sees him as a perfect example of a playwright, and he definitely admires— as much as one person can admire another— this pioneer of modern comedy.

One summer, when Captain Marshall found the[Pg 102] alluring hospitality of London incompatible with work, he took a charming house at Harrow Weald, and settled himself down to finish a play. He could not, however, stand the loneliness of a big establishment by himself—a loneliness which he does not feel in his flat. Consequently that peace and quiet which he went to the country to find, he himself disturbed by inviting friends down on all possible occasions, and being just as gay as if he had remained in town. He finished his play, however, between the departure and arrival of his various guests.

One summer, when Captain Marshall found the[Pg 102] tempting hospitality of London not compatible with work, he rented a lovely house in Harrow Weald and settled in to finish a play. However, he couldn’t handle the solitude of such a big place on his own—a loneliness he didn’t feel in his apartment. As a result, the peace and quiet he sought in the countryside was constantly interrupted because he invited friends over as often as possible, being just as lively as if he had stayed in town. Still, he managed to finish his play in between the comings and goings of his various guests.

Two of the most successful plays of modern times have been written by women; the first, by Mrs. Hodgson Burnett, was founded on her own novel, Little Lord Fauntleroy, of which more anon. The second had no successful book to back it, and yet it ran over three hundred nights.

Two of the most successful plays in recent times have been written by women. The first, by Mrs. Hodgson Burnett, was based on her own novel, Little Lord Fauntleroy, which we’ll discuss later. The second didn’t have a successful book to support it, yet it still ran for over three hundred nights.

This as far as serious drama is concerned—for burlesque touched up may run to any length—is a record.

This is the limit when it comes to serious drama—burlesque, on the other hand, can go on for as long as it wants.

Mice and Men, by Mrs. Ryley, must have had something in it, something special, or why should a play from an almost unknown writer have taken such a hold on the London public? It was well acted, of course, for that excellent artist Forbes Robertson was in it; but other plays have been well acted and yet have failed.

Mice and Men, by Mrs. Ryley, must have had something in it, something special, or why else would a play from an almost unknown writer have captivated the London audience? It was well acted, of course, since the talented actor Forbes Robertson was in it; but other plays have had great performances and still flopped.

Why, then, its longevity?

Why is it still around?

Its very simplicity must be the answer. It carried conviction. It was just a quaint little idyllic episode of love and romance, deftly woven together with[Pg 103] strong human interest. It aimed at nothing great, it merely sought to entertain and amuse. Love rules the world, romance enthrals it, both were prettily depicted by a woman, and the play proved a brilliant success. To have written so little and yet made such a hit is rare.

Its very simplicity must be the reason. It was convincing. It was just a charming little story of love and romance, skillfully intertwined with[Pg 103] strong human interest. It aimed for nothing grand, it just wanted to entertain and amuse. Love governs the world, romance captivates it, and both were beautifully portrayed by a woman, making the play a huge success. It’s rare to write so little and still make such an impact.

On the other hand, one of our most successful playwrights has been very prolific in his work. Sir Francis Burnand has edited Punch for more than thirty years, and yet has produced over one hundred and twenty plays. ’Tis true one of the most successful of these was written in a night. Mr. Burnand, as he was then, went to the St. James’s Theatre one evening to see Diplomacy, and after the performance walked home. On the way the idea for a burlesque struck him, so he had something to eat, found paper and pens, and began. By breakfast-time next morning Diplomacy was completed, and a few days later all London was laughing over it. There is a record of industry and speed.

On the other hand, one of our most successful playwrights has been incredibly productive in his work. Sir Francis Burnand has edited Punch for over thirty years, yet he has created more than one hundred and twenty plays. It’s true that one of the most successful of these was written in just one night. Mr. Burnand, as he was known then, went to the St. James’s Theatre one evening to see Diplomacy, and after the show, he walked home. On the way, the idea for a burlesque hit him, so he grabbed a bite to eat, found some paper and pens, and started writing. By breakfast the next morning, Diplomacy was finished, and a few days later, all of London was laughing about it. This is a record of hard work and quick turnaround.

The stage, however, has not claimed so much of his attention of late years as his large family and Mr. Punch. Sir Francis is particularly neat and dapper, with a fresh complexion and grey hair. He wears a pointed white beard, but looks remarkably youthful. He is a busy man, and spends hours of each day in his well-stocked library at the Boltons (London, Eng.: as our American friends would say), or at Ramsgate, his favourite holiday resort, where riding and sea-boating afford him much amusement, and time for reflection. He is a charming[Pg 104] dinner-table companion, always full of good humour and amusing stories.

The stage, however, hasn’t captured his attention as much in recent years as his large family and Mr. Punch. Sir Francis is particularly neat and stylish, with a fresh complexion and gray hair. He sports a pointed white beard but still looks quite youthful. He’s a busy man and spends hours each day in his well-stocked library at the Boltons (London, Eng.: as our American friends would say), or at Ramsgate, his favorite vacation spot, where riding and boating provide him with plenty of enjoyment and time to think. He’s a charming[Pg 104] dinner-table companion, always full of good humor and entertaining stories.

It was when dining one night at the Burnands’ home in the Boltons that I met Sir John Tenniel after a lapse of some years, for he virtually gave up dining out early in the ’90’s in order to devote his time to his Punch cartoon. One warm day in July, 1902, however, John Tenniel was persuaded to break his rule, and proved as kind and lively as ever. Although eighty-two years of age he drew a picture for me after dinner. There are not many men of eighty-two who could do that; but then, did he not draw the Punch cartoon without intermission for fifty years?

It was during a dinner one night at the Burnands’ home in the Boltons that I reconnected with Sir John Tenniel after several years. He had pretty much stopped going out to dinner in the early '90s to focus on his Punch cartoons. However, on a warm day in July 1902, John Tenniel was convinced to break his routine, and he was just as kind and lively as always. Even at eighty-two, he drew a picture for me after dinner. Not many eighty-two-year-olds could pull that off; but then again, he had been drawing the Punch cartoon continuously for fifty years.

“What am I to draw?” he asked. “I have nothing to copy and no model to help me.”

“What am I supposed to draw?” he asked. “I have nothing to reference and no model to guide me.”

“Britannia,” I replied. “That ever-young lady is such an old friend of yours, you must know every line in her face by heart.” And he did. The dear old man’s hand was very shaky, until he got the pencil on to the paper, and then the lines themselves were perfectly clear and distinct; years of work on wood blocks had taught him precision which did not fail him even when over fourscore.

“Britannia,” I replied. “That timeless lady is such a long-time friend of yours that you must know every detail of her face by heart.” And he did. The dear old man’s hand was quite shaky until he got the pencil on the paper, and then the lines themselves were perfectly clear and distinct; years of working with woodblocks had taught him precision that didn’t fail him even at over eighty.

Every one loves Sir John. He never seems to have given offence with his cartoons as so many have done before and since. Cartoonists and caricaturists ply a difficult trade, for so few people like to be made fun of themselves, although they dearly love a joke at some one else’s expense.

Everyone loves Sir John. He never seems to have offended anyone with his cartoons like so many have before and after him. Cartoonists and caricaturists have a tough job, because very few people enjoy being made fun of, even though they love a good joke at someone else's expense.

A few doors from the Burnands’ charming house[Pg 105] in Bolton Gardens lives the author of Charley’s Aunt.

A few doors down from the Burnands’ charming house[Pg 105] in Bolton Gardens lives the writer of Charley’s Aunt.

When in the city of Mexico, one broiling hot December day in 1900, I was invited to dine and go to the theatre. I had only just arrived in that lovely capital, and was dying to see and do everything.

When I was in Mexico City on a scorching hot December day in 1900, I was invited to dinner and to go to the theater. I had just arrived in that beautiful capital and was eager to see and do everything.

“Will there be any Indians amongst the audience?” I inquired.

“Will there be any Indians in the audience?” I asked.

“Si, Señora. The Indians and half-castes love the theatre, and always fill the cheaper places.”

“Yeah, ma’am. The Indigenous people and mixed-race folks love the theater, and always fill the cheaper seats.”

This sounded delightful; a Spanish play acted in Castilian with beautiful costumes of matadors and shawled ladies—what could be better? Gladly I accepted the invitation to dine and go to the theatre afterwards, where, as subsequently proved, they have a strange arrangement by which a spectator either pays for the whole performance, or only to witness one particular act.

This sounded amazing; a Spanish play performed in Castilian with gorgeous costumes of matadors and women in shawls—what could be better? I happily accepted the invitation to have dinner and then go to the theater afterwards, where, as it turned out, they have a unique system where a spectator can either pay for the entire performance or just for one specific act.

We arrived. The audience looked interesting: few, however, even in the best places wore dress-clothes, any more than they do in the United States. The performance began.

We arrived. The audience looked intriguing: few, though, even in the best seats, were dressed up, just like in the United States. The performance started.

It did not seem very Spanish, and somehow appeared familiar. I looked at the programme. “La Tia de Carlos.”

It didn’t seem very Spanish, and somehow felt familiar. I looked at the program. “Carlos's aunt.”

What a sell! I had been brought to see Charley’s Aunt.

What a deal! I had been taken to see Charley’s Aunt.

One night after my return to London I was dining with William Heinemann, the publisher, to meet the great “Jimmy” Whistler. I was telling Mr. Brandon[Pg 106] Thomas, the author of Charley’s Aunt, this funny little experience, when he remarked:

One night after I got back to London, I was having dinner with William Heinemann, the publisher, to meet the famous “Jimmy” Whistler. I was sharing this funny little experience with Mr. Brandon[Pg 106] Thomas, the author of Charley’s Aunt, when he said:

“I can tell you another. My wife and I had been staying in the Swiss mountains, when one day we reached Zürich. ‘Let us try to get a decent dinner,’ I said, ‘for I am sick of table d’hôtes.’ Accordingly we dined on the best Zürich could produce, and then asked the waiter what play he would recommend.

“I can tell you another. My wife and I had been staying in the Swiss mountains when one day we arrived in Zürich. ‘Let’s try to find a good dinner,’ I said, ‘because I’m tired of table d’hôtes.’ So we had dinner at the best place Zürich had to offer, and then we asked the waiter which play he would suggest.”

“‘The theatres are closed just now,’ he replied.

"The theaters are closed right now," he said.

“‘But surely something is open?’

"But there must be something open?"

“‘Ah, well, yes, there’s a sort of music hall, but the Herrschaften would not care to go there.’

“‘Ah, well, yes, there’s a kind of music hall, but the Herrschaften wouldn’t want to go there.’”

“‘Why not?’ I exclaimed, longing for some diversion.

“‘Why not?’ I said, eager for a change of scenery.”

“‘Because they are only playing a very vulgar piece, it would not please the gnädige Frau, it is a stupid English farce.’

“‘Because they are just playing a really cheesy piece, it wouldn’t please the gnädige Frau, it’s a silly English farce.’”

“‘Never mind how stupid. Tell me its name.’

“‘It doesn't matter how silly it is. Just tell me its name.’”

“‘It is called,’ replied the waiter, ‘Die Tante.’”

“‘It’s called,’ replied the waiter, ‘Die Tante.’”

Poor Brandon Thomas nearly collapsed on the spot, it was his very own play. They went. Needless to say, however, the author hardly recognised his child in its new garb, although he never enjoyed an evening more thoroughly in his life.

Poor Brandon Thomas nearly collapsed right then and there; it was his very own play. They went. However, the author hardly recognized his creation in its new form, though he never enjoyed an evening more in his life.

The first draft of this well-known piece was written in three weeks, and afterwards, as the play was considerably cut in the provinces, Mr. Thomas restored the original matter and entirely re-wrote it before it was produced in London, when the author played the part of Sir Francis Chesney himself.

The first draft of this famous piece was written in three weeks, and later, since the play was significantly shortened in the provinces, Mr. Thomas restored the original content and completely rewrote it before it was performed in London, where the author took on the role of Sir Francis Chesney himself.

[Pg 107]

I have another recollection in connection with Charley’s Aunt. It must have been about 1895 that my husband and I were dining with that delightful little gentleman and great Indian Prince, the Gaekwar of Baroda, and the Maharanee (his wife), and we all went on to the theatre to see Charley’s Aunt. At that time His Highness the Gaekwar was very proud of a grand new theatre he had built in Baroda, and was busy having plays translated for production. Several Shakespearian pieces had already been done. He thought Charley’s Aunt might be suitable, but as the play proceeded, turning to me he remarked:

I have another memory related to Charley’s Aunt. It must have been around 1895 when my husband and I were having dinner with that charming gentleman and esteemed Indian prince, the Gaekwar of Baroda, along with the Maharanee (his wife), and we all went to the theater to watch Charley’s Aunt. At that time, His Highness the Gaekwar was very proud of a magnificent new theater he had built in Baroda and was actively having plays translated for performances. Several Shakespeare plays had already been done. He thought Charley’s Aunt might be a good fit, but as the play went on, he turned to me and said:

“This would never do, it would give my people a bad idea of English education; no, no—I cannot allow such a mistake as that.”

“This can't happen; it would give my people a wrong impression of English education. No, I can't let that mistake happen.”

So good is His Highness’s own opinion of our education that his sons are at Harrow and Oxford as I write.

So high is His Highness's opinion of our education that his sons are currently studying at Harrow and Oxford as I write.

Charley’s Aunt has been played in every European language—verily a triumph for its author. How happy and proud a man ought to be who has brought so much enjoyment into life; and yet Brandon Thomas feels almost obliged to blush every time the title is mentioned. When Mr. Penley asked him to write a play, in spite of being in sad need of cash, he was almost in despair. His eye fell upon the photograph of an elderly relative, and showing it to Penley he asked:

Charley’s Aunt has been performed in every European language—truly a victory for its author. How happy and proud a person should be who has brought so much joy into people's lives; and yet Brandon Thomas feels a bit embarrassed every time the title is mentioned. When Mr. Penley asked him to write a play, despite being in desperate need of money, he was almost hopeless. His gaze landed on a photo of an older relative, and showing it to Penley, he asked:

“How would you like to play an old woman like that?”

“How would you feel about playing an old woman like that?”

“Delighted, old chap; I’ve always wanted to play[Pg 108] a woman’s character.” And when the play was written Penley acted the part made up like the old lady in the photograph which still stands on Brandon Thomas’s mantelshelf.

“Thrilled, my friend; I’ve always wanted to play[Pg 108] a woman’s role.” And when the play was finished, Penley took on the part dressed up like the old lady in the photograph that still sits on Brandon Thomas’s mantelpiece.

London is changing terribly, although Charley’s Aunt seems as if it would go on for ever. Old London is vanishing in a most distressing manner. Within a few months Newgate has been pulled down, the Bluecoat School has disappeared, and now Clifford’s Inn has been sold for £100,000 and is to be demolished. Many of the sets of chambers therein contained beautiful carving, and in one of these sets dwelt Frederick Fenn, the dramatist, son of Manville Fenn, the novelist. He determined to have a bachelor party before quitting his rooms, and an interesting party it proved.

London is changing a lot, even though Charley’s Aunt feels like it will last forever. Old London is disappearing in a really sad way. In just a few months, Newgate has been torn down, the Bluecoat School is gone, and now Clifford’s Inn has been sold for £100,000 and is set to be demolished. Many of the apartments there had beautiful carvings, and one of them was home to Frederick Fenn, the playwright, son of Manville Fenn, the novelist. He decided to throw a bachelor party before leaving his place, and it turned out to be quite an interesting gathering.

I left home shortly after nine o’clock with a friend, and when we reached Piccadilly Circus we found ourselves in the midst of the crowd waiting to watch President Loubet drive past on his way to the Gala performance at Covent Garden (July, 1903). The streets were charmingly decorated, and must have given immense satisfaction not only to the President of France but to the entire Republic he represented. From the Circus through Leicester Square the crowd was standing ten or fifteen deep on either side of the road, and we had various vicissitudes in getting to our destination at all. The police would not let us pass, and we drove round and round back streets, unable to get into either the Strand or St. Martin’s Lane. However, at last a mighty cheer told us the royal party[Pg 109] had passed, and we were allowed to drive on our way to Clifford’s Inn. Up a dark alley beyond the Law Courts we trudged, and rang the big sonorous bell for the porter to admit us to the courtyard surrounded by chambers.

I left home shortly after nine with a friend, and when we got to Piccadilly Circus, we found ourselves in the middle of the crowd waiting to see President Loubet drive by on his way to the Gala performance at Covent Garden (July, 1903). The streets looked beautiful, and they must have delighted not just the President of France but the entire Republic he represented. From the Circus through Leicester Square, the crowd was standing ten or fifteen people deep on either side of the road, and we had quite a few challenges trying to reach our destination. The police wouldn’t let us through, so we drove around and around the back streets, unable to get onto either the Strand or St. Martin’s Lane. Eventually, a loud cheer told us the royal party[Pg 109] had passed, and we were finally allowed to continue on our way to Clifford’s Inn. Up a dark alley beyond the Law Courts, we trudged and rang the big, echoing bell for the porter to let us into the courtyard surrounded by chambers.

Ascending a spiral stone staircase, carpeted in red for the occasion, we passed through massive oak doors with their low doorways and entered Mr. Fenn’s rooms.

Ascending a spiral stone staircase, covered in red carpet for the occasion, we passed through large oak doors with their low doorways and entered Mr. Fenn’s rooms.

“How lovely! Surely those carvings are by the famous Gibbons?”

“How lovely! Those carvings must be by the famous Gibbons, right?”

“They are,” he said, “or at any rate they are reputed to be, and in a fortnight will be sold by auction to the highest bidder.”

“They are,” he said, “or at least that's what people say, and in two weeks they will be sold at auction to the highest bidder.”

This wonderful decoration had been there for numbers of years, the over-doors, chimneypieces and window-frames were all most beautifully carved, and the whole room was panelled from floor to ceiling. The furniture was in keeping. Beautiful inlaid satinwood tables, settees covered with old-fashioned brocade, old Sheffield cake-baskets, were in harmony with the setting.

This beautiful decoration had been there for many years; the overdoors, fireplace mantels, and window frames were all exquisitely carved, and the entire room was paneled from floor to ceiling. The furniture matched perfectly. Gorgeous inlaid satinwood tables, sofas covered in vintage brocade, and old Sheffield cake baskets all blended seamlessly with the atmosphere.

It was quite an interesting little party, and I thoroughly enjoyed my chat with James Welsh, the clever comedian, who played in the New Clown for eighteen months consecutively. Such an interesting little man, with dark round eyes and pale eyelashes, and a particularly broad crown to his head.

It was a pretty interesting little party, and I really enjoyed my conversation with James Welsh, the clever comedian, who performed in the New Clown for eighteen straight months. He was such an intriguing little guy, with dark round eyes and light eyelashes, and a notably broad head.

“I don’t mind a long run at all,” he said, “because every night there is a fresh audience. Sometimes they are so dull we cannot get hold of them at all till the second act, and sometimes it is even the end of the second act before they are roused to enthusiasm;[Pg 110] another time they will see the fun from the first rise of the curtain. Personally I prefer the audience to be rather dull at the beginning, for I like to work them up, and to work up with them myself. The most enthusiastic audiences to my mind are to be found in Scotland—I am of course speaking of low comedy. In Ireland they may be as appreciative, but they are certainly quieter. Londoners are always difficult to rouse to any expression of enthusiasm. I suppose they see too many plays, and so become blasé.”

“I don’t mind a long run at all,” he said, “because every night there’s a new audience. Sometimes they’re so dull that we can’t connect with them until the second act, and sometimes it’s even the end of the second act before they get excited; [Pg 110] other times they’ll get the humor right from the first curtain. Personally, I prefer the audience to be a bit dull at the start because I enjoy working them up, and working up with them myself. In my experience, the most enthusiastic audiences are in Scotland—I’m specifically talking about low comedy. In Ireland, they can be just as appreciative, but they’re definitely quieter. Londoners are always tough to get to show any kind of enthusiasm. I suppose they see too many shows and become blasé.”

[Pg 111]

CHAPTER VI

DESIGNING THE DRESSES

Sarah Bernhardt's dresses and wigs—A great musician's hair—Costs of production—Percy Anderson—Ulysses—The Eternal City—A dress parade—Costumes—Over-complication—An understudy—Miss Fay Davis—A London fog—The challenges of an engagement.

MADAME SARAH BERNHARDT is an extraordinary woman. A young artist of my acquaintance did much work for her at one time. He designed dresses, and painted the Egyptian, Assyrian, and other trimmings. She was always most grateful and generous. Money seemed valueless to her; she dived her hand into a bag of gold, and holding it out bid him take what would repay him for his trouble. He was a true artist and his gifts appealed to her.

MADAME SARAH BERNHARDT is an extraordinary woman. A young artist I know did a lot of work for her at one point. He designed dresses and painted Egyptian, Assyrian, and other decorations. She was always very appreciative and generous. Money seemed worthless to her; she would reach into a bag of gold and offer him whatever he needed to compensate him for his work. He was a true artist, and his talents resonated with her.

“More, more,” she often exclaimed. “You have not reimbursed yourself sufficiently—you have only taken working-pay and allowed nothing for your talent. It is the talent I wish to pay for.”

“More, more,” she often exclaimed. “You haven’t compensated yourself enough—you’ve only taken your working pay and left nothing for your talent. It’s your talent that I want to pay for.”

And she did.

On one occasion a gorgeous cloak he had designed for her came home; a most expensive production. She tried it on.

On one occasion, a stunning cloak he had designed for her arrived; it was a very costly piece. She tried it on.

[Pg 112]

“Hateful, hateful!” she cried. “The bottom is too heavy, bring me the scissors,” and in a moment she had ripped off all the lower trimmings. The artist looked aghast, and while he stood—

“Hateful, hateful!” she shouted. “The bottom is too heavy, bring me the scissors,” and in an instant, she had cut off all the lower trimmings. The artist looked shocked, and while he stood—

“Black,” she went on—“it wants black”; and thereupon she pinned a great black scarf her dresser brought her over the mantle. The effect was magical. That became one of her most successful garments for many a day.

“Black,” she continued—“it needs black”; and then she pinned a large black scarf that her dresser brought her over the mantle. The effect was stunning. That became one of her most popular outfits for a long time.

“Ah!” said the artist afterwards, “she has a great and generous heart—she adores talent, worships the artistic, and her taste is unfailing.”

“Ah!” said the artist later, “she has a big and generous heart—she loves talent, reveres the artistic, and her taste is spot on.”

Wonderful effects can be gained on the stage by the aid of the make-up box—and the wig-maker.

Wonderful effects can be achieved on stage with the help of the makeup kit—and the wig maker.

Madame Sarah Bernhardt declares Clarkson, of London, to be the “king of wig-makers,” and he has made every wig she has worn in her various parts for many years.

Madame Sarah Bernhardt calls Clarkson from London the "king of wig-makers," and he has created every wig she has worn for her different roles over many years.

“She is a wonderful woman,” Mr. Clarkson said, “she knows exactly what she wants, and if she has not time to write and enclose a sketch—which, by the way, she does admirably—she sends a long telegram from Paris, and expects the wig to be despatched almost as quickly as if it went over by a ‘reply-paid process.’”

“She’s a fantastic woman,” Mr. Clarkson said, “she knows exactly what she wants, and if she doesn’t have time to write and send a sketch—which, by the way, she does brilliantly—she sends a long telegram from Paris and expects the wig to be sent out almost as quickly as if it went through a ‘reply-paid process.’”

“But surely you get more time than that usually?”

“But you usually get more time than that, right?”

DRAWING OF COSTUME FOR JULIET, BY PERCY ANDERSON.

“Oh yes, of course; but twice I have made wigs in a few hours. Once for Miss Ellen Terry. I think it was the twenty-fifth anniversary of The Bells—at any rate she was to appear in a small first piece for one night. At three o’clock that afternoon [Pg 113]the order came. I set six people to work on six different pieces, and at seven o’clock took them down to the theatre and pinned them on Miss Terry’s head. The other wig I had to make so quickly was for Madame Eleonora Duse. She arrived in London October, 1903, and somehow the wigs went astray. She wired to Paris to inquire who made the one in La Ville Morte with which Madame Bernhardt strangled her victim. When the reply came she sent for me, and the same night Madame Duse wore the new wig in La Gioconda.”

“Oh yes, definitely; but I've made wigs in just a few hours twice. Once for Miss Ellen Terry. I think it was the twenty-fifth anniversary of The Bells—anyway, she was set to perform in a small first piece for one night. At three o’clock that afternoon [Pg 113] I got the order. I assigned six people to work on six different pieces, and at seven o’clock I brought them to the theatre and pinned them onto Miss Terry’s head. The other wig I had to make quickly was for Madame Eleonora Duse. She arrived in London in October 1903, and somehow the wigs got lost. She sent a wire to Paris asking who made the one in La Ville Morte that Madame Bernhardt used to strangle her victim. When the response came, she called for me, and that same night, Madame Duse wore the new wig in La Gioconda.”

By-the-bye, Madame Duse has a wonderful wig-box. It is a sort of miniature cupboard made of wood, from which the front lets down. Inside are six divisions. Each division contains one of those weird block-heads on which perruques stand when being redressed, and on every red head rests a wig. These are for her different parts, the blocks are screwed tight into the box, and the wigs are covered lightly with chiffon for travelling. When the side of the box falls down those six heads form a gruesome sight!

By the way, Madame Duse has an amazing wig box. It's a little wooden cabinet with a front that swings down. Inside, there are six compartments. Each compartment holds one of those strange block-heads where wigs sit while being styled, and on each red head, there's a wig. These are for her various roles, the blocks are securely fastened inside the box, and the wigs are lightly covered with chiffon for travel. When the side of the box drops down, those six heads create a pretty creepy sight!

Most of the hair used in wig-making comes from abroad, principally from the mountain valleys of Switzerland, where the peasant-girls wear caps and sell their hair. A wig costs anything from £2 to £10, and it is wonderful how little the good ones weigh. They are made on the finest net, and each hair is sewn on separately.

Most of the hair used for making wigs comes from overseas, especially from the mountain valleys of Switzerland, where peasant girls wear caps and sell their hair. A wig costs anywhere from £2 to £10, and it’s amazing how light the good ones are. They’re made on the finest netting, and each hair is sewn on individually.

When Clarkson was a boy of twelve and a half years old he first accompanied his father, who was a hairdresser, to the opera, and thus the small youth[Pg 114] began his profession. He still works in the house in which he was born, so he was reared literally in the wig trade, and now employs a couple of hundred persons. What he does not know can hardly be worth knowing—and he is quite a character. Not only does he work for the stage; but detectives often employ him to paint their faces and disguise them generally, and he has even decorated a camel with whiskers and grease paint.

When Clarkson was twelve and a half years old, he first went to the opera with his father, who was a hairdresser, marking the beginning of his career. He still runs his business in the house where he was born, so he literally grew up in the wig trade, and now he employs a couple of hundred people. What he doesn’t know is hardly worth knowing—and he’s quite a character. Not only does he work for the theater, but detectives often hire him to apply makeup and disguise them, and he has even decorated a camel with whiskers and grease paint.

The most expensive wig he ever made was for Madame Sarah Bernhardt in La Samaritaine. It had to be very long, and naturally wavy hair, so that she could throw it over her face when she fell at the Saviour’s feet. In L’Aiglon Madame Bernhardt wore her own hair for a long time, and had it cut short for the purpose: but she found it so difficult to dress off the stage that she ultimately ordered a wig.

The most expensive wig he ever made was for Madame Sarah Bernhardt in La Samaritaine. It needed to be very long with naturally wavy hair so she could toss it over her face when she fell at the Saviour’s feet. In L’Aiglon, Madame Bernhardt wore her own hair for a long time and had it cut short for that reason, but she found it so hard to style off stage that she eventually decided to order a wig.

If Madame Bernhardt is particular about her wigs and her dresses she has done much to improve theatrical costumes—she has stamped them with an individuality and artistic grace.

If Madame Bernhardt is picky about her wigs and dresses, she has greatly improved theatrical costumes—she has given them a unique touch and artistic elegance.

A well-known musician travelled from a far corner in Europe to ask a wig-maker to make him a wig. He arrived one day in Wellington Street in a great state of distress and told his story. He had prided himself on his beautiful, long, wavy hair, through which he could pass his fingers in dramatic style, and which he could shake with leonine ferocity over a passage which called for such sentiments. But alas! there came a day when the hair began to come out, and the locks threatened to disappear. He travelled[Pg 115] hundreds of miles to London to know if the wig-maker could copy the top of his head exactly before it was too late. Of course he could, and consequently those raven curls were matched, and one by one were sewn into the fine netting to form the toupet. Having got the semi-wig exactly to cover his head, the great musician sallied forth and had his head shaved. Then, with a little paste to catch it down in front and at the sides, the toupet was securely placed upon the bald cranium. For six months that man had his head shaved daily. The effect was magical. When he left off shaving a new crop of hair began to grow with lightning rapidity, and he is now the happy possessor of as beautiful a head of hair as ever.

A famous musician traveled from a distant part of Europe to have a wig made. One day, he arrived on Wellington Street feeling very upset and shared his story. He had always taken pride in his beautiful, long, wavy hair, which he could dramatically run his fingers through and shake fiercely during emotional moments. But unfortunately, there came a day when his hair started falling out, and his locks were in danger of disappearing. He traveled[Pg 115] hundreds of miles to London to see if the wig-maker could replicate the top of his head before it was too late. Of course, he could, and those dark curls were matched and sewn into fine netting to create the toupet. Once he had the semi-wig perfectly fitted to cover his head, the musician went ahead and shaved his head. Then, with a bit of paste to hold it down in front and on the sides, the toupet was securely attached to his bald scalp. For six months, he shaved his head every day. The result was astounding. When he stopped shaving, a new crop of hair began to grow back at an incredible speed, and he is now the lucky owner of a head of hair more beautiful than ever.

Little by little the public has been taught to expect the reproduction of correct historical pictures upon the stage, and such being the case, artists have risen to the occasion, men who have given years of their lives to the study of apparel of particular periods.

Little by little, the public has been trained to expect accurate historical representations on stage, and because of this, artists have stepped up, individuals who have dedicated years of their lives to studying the clothing of specific periods.

Designing stage dress is no easy matter; long and ardent research is necessary for old costume pieces, and men who have made this their speciality read and sketch at museums, and sometimes travel to far corners of the world, to get exactly what they want. As a rule the British Museum provides reliable material for historical costume.

Designing stage costumes is no simple task; extensive and dedicated research is required for vintage pieces, and professionals in this field often study and create sketches in museums, and sometimes travel to distant locations to find exactly what they need. Generally, the British Museum offers dependable resources for historical costumes.

Think of the hundreds, aye hundreds, of costumes necessary for a heavy play at the Lyceum or His Majesty’s—think of what peasantry, soldiers, to say nothing of fairies, require, added to which four or five dresses for each of the chief performers, not only[Pg 116] cost months of labour to design and execute, but need large sums of money to perfect. As much as £10,000 has often been spent in the staging of a single play.

Consider the hundreds, yes, hundreds, of costumes needed for a major production at the Lyceum or His Majesty’s—think about what peasants, soldiers, and not to mention fairies, require, plus four or five outfits for each of the main actors. Not only[Pg 116] do these costumes take months of work to create, but they also require large amounts of money to complete. Often, as much as £10,000 has been spent on staging a single play.

This is no meagre sum, and should the play fail the actor-manager who has risked that large amount (or his syndicate) must bear the loss.

This is not a small amount, and if the play fails, the actor-manager who took that big risk (or his group) will have to handle the loss.

Some wonderful stage pictures have been produced within the last few years—and not a few of them were the work of Mr. Percy Anderson, Sir Alma-Tadema, and Mr. Percy Macquoid. It is an interesting fact that, while the designs for Ulysses cost Mr. Anderson six months’ continual labour, he managed to draw the elaborate costumes for Lewis Waller’s production of The Three Musketeers in three days, working eighteen hours out of the twenty-four, because the dresses were wanted immediately.

Some amazing stage images have been created in the last few years—and quite a few of them were done by Mr. Percy Anderson, Sir Alma-Tadema, and Mr. Percy Macquoid. Interestingly, while the designs for Ulysses took Mr. Anderson six months of nonstop work, he was able to sketch the intricate costumes for Lewis Waller's production of The Three Musketeers in just three days, putting in eighteen hours a day, because the costumes were needed right away.

Percy Anderson did not start as an artist in his youth, he was not born in the profession, but as a mature man allowed his particular bent to lead him to success. He lives in a charming little house bordering on the Regent’s Park, where he works with his brush all day, and his pencil far into the night. His studio is a pretty snuggery built on at the back of the house, which is partly studio, partly room, and partly greenhouse. Here he does his work and accomplishes those delightfully sketchy portraits for which he is famous, his innumerable designs for theatrical apparel.

Percy Anderson didn't start out as an artist in his youth; he wasn't born into the profession. Instead, as he grew older, he embraced his creative side and found success. He lives in a charming little house next to Regent’s Park, where he paints all day and sketches late into the night. His studio is a cozy space at the back of the house, serving as part studio, part living area, and part greenhouse. Here, he creates the wonderfully loose portraits that have made him famous, along with countless designs for theatrical costumes.

When I asked Mr. Anderson which costumes were most difficult to draw, he replied:

When I asked Mr. Anderson which costumes were the hardest to draw, he said:

“Either those in plays of an almost prehistoric period,[Pg 117] when the materials from which to work are extremely scanty, or those that introduce quite modern and up-to-date ceremonial.

“Either those in plays from an almost prehistoric time,[Pg 117] when the resources to work with are very limited, or those that feature very modern and current ceremonies.”

“As an instance of the former Ulysses proved an exceedingly difficult piece for which to design the costumes, because the only authentic information obtainable was from castes and sketches of remains found during the recent excavations at Knossus, in Crete, that have since been exhibited at the Winter Exhibition at Burlington House, but which were at the time reposing in a private room at the British Museum, where I was able to make some rough sketches and notes by the courtesy of Mr. Sidney Colvin.”

“As an example of the former, Ulysses was an incredibly challenging piece to create costumes for, because the only reliable information available came from casts and sketches of artifacts discovered during recent excavations at Knossos, in Crete. These artifacts were later showcased at the Winter Exhibition at Burlington House, but at that time, they were stored in a private room at the British Museum, where I was allowed to make some rough sketches and notes thanks to Mr. Sidney Colvin.”

“How did you manage about colour?”

“How did you handle the color?”

“My guide as to the colours in use at that remote period of time was merely a small fragment of early Mycenean mural decoration from Knossus, in which three colours, namely, yellow, blue, and a terra-cotta-red, together with black and white, were the only tones used, and to these three primary colours I accordingly confined myself, but I made one introduction, a bright apple-green dress which served to throw the others into finer relief. From these extremely scanty materials I had to design over two hundred costumes, none of which were exactly alike.”

“My reference for the colors used in that distant time was just a small piece of early Mycenaean mural decoration from Knossos, which featured three colors: yellow, blue, and a terra-cotta red, along with black and white as the only shades. I limited myself to these three primary colors, but I added one element—a bright apple-green dress to enhance the contrast of the others. Using these very limited materials, I had to create over two hundred costumes, none of which were exactly the same.”

The brilliancy of the result all playgoers will remember. The frontispiece shows one of the designs.

The brilliance of the result will be remembered by all theatergoers. The frontispiece shows one of the designs.

As an instance of a play introducing intricate modern ceremonial for which every garment worn had some special significance, The Eternal City may[Pg 118] be mentioned. In that Mr. Anderson had the greatest difficulty in discovering exactly what uniform or vestment would be worn by the Pope’s entourage on important private occasions, such as the scene in the Gardens of the Vatican, where His Holiness was carried in and saluted by the members of his guard before being left to receive his private audiences.

As an example of a play that incorporates complex modern rituals where every piece of clothing has its own meaning, The Eternal City may[Pg 118] be mentioned. Mr. Anderson faced significant challenges in figuring out exactly what uniform or attire would be worn by the Pope’s entourage during important private events, like the scene in the Vatican Gardens where His Holiness was brought in and greeted by his guards before meeting with his private audiences.

Mr. Anderson, however, received invaluable assistance in these matters from Mr. De La Roche Francis, who, besides having relatives in high official positions in Rome, had himself been attached to the Papal Court. All orders and decorations worn by the various characters in The Eternal City were modelled from the originals. Mr. Anderson usually makes a separate sketch for every costume to be worn by each character, in order to judge of the whole effect, which picture he supplements by drawings of the back and side views, reproductions of hats, head-dresses, hair, and jewellery.

Mr. Anderson, however, got invaluable help in these matters from Mr. De La Roche Francis, who, in addition to having relatives in high-ranking positions in Rome, had also been connected to the Papal Court. All the orders and decorations worn by the different characters in The Eternal City were based on the originals. Mr. Anderson usually creates a separate sketch for each costume to be worn by every character to evaluate the overall effect, which he enhances with drawings of the back and side views, as well as reproductions of hats, headpieces, hairstyles, and jewelry.

This is thoroughness—but after all thoroughness is the only thing that really succeeds. From these sketches the articles are cut out and made after Mr. Anderson has passed the materials as satisfactory submitted to him. Sometimes nothing proves suitable, and then something has to be woven to meet his own particular requirements.

This is thoroughness—but after all, thoroughness is the only thing that truly succeeds. From these sketches, the articles are cut out and made after Mr. Anderson has approved the materials as satisfactory. Sometimes nothing proves suitable, and then something has to be created to meet his specific requirements.

Mr. Anderson received orders direct from Beerbohm Tree for King John, Midsummer Night’s Dream, Herod, Ulysses, Merry Wives of Windsor, Resurrection, and The Eternal City, but in some cases the orders come from the authors. For instance, Mr.[Pg 119] Pinero wrote asking him to design those delightful Victorian costumes for Trelawny of the Wells. Captain Basil Hood arranged with him about the dresses for Merrie England, and J. M. Barrie for those in Quality Street.

Mr. Anderson got direct orders from Beerbohm Tree for King John, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Herod, Ulysses, The Merry Wives of Windsor, Resurrection, and The Eternal City, but in some instances, the requests came from the authors themselves. For example, Mr. [Pg 119] Pinero reached out to him to create those charming Victorian costumes for Trelawny of the Wells. Captain Basil Hood coordinated with him regarding the outfits for Merrie England, and J. M. Barrie did the same for the ones in Quality Street.

Some of the old-style dresses do not allow of much movement, and therefore it is sometimes necessary to make the garments in such a way that, while the effect remains, the actor has full play for his limbs. For instance, much adaptation of this sort was necessary for Richard II. at His Majesty’s. Mr. Anderson was about three months designing the two hundred and fifty dresses for this marvellous spectacle. He sought inspiration at the British Museum and Westminster, the Bluemantle at the Heralds’ College giving him valuable information with regard to the heraldry. All this shows the pains needed and taken to produce an accurate and harmonious stage picture.

Some of the old-fashioned dresses don't allow for much movement, so it’s sometimes necessary to design the outfits in a way that keeps the visual effect while giving the actor full freedom to move. For example, a lot of adjustments were needed for Richard II. at His Majesty’s. Mr. Anderson spent about three months designing the two hundred and fifty costumes for this amazing show. He found inspiration at the British Museum and Westminster, with the Bluemantle at the Heralds’ College providing him with valuable information about the heraldry. All of this highlights the effort required to create an accurate and cohesive stage image.

The designer is given a free hand, he chooses his own materials to the smallest details—often a guinea a yard is paid for silks and velvets—and he superintends everything, even the grouping of the crowds, so as to give most effect to his colouring. “Dress parades,” of which there are several, are those in which all the chorus and crowds have to appear, therefore their dresses are usually made first, so as to admit of ample study of colour before the “principals” receive theirs. The onlooker hardly recognises the trouble this entails, nor how well thought out the scheme of colour must be, so that when the crowd breaks up into groups the dresses shall not clash.[Pg 120] The artist must always work up to one broad effect in order to make a decorative scene.

The designer has complete freedom; he selects his own materials down to the smallest details—often paying a pound a yard for silks and velvets—and oversees everything, including how the crowds are arranged to maximize the impact of his color choices. “Dress parades,” of which there are several, involve all the chorus and crowd members, so their costumes are usually made first to allow for thorough color study before the “principals” get theirs. The onlooker rarely realizes the effort this requires or how carefully the color scheme must be planned to ensure that when the crowd splits into groups, the costumes don’t clash.[Pg 120] The artist must consistently aim for a cohesive overall effect to create a visually appealing scene.

It may be interesting to note that there is one particular colour—French blue—practically the shade of hyacinths, which is particularly useful for stage effect as it does not lose any of its tint by artificial light. It can only be dyed in one river at Lyons, in France, where there is some chemical in the water which exactly suits and retains the particular shade desired. We are improving in England, however, and near Haslemere wonderful fabrics and colours are now produced. There are excellent costumiers in England, some of the best, in fact, many of whom lay themselves out for work of a particular period; but all the armour is still made in France. That delightful singer and charming man, Eugene Oudin, wore a beautiful suit of chain armour as the Templar in Ivanhoe, which cost considerably over £100, and proved quite light and easy to wear. (During the last five years armour has become cheaper.) It was a beautiful dress, including a fine plumed helmet, and as he and my husband were the same size and build he several times lent it to him for fancy balls. It looked like the old chain armour in the Tower of London or the Castle of Madrid, and yet did not weigh as many ounces as they do pounds, so carefully had it been made to allow ease and movement to the singer.

It might be interesting to mention that there's one specific color—French blue—that's almost the same as hyacinths, which is especially useful for stage effects because it doesn’t lose any of its color under artificial light. It can only be dyed in one river in Lyons, France, where the water contains a chemical that perfectly matches and maintains the desired shade. However, we're improving in England, and around Haslemere, amazing fabrics and colors are now being produced. There are excellent costumiers in England—some of the best, actually—many of whom focus on creating outfits for specific historical periods; but all the armor is still made in France. That wonderful singer and charming guy, Eugene Oudin, wore a stunning suit of chain mail as the Templar in Ivanhoe, which cost over £100 and was surprisingly light and easy to wear. (In the past five years, armor has become cheaper.) It was a beautiful outfit, complete with a fancy plumed helmet, and since he and my husband were the same size and build, he lent it to him for fancy dress balls several times. It resembled the old chain mail in the Tower of London or the Castle of Madrid, yet it weighed less in ounces than they do in pounds, so carefully was it made to ensure ease and movement for the singer.

After all, it is really a moot question whether tremendous elaboration of scenery is a benefit to dramatic production. At the present time much[Pg 121] attention is drawn from the main interest, and instead of appreciating the acting or the play, it is the stage carpentering and gorgeous “mounting” that wins the most applause.

After all, it’s really a pointless question whether extensive scenery is an advantage to dramatic performances. Nowadays, a lot[Pg 121] of attention is taken away from the main focus, and instead of appreciating the acting or the storyline, it’s the stagecraft and elaborate setups that get the most applause.

This is all very well to a certain extent, but it is hardly educating the public to grasp the real value of play or acting if both be swamped by scenery and silks. Lately we had an opportunity of seeing really good performances without their being enhanced by scenic effect, such as Twelfth Night, by the Elizabethan Stage Society, and Everyman. These representations were an intellectual treat, such as one seldom enjoys, and were certainly calculated to raise the standard of purely theatrical work. Strictness of detail may do much to make the tout ensemble perfect, but does not the piece lose more than it gains?

This is all very well to a certain extent, but it doesn't really help the public understand the true value of play or acting if both are overwhelmed by scenery and costumes. Recently, we had the chance to see truly great performances without the added benefit of visual effects, like Twelfth Night by the Elizabethan Stage Society and Everyman. These shows were an intellectual delight, something you rarely experience, and definitely aimed to raise the standard of purely theatrical work. Attention to detail can do a lot to make the tout ensemble perfect, but doesn’t the piece lose more than it gains?

Again, the careful rehearsing which is now in fashion tends to make the performers more or less puppets in the hands of the stage manager or author, rather than real individual actors. Individuality except in “stars” is not wanted nor appreciated. Further, long runs are the ruin of actors. Instead of being kept up to the mark, alert, their brains active by constantly learning and performing new rôles, they simply become automata, and can almost go through their parts in their sleep. Surely this is not acting.

Once again, the careful rehearsing that is popular these days tends to turn performers into puppets in the hands of the stage manager or writer, rather than allowing them to be real individual actors. Individuality, except for “stars,” is neither wanted nor appreciated. Additionally, long runs are detrimental to actors. Instead of staying sharp, alert, and mentally engaged by constantly learning and performing new rôles, they simply become automatons and can almost perform their parts in their sleep. This surely isn’t acting.

Every important rôle has an understudy. Generally some one playing a minor part in the programme is allowed the privilege of understudying a star. By this arrangement he is at the theatre every night, and if[Pg 122] the star cannot shine, the minor individual goes on to twinkle instead, his own part being played by some lesser luminary. Many a man or woman has found an opening and ultimate success in this way, through the misfortune of another.

Every important role has an understudy. Usually, someone playing a minor part in the show gets the chance to understudy a star. This way, they are at the theater every night, and if[Pg 122] the star can’t perform, the minor actor steps in to take their place, while their own part is taken over by another lesser performer. Many men and women have discovered opportunities and achieved success this way, thanks to the misfortune of someone else.

At some theatres the understudy is paid for performing, or is given a present of some sort in recognition of his services, while at others, even good ones, he gets nothing at all, the honour being considered sufficient reward.

At some theaters, the understudy gets paid for performing or receives a gift of some kind to acknowledge their contributions, while at others, even reputable ones, they receive nothing at all, with the honor being seen as enough of a reward.

No one misses a performance if he can possibly help it; there are many reasons for not doing so; and sometimes actors go through this strain when physically unfit for work, rather than be out of the bill for a single night. Theatrical folk go through many vicissitudes in their endeavour to keep faith with the public.

No one skips a performance if they can help it; there are plenty of reasons not to. Sometimes actors push through even when they’re not physically fit for work, just to avoid missing a night. People in theater face a lot of ups and downs as they try to stay committed to the audience.

For instance, one terribly foggy night in 1902 during the run of Iris all London was steeped in blackness. It was truly an awful fog, just one of those we share with Chicago and Christiania. Miss Fay Davis, that winsome American actress, was playing the chief part in Pinero’s play and went down to the theatre every night from her home in Sloane Square in a brougham she always hired, with an old coachman she knew well.

For example, on a super foggy night in 1902 during the run of Iris, all of London was enveloped in darkness. It was really a terrible fog, one of those we often have in Chicago and Oslo. Miss Fay Davis, the charming American actress, was starring in Pinero’s play and went to the theater every night from her home in Sloane Square in a hired carriage with an old coachman she trusted.

She ate her dinner in despair at the fog, her mother fidgeted anxiously and wondered what was to happen, when the bell rang, long before the appointed time, and the carriage was announced.

She ate her dinner with a sense of hopelessness at the fog, while her mother nervously fidgeted and worried about what was going to happen. Suddenly, the bell rang, well before the scheduled time, announcing the arrival of the carriage.

“Oh, we’ll get there somehow, miss,” the old[Pg 123] coachman remarked; so, well wrapped up in furs, the daring lady started for her work. They did get there after an anxious journey, assisted by policemen and torches, Miss Davis alighted, saying:

“Oh, we’ll make it there, miss,” the old[Pg 123] coachman said; so, bundled up in furs, the brave lady set off for her task. They arrived after a tense journey, helped by police officers and flashlights. Miss Davis got out, saying:

“I daresay it will be all right by eleven, but anyway you must fetch me on foot if you can’t drive.”

“I think it will be fine by eleven, but either way, you have to pick me up on foot if you can’t drive.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” replied her worthy friend, and off he drove. Miss Davis went to her dressing-room, feeling a perfect heroine for venturing forth, and when she was half ready there came a knock at the door.

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” replied her good friend, and off he drove. Miss Davis went to her dressing room, feeling like a complete heroine for stepping out, and when she was halfway ready, there came a knock at the door.

“No performance to-night, miss.”

"No show tonight, miss."

“What?”

"What’s up?"

“Only half the actors have turned up, and there isn’t a single man or woman in the theatre—pit empty, gallery empty, everything empty—so they’ve decided not to play Iris to-night. No one can see across the footlights.”

“Only half the actors have shown up, and there’s not a single person in the theatre—stage empty, balcony empty, everything empty—so they’ve decided not to perform Iris tonight. No one can see across the footlights.”

It was true; so remarkable was that particular fog, several of the playhouses had to shut-up-shop for the night. How Miss Davis got home remains a mystery.

It was true; the fog was so remarkable that several theaters had to close for the night. How Miss Davis got home remains a mystery.

A very beautiful actress of my acquaintance rarely has an engagement. She acts well, she looks magnificent, and has played many star parts in the provinces, yet she is constantly among the unemployed. “Why,” I once asked, “do you find it so difficult to get work?”

A really beautiful actress I know rarely gets hired. She performs well, looks fantastic, and has had many leading roles in regional theaters, yet she’s always out of work. “Why,” I once asked, “is it so hard for you to find a job?”

“Because I’m three inches too tall. No man likes to be dwarfed by a woman on the stage. In a ball-room the smaller the man the taller the partner he chooses, and this sometimes applies to matrimony, but on the stage never[Pg 124].”

“Because I'm three inches too tall. No guy likes to be overshadowed by a woman on stage. In a ballroom, the shorter the man, the taller the partner he picks, and this sometimes holds true for marriage, but on stage, never[Pg 124].”

“Can you play with low heels?” she is often asked when seeking an engagement.

“Can you wear low heels?” she is often asked when looking for a date.

“Certainly,” is the reply.

“Sure,” is the reply.

“Would you mind standing beside me?”

“Could you stand next to me?”

“Delighted.”

"Excited."

“Too tall, I’m afraid,” says the man.

“Too tall, I’m afraid,” says the guy.

“But I can dress my hair low and wear small hats.”

“But I can style my hair down and wear small hats.”

“Too tall all the same, I’m afraid.”

"Still too tall, I’m sorry."

And for this reason she loses one engagement after another. Most of the actor-managers have their own wives or recognised “leading ladies,” so that in London, openings for new stars are few and far between, and when the actress, however great her talent or her charm, makes the leading actor look small, she is waved aside and some one inferior takes her place.

And that's why she keeps losing one engagement after another. Most of the actor-managers have their own wives or established "leading ladies," so in London, chances for new stars are rare. When an actress, no matter how talented or charming, makes the leading actor look bad, she's pushed aside and someone less capable takes her spot.

On one occasion it was a woman who refused to act with my friend. She had been engaged for a big part—but when this woman—once the darling of society, and a glittering star upon the stage—saw her fellow-worker, she said:

On one occasion, a woman refused to work with my friend. She had been cast in a significant role—but when this woman—once a beloved figure in society and a shining star on stage—saw her fellow performer, she said:

“I can’t act with you, you would make me look insignificant; besides, you are too good-looking.”

“I can’t work with you, you’d make me look unimportant; plus, you’re way too attractive.”

[Pg 125]

CHAPTER VII

SUPPER ON THE STAGE

Reception on the St. James’s Stage—An Indian Prince—His Comments—The Audience—George Alexander’s Youth—How He Missed a Fortune—How He Learns a Part—A Scenic Garden—Love for the Country—Actors’ Pursuits—The Strain of Theatrical Life—Life and Death—Trends—Mr. Maude’s Dressing Room—Sketches on Distempered Walls—Arthur Bourchier and His Dresser—John Hare—Early and Late Theatres—A Solitary Dinner—An Hour’s Make-Up—A Forgetful Actor—Bonne camaraderie—Theatrical Salaries—Treasury Day—Wastefulness—The Advent of Stalls—The Bancrofts—The Haymarket Photographs—A Dress Rehearsal.

ONE of the most delightful theatrical entertainments I ever remember was held by Mr. George Alexander on the stage of the St. James’s Theatre. It was in honour of the Coronation of Edward VII., and given to the Indian Princes and Colonial visitors.

ONE of the most enjoyable theatrical events I can remember was hosted by Mr. George Alexander on the stage of the St. James’s Theatre. It was in celebration of the Coronation of Edward VII and was held for the Indian Princes and Colonial visitors.

The play preceding the reception was that charming piece Paolo and Francesca. I sat in the stalls, and on my right hand was a richly attired Indian, who wore a turban lavishly ornamented with jewels. I had seen him a short while previously at a Court at Buckingham Palace, one of those magnificent royal evening receptions Queen Alexandra has instituted instead of those dreary afternoon Drawing-rooms. This gentleman[Pg 126] had been there when the Royalties received the Indian Princes in June, 1902, the occasion when the royal cortége promenaded through those spacious rooms with such magnificent effect. It was the Court held a few days prior to the date first fixed for the Coronation—a ceremony postponed, as all the world knows, till some weeks later in consequence of the King’s sudden illness.

The play before the reception was that delightful piece Paolo and Francesca. I sat in the audience, and to my right was a well-dressed Indian man, wearing a turban lavishly decorated with jewels. I had seen him not long before at a royal event at Buckingham Palace, one of those splendid evening receptions that Queen Alexandra established instead of the dull afternoon Drawing-rooms. This gentleman[Pg 126] had been there when the royals welcomed the Indian Princes in June 1902, during the event when the royal procession moved through those grand rooms with such impressive flair. It was the Court held just a few days before the original date set for the Coronation—a ceremony that, as everyone knows, was postponed for several weeks due to the King's sudden illness.

My princely neighbour was very grand. He wore that same huge ruby at the side of his head, set in diamonds and ornamented with an osprey, which had excited so much admiration at Buckingham Palace. Although small he was a fine-looking man and had charming manners. He read his programme carefully and seemed much interested in the performance, then he looked through his opera-glasses and appeared puzzled; suddenly I realised he wanted to know something.

My royal neighbor was quite impressive. He had that same large ruby on the side of his head, surrounded by diamonds and decorated with an osprey, which had drawn so much admiration at Buckingham Palace. Even though he was small, he was a handsome man with delightful manners. He attentively read his program and seemed really interested in the show; then he looked through his opera glasses and looked confused; suddenly I realized he was trying to figure something out.

“You follow the play?” I asked; “or can I explain anything to you?”

“Are you following the play?” I asked. “Or do you need me to explain anything?”

“Thank you so much,” he replied in charming English. “I can follow it pretty well, but I cannot quite make out whether the lovely young lady is really going to marry that hump-backed man. Surely she ought to marry the handsome young fellow. She is so lily-lovely.”

“Thank you so much,” he said in a charming way. “I can understand it pretty well, but I can’t quite tell if the beautiful young lady is really going to marry that hunchbacked man. She should definitely marry the handsome young guy. She’s so lovely.”

“No, Francesca marries Giovanni.”

“No, Francesca is marrying Giovanni.”

“Ah, it is too sad, poor thing,” answered the Indian gentleman, apparently much grieved. He turned to his neighbour, who did not speak English, and retailed the information. Their distress was really amusing. Evidently the lovely white lady (Miss Millard) deserved[Pg 127] a better fate according to their ideas, for he repeatedly expressed his distress as the play proceeded. Before he left the theatre that night he crossed the stage, and making a profound bow, thanked me for helping him to understand the play. His gratitude and Oriental politeness were charming.

“Ah, it’s so sad, poor thing,” replied the Indian gentleman, clearly quite upset. He turned to his neighbor, who didn’t speak English, and shared the news. Their concern was actually amusing. Clearly, the beautiful white lady (Miss Millard) deserved[Pg 127] a better fate in their eyes, as he repeatedly voiced his sorrow throughout the play. Before he left the theater that night, he crossed the stage and, with a deep bow, thanked me for helping him understand the play. His gratitude and Eastern politeness were charming.

The St. James’s presented a gay scene. The Indian dresses, the diamonds, and extra floral decorations rendered it a regular gala performance. At the usual hour the curtain descended. The general public left; but invited guests remained. We rose from our seats and conversed with friends, while a perfect army of stage carpenters and strange women, after moving out the front row of stalls, brought flights of steps and made delightfully carpeted staircases lead up to either side of the stage. Huge palms and lovely flowers banked the banisters and hid the orchestra. Within a few moments the whole place resembled a conservatory fitted up as for a rout. It was all done as if by magic. Methinks Mr. Alexander must have had several “stage rehearsals” to accomplish results so admirable with such rapidity.

The St. James’s had a lively atmosphere. The Indian outfits, diamonds, and extra floral decorations made it feel like a gala performance. At the usual time, the curtain fell. The general public left, but the invited guests stayed. We got up from our seats and chatted with friends, while a whole crew of stagehands and unfamiliar women, after clearing out the front row of seats, brought in steps and set up beautifully carpeted staircases leading up to either side of the stage. Massive palms and gorgeous flowers lined the banisters and concealed the orchestra. In just a few moments, the entire venue looked like a conservatory set up for a gathering. It all came together as if by magic. I think Mr. Alexander must have had several “stage rehearsals” to achieve such impressive results so quickly.

The curtain rose, the stage had been cleared, and there at the head of the staircase stood the handsome actor-manager in plain dress clothes, washed and cleaned from his heavy make-up, and with his smiling wife ready to receive their guests.

The curtain went up, the stage was set, and there at the top of the staircase stood the attractive actor-manager in simple dress clothes, freshly cleaned of his heavy makeup, with his smiling wife prepared to welcome their guests.

At the back of the stage the scenery had been arranged to form a second room, wherein supper was served at a buffet.

At the back of the stage, the set was arranged to create a second room, where supper was served at a buffet.

It was all admirably done. Most of the Colonial[Pg 128] Premiers were there, many of the Indian Princes, and a plentiful sprinkling of the leading lights of London. Of course a stage is not very big and the numbers had to be limited; but about a couple of hundred persons thoroughly enjoyed that supper behind the footlights at the St. James’s Theatre. Many of the people had never been on a stage before, and it was rather amusing to see them peeping behind the flies, and asking weird questions from the scene-shifters. Some were surprised to find the floor was not level, but a gentle incline, for all audiences do not know the necessity of raising the back figures, so that those in front of the house may see all the performers.

It was all really well done. Most of the Colonial[Pg 128] Premiers were there, many of the Indian Princes, and a good mix of the prominent figures from London. Of course, a stage isn’t very big, so the numbers had to be limited; but around two hundred people thoroughly enjoyed that supper behind the footlights at the St. James’s Theatre. Many of the attendees had never been on a stage before, and it was quite amusing to see them peeking behind the curtains and asking strange questions to the stagehands. Some were surprised to discover that the floor wasn’t flat, but sloped gently, since not all audiences understand the need to raise the back rows so that those in front can see all the performers.

A party on the stage is always interesting, and generally of rare occurrence, although Sir Henry Irving and Mr. Beerbohm Tree both gave suppers in honour of the Coronation, so England’s distinguished visitors had several opportunities of enjoying these unique receptions. At the supper at His Majesty’s Theatre a few nights later the chief attractions besides the Beerbohm Trees were Mrs. Kendal and Miss Ellen Terry, the latter still wearing her dress as Mistress Page. Every one wanted to shake hands with her, and not a few were saddened to see her using those grey smoked glasses she always dons when not actually before the footlights.

A party on stage is always exciting and usually pretty rare. However, Sir Henry Irving and Mr. Beerbohm Tree both hosted dinners to celebrate the Coronation, giving England's notable visitors a few chances to enjoy these special receptions. At the dinner at His Majesty's Theatre a few nights later, the main attractions besides the Beerbohm Trees were Mrs. Kendal and Miss Ellen Terry, who was still wearing her costume as Mistress Page. Everyone wanted to shake her hand, and many felt a bit sad to see her wearing those grey-tinted glasses she always puts on when she’s not performing.

Photo by Langfier, 23a, Old Bond Street, London, W.

MR. GEORGE ALEXANDER.

Mr. George Alexander.

George Alexander has had a most successful career, but he was not cradled on the stage. His father was an Ayrshire man and the boy was brought up for business. Not liking that he turned to [Pg 129]medicine, and still being dissatisfied he abandoned the doctor’s art at an early stage and took a post in a silk merchant’s office. This brought him to London. From that moment he was a constant theatre-goer, and in September, 1879, made his first bow behind the footlights. He owes much of his success to the training he received in Sir Henry Irving’s Company at the Lyceum. There is no doubt much of the business learned in early youth has stood him in good stead in his theatrical ventures, and much of the artistic taste and desire for perfection in stage-mounting so noticeable at the St. James’s was imbibed in the early days at the Lyceum. It takes a great deal to make a successful actor-manager; he must have literary and artistic taste, business capacity, and withal knowledge of his craft.

George Alexander has had a very successful career, but he wasn’t raised for the stage. His father was from Ayrshire, and he was brought up to go into business. Not liking that, he switched to [Pg 129]medicine, but still feeling unsatisfied, he left the medical field early on and took a job at a silk merchant’s office. This led him to London. From that point on, he became a regular at the theatre, and in September 1879, made his first appearance on stage. He owes much of his success to the training he received in Sir Henry Irving’s Company at the Lyceum. There’s no doubt that much of the knowledge he gained in his youth has helped him in his theatrical ventures, and his artistic taste and pursuit of perfection in stage presentation, which is so evident at St. James’s, were developed during his early days at the Lyceum. It takes a lot to be a successful actor-manager; he needs to have a sense of literature and art, business skills, and a solid understanding of his craft.

In 1891 he took the St. James’s Theatre and began a long series of successes. He has gone through the mill, worked his way from the bottom to the top, and being possessed of an exceptionally clear business head, has made fewer mistakes than many others in his profession.

In 1891, he took over the St. James’s Theatre and kicked off a lengthy string of successes. He has faced numerous challenges, rising from humble beginnings to the top, and with an exceptionally sharp business mind, he has made fewer mistakes than many others in his field.

Mr. Alexander tells a good story about himself:

Mr. Alexander shares an interesting story about himself:

“For many months I continually received very long letters from a lady giving me her opinion not only on current stage matters, but on the topics of the hour, with graphic descriptions of herself—her doings—her likes and dislikes. She gave no address, but her letters usually bore the postmark of a country town not a hundred miles from London. She confided in me that she was a spinster, and that she did not[Pg 130] consider her relations sympathetic. She was obviously well-to-do—I gathered this from her account of her home and her daily life as she described them. Suddenly her letters ceased, and I wondered what had happened. Almost two months after I received her last letter, I had a communication from a firm of lawyers asking for an appointment. I met them—two very serious-looking gentlemen they were too! After a good deal of preliminary talk they came to their point.

“For many months, I kept getting very long letters from a woman sharing her thoughts, not just on current theater issues, but also on trending topics, along with vivid accounts of her life—what she did, what she liked, and what she didn't. She never included an address, but her letters usually came with a postmark from a small town not far from London. She confided in me that she was single and that she didn't consider her family very sympathetic. It was clear she had money—I figured this out from how she described her home and her daily life. Then suddenly, her letters stopped, and I wondered what had happened. Almost two months after I received her last letter, I got a message from a law firm requesting a meeting. I met with them—two very serious-looking gentlemen! After quite a bit of small talk, they got to the point.”

“‘You know Miss ——’ said the elder of the men.

“‘You know Miss ——’ said the older man.”

“‘No,’ I replied.

"No," I said.

“‘But you do,’ he said. ‘She has written to you continually.’

“‘But you do,’ he said. ‘She has been writing to you all the time.’”

“This was very puzzling, but following up the slight clue, I asked:

“This was very puzzling, but after picking up on the small clue, I asked:

“‘Is her Christian name Mary?’

“‘Is her first name Mary?’”

“‘Yes,’ he replied.

"Yes," he replied.

“‘And she lives at——?’

"‘And she lives at—?’"

“Then I knew whom they meant. Their mission, it seemed, was to tell me that the lady had been very ill, and fearing she was going to die, had expressed a wish to alter her will in my favour. As the lawyers had acted for her family for many years, and were friends of her relations, they had taken her instructions quietly, but after much discussion in private had decided to call on me and inform me of the facts, and they asked me to write a letter to them stating that such a course would be distasteful to me and unfair to her relations. I did so in strong terms, and so I lost a little fortune[Pg 131].”

“Then I realized who they were talking about. Their mission seemed to be to inform me that the lady had been very sick, and fearing she might die, she had expressed a desire to change her will in my favor. Since the lawyers had represented her family for many years and were friends with her relatives, they had taken her instructions quietly but, after much private discussion, decided to come to me and share the facts. They asked me to write a letter to them stating that such a course would be unpleasant for me and unfair to her relatives. I did so in strong terms, and as a result, I lost a small fortune[Pg 131].”

When Mr. Alexander learns a new part he and his wife retire to their cottage at Chorley Wood to study. I bicycled thither one day from Chalfont St. Peter’s, when to my disappointment the servant informed me they were “out.”

When Mr. Alexander learns a new role, he and his wife go back to their cottage in Chorley Wood to practice. I biked there one day from Chalfont St. Peter’s, only to be disappointed when the servant told me they were “out.”

“Oh dear, how sad!” I said, “for it is so hot, and I’m tired and wanted some tea.”

“Oh no, how sad!” I said, “It’s so hot, and I’m tired and wanted some tea.”

Evidently this wrung her heart, for she said she would “go and see.” She went, and immediately Mr. Alexander appeared to bid me welcome.

Evidently this broke her heart, because she said she would “go and see.” She went, and right away Mr. Alexander showed up to welcome me.

“I’m working,” he said, “and the maid has orders not to admit any one without special permission.”

“I’m working,” he said, “and the maid has instructions not to let anyone in without special permission.”

What a pretty scene. Lying in a hammock in the orchard on that hot summer’s day was the actor-manager of the St. James’s Theatre. Seated on a garden chair was his wife, simply dressed in white serge and straw hat. On her lap lay the new typewritten play in its brown paper covers, and at her feet was Boris, the famous hound. The Alexanders had been a fortnight at the cottage working hard at the play, and at the moment of my arrival Mrs. Alexander was hearing her husband his part. Not only does she do this, but she makes excellent suggestions. She studies the plays, too, and her taste is of the greatest value as regards dresses, stage decorations, or the arrangement of crowds. Although she has never played professionally, Mrs. Alexander knows all the ins and outs of theatrical life, and is of the greatest help to her husband in the productions.

What a beautiful scene. Lying in a hammock in the orchard on that hot summer day was the actor-manager of the St. James’s Theatre. Sitting in a garden chair was his wife, simply dressed in a white fabric and straw hat. On her lap was the new typewritten play in its brown paper covers, and at her feet was Boris, the famous hound. The Alexanders had been at the cottage for two weeks working hard on the play, and at the moment I arrived, Mrs. Alexander was listening to her husband rehearse his lines. Not only does she do this, but she also offers great suggestions. She studies the plays, and her taste is incredibly valuable when it comes to costumes, stage decorations, or organizing crowds. Although she has never acted professionally, Mrs. Alexander knows all the ins and outs of theatrical life and is a tremendous help to her husband with the productions.

Had a stranger entered a compartment of a train between Chorley Wood and London a few days later,[Pg 132] he might have thought George Alexander and I were about to commit murder, suicide, or both.

Had a stranger entered a train compartment between Chorley Wood and London a few days later,[Pg 132] he might have thought George Alexander and I were about to commit murder, suicide, or both.

“What have you got there?” asked the actor when we met on the platform.

“What do you have there?” asked the actor when we met on the platform.

“A gun,” was my reply.

“A gun?”

“Yes, a gun. I’m taking it to London to be mended.”

“Yes, a gun. I’m taking it to London to get repaired.”

“Ha ha! I can beat that,” he laughed. “See what I have here,” and opening a little box he disclosed half a dozen razors.

“Ha ha! I can top that,” he chuckled. “Check out what I have here,” and opening a small box, he revealed half a dozen razors.

“Razors!” I exclaimed.

"Razors!" I said excitedly.

“Yes, razors; so be wary with your sanguinary weapon, for mine mean worse mischief.”

“Yes, razors; so be careful with your bloody weapon, because mine can cause even more harm.”

He was taking the razors to London to be sharpened.

He was taking the razors to London to get sharpened.

It was fortunate no accident happened to that train, or a gun and six razors might have formed food for “public inquiry.”

It was lucky that nothing happened to that train, or a gun and six razors could have become the focus of a “public inquiry.”

It is a curious thing how many actors and actresses like to shake the dust of the stage from their feet on leaving the theatre. They seem to become satiated with publicity, to long for the country and an outdoor, freer life, and in many instances they not only long for it, but actually succeed in obtaining it, and the last trains on Saturday night are often full of theatrical folk seeking repose far from theatres till Monday afternoon.

It's interesting how many actors and actresses like to leave the stage behind when they exit the theater. They seem to get tired of the fame, yearning for the countryside and a freer, outdoor lifestyle. In many cases, they not only wish for it, but actually manage to achieve it, and the last trains on Saturday night are often packed with theater people looking for relaxation away from the theaters until Monday afternoon.

Recreation and entire change of occupation are absolutely necessary to the brain-worker, and the man is wise who realises this. If he does, and seeks complete[Pg 133] rest from mental strain, he will probably have a long and successful career; otherwise the breakdown is sure to come, and may come with such force as to leave the victim afflicted for life, so it is far wiser for the brain-worker of whatever profession or business to realise this at an early stage. In this respect actors are as a rule wiser than their fellow-workers, and seek and enjoy recreation on Sunday and Monday, which is more than can be said of many lawyers, doctors, painters, or literary men.

Recreation and a complete change of pace are essential for anyone who works with their mind, and it's smart for a person to understand this. If they do and pursue total[Pg 133] rest from mental stress, they're likely to have a long and successful career; otherwise, a breakdown is inevitable and can hit with such intensity that the individual may suffer long-term effects. Therefore, it's much more sensible for anyone in a mentally demanding profession to recognize this early on. In this regard, actors are generally more mindful than many of their peers and actively seek out and enjoy weekends off, unlike a lot of lawyers, doctors, painters, or writers.

The strain of theatrical life is great. No one should attempt to go upon the stage who is not strong. If there be any constitutional weakness, theatrical life will find it out. Extremes of heat and cold have to be borne. Low dresses or thick furs have to be worn in succeeding acts. The atmosphere of gas and sulphur is often bad, but must be endured.

The pressure of theatrical life is intense. No one should try to go on stage unless they are strong. If there’s any underlying weakness, the demands of theater will expose it. You have to deal with extreme temperatures. Sometimes you’ll wear low-cut dresses, and other times thick furs in different acts. The air filled with gas and sulfur can often be unpleasant, but it has to be tolerated.

A heavy part exhausts an actor in a few minutes as much as carrying a hod of bricks all day does a labourer. He may have to change his underclothing two or three times in an evening, in spite of all his dresser’s rubbing down. The mental and physical strain affects the pores of the skin and exhausts the body, that is why one hardly ever finds an actor fat. He takes too much physical exercise, takes too much out of himself, ever to let superfluous flesh accumulate upon his bones.

A demanding role tires an actor out in just a few minutes, just like carrying a load of bricks all day wears out a laborer. He might need to change his undershirt two or three times in one night, despite all the prep from his dresser. The mental and physical stress takes a toll on his skin and wears out his body, which is why you rarely see an overweight actor. They get so much physical activity and push themselves so hard that there's no way extra fat can build up on their bodies.

Yes, the actor’s life is often a mental strain, of which the following is a striking instance. A very devoted couple were once caused much anxiety by[Pg 134] the wife’s serious and protracted illness. Months wore on, and every night the husband played his part, wondering what news would greet him when he returned home. At last it was decided that an operation was necessary. It was a grave operation, one of life and death, but it had to be faced.

Yes, the actor's life is often a mental strain, as illustrated by the following example. A very devoted couple experienced a lot of anxiety due to the wife's serious and prolonged illness. Months went by, and every night the husband played his role, wondering what news would await him when he got home. Finally, it was decided that an operation was necessary. It was a serious procedure, one that involved life and death, but it had to be confronted.

One morning the wife bade her bairns and her home good-bye, and drove off with her spouse to a famous surgical home. That night the poor actor had to play his comic part, with sad and anxious heart he had to smile and caper and be amusing. Think of the mockery of it all. Next morning he was up early, toying with his breakfast, in order to be at the home before nine o’clock, when that serious operation was to be performed. He did not see his wife—that would have upset them both—but like a caged lion he walked up and down, up and down in an adjoining room. At last came the glad tidings that it was over, and all had so far gone satisfactorily.

One morning, the wife said goodbye to her kids and home and left with her husband to a well-known surgical center. That night, the poor actor had to perform his comedic role, forcing himself to smile and entertain, all while feeling sad and anxious. Just think of the irony of it all. The next morning, he was up early, barely touching his breakfast, trying to arrive at the center before nine o’clock, when the serious surgery was scheduled to take place. He didn’t see his wife—that would have been too upsetting for both of them—but like a trapped lion, he paced back and forth in an adjoining room. Finally, he received the great news that it was over, and everything had gone well so far.

Back to the theatre he went that night, having heard the latest bulletin, and played his part with smiling face, knowing his wife was hovering between life and death. Next morning she was not so well. It was a matinée day, and in an agony of anxiety and excitement that poor man played two performances, receiving wires about her condition between the acts. Think of it! We often laugh at men and women, who may be for all we know, acting with aching hearts. Comedy and tragedy are closely interwoven in life, perhaps especially so in theatrical life.

Back to the theater he went that night, having heard the latest news, and played his part with a smiling face, knowing his wife was hanging on between life and death. The next morning, she wasn't doing well. It was a matinée day, and in a state of anxiety and excitement, that poor man performed twice, receiving updates about her condition between the acts. Think about it! We often laugh at people who might be, for all we know, acting with heavy hearts. Comedy and tragedy are closely intertwined in life, perhaps especially in the world of theater.

By way of recreation from work George Alexander[Pg 135] rushes off to his cottage at Chorley Wood to play golf. Sir Charles Wyndham and Sir Squire and Lady Bancroft for many years enjoyed rambles in Switzerland. Sir Henry Irving is a tremendous smoker and never happy without a cigar. Ellen Terry is so devoted to her son and daughter, she finds recreation in their society. Cyril Maude loves shooting and all country pursuits. Winifred Emery never mentions the theatre after she leaves the stage door, and finds relaxation in domesticity. Mrs. Kendal knits. Lewis Waller motors. Dan Leno retires to the suburbs to look after his ducks. Arthur Bourchier is fond of golfing whenever he gets a chance. Miss Marie Tempest lives in a musical set, and is as devoted to her friends as they are to her.

By way of a break from work, George Alexander[Pg 135] hurries off to his cottage at Chorley Wood to play golf. Sir Charles Wyndham and Sir Squire and Lady Bancroft have enjoyed long walks in Switzerland for many years. Sir Henry Irving is a heavy smoker and never feels content without a cigar. Ellen Terry is so devoted to her kids that she finds joy in spending time with them. Cyril Maude loves shooting and all outdoor activities. Winifred Emery never talks about the theater once she leaves the stage door and finds her relaxation in domestic life. Mrs. Kendal knits. Lewis Waller drives his car. Dan Leno goes to the suburbs to take care of his ducks. Arthur Bourchier enjoys golfing whenever he has the chance. Miss Marie Tempest is part of a musical community and is as dedicated to her friends as they are to her.

The world is governed by fads. Fads are an antidote to boredom—a tonic to the overworked, and actors enjoy fads like the rest of us; for instance:

The world is run by trends. Trends are a cure for boredom—a remedy for the overworked, and celebrities enjoy trends just like everyone else; for example:

Eugene Oudin, that most delightful operatic singer, who was cut off just as he stepped on the top rung of Fame’s ladder, was a splendid photographer. In 1890 photography was not so much the fashion as it is nowadays, but even then his pictures were works of art. He portrayed his contemporaries—the De Reskes, Van Dyck, Calvé, Hans Richter, Mascagni, Joachim, Tosti, Alma-Tadema, John Drew, Melba, and dozens more at their work, or in some way that would make a picture as well as a photograph. Then these worthies signed the copies, which were subsequently hung round the walls of Oudin’s private study.

Eugene Oudin, that incredibly charming operatic singer, was taken from us just as he was reaching the pinnacle of fame. He was also a fantastic photographer. In 1890, photography wasn’t as popular as it is today, but even back then, his pictures were true works of art. He captured images of his contemporaries—the De Reskes, Van Dyck, Calvé, Hans Richter, Mascagni, Joachim, Tosti, Alma-Tadema, John Drew, Melba, and many others—as they worked, or in ways that made for beautiful images as well as photographs. Then these notable individuals signed the prints, which were later displayed on the walls of Oudin’s private study.

[Pg 136]

Miss Julia Neilson has a passion for collecting fans. Herbert Waring is a brilliant whist-player. Mrs. Patrick Campbell adores small dogs, and nearly always has one tucked under her arm. Many actresses have particular mascots. Miss Ellen Terry, Miss Lily Hanbury, and a host more have their lucky ornaments which they wear on first nights. Miss Irene Vanbrugh is devoted to turquoises, and has a necklace composed of curious specimens of these stones, presents from her many friends.

Miss Julia Neilson is really into collecting fans. Herbert Waring is an amazing whist player. Mrs. Patrick Campbell loves small dogs and almost always has one tucked under her arm. Many actresses have specific mascots. Miss Ellen Terry, Miss Lily Hanbury, and many others have their lucky charms that they wear on opening nights. Miss Irene Vanbrugh is obsessed with turquoises and has a necklace made of unique specimens of these stones, gifts from her many friends.

Miss Violet Vanbrugh declares she is “one of those people who somehow never contrive actively or passively to be the heroine of any little stage joke.” This is rather an amusing assertion for a lady who is continually playing stage heroines. Her husband, Mr. Arthur Bourchier, however, tells a good story against himself.

Miss Violet Vanbrugh says she is “one of those people who somehow never manages to be the heroine of any little stage joke, either directly or indirectly.” This is quite a funny statement coming from someone who is always playing stage heroines. Her husband, Mr. Arthur Bourchier, though, shares a good story about himself.

“My present servant, or ‘dresser,’ as they are called at the theatre, was one of the original Gallery First Nighters and a member of the celebrated Gaiety Gallery Boys. Of course when he joined me I imagined he had forsaken the auditorium for the stage. One night, however, a play was produced by me, the dress rehearsal of which he had seen, and I noticed that he seemed particularly gloomy and morose at its conclusion. On the first night, when I came back to my dressing-room from the stage, I found the door locked. Here was a pretty predicament. It was clear that he had got the key and had mysteriously disappeared. I had the door broken open, for dress I must as time was pressing, and sent[Pg 137] another man to search for my missing servant. The sequel is as follows. He was caught red-handed in the gallery among his old associates loudly ‘booing’ his master. Arraigned before me, he maintained the firmest attitude possible, and asserted boldly:

“My current servant, or ‘dresser,’ as they’re called at the theater, was one of the original Gallery First Nighters and part of the famous Gaiety Gallery Boys. When he joined me, I thought he had left the audience behind for a role on stage. One night, though, I premiered a play that he had seen in dress rehearsal, and I noticed he looked especially gloomy and down at the end. On opening night, when I returned to my dressing room from the stage, I found the door locked. This was quite a situation. It was obvious that he had taken the key and had mysteriously vanished. I had the door forced open because I needed to get dressed and time was running out, and I sent[Pg 137] another guy to look for my missing servant. Here’s what happened next. He was caught red-handed in the gallery with his old buddies, loudly ‘booing’ his boss. When brought before me, he kept the firmest stance possible and boldly stated:

“‘No, sir, I am your faithful servant behind the scenes, but as an independent man and honest gallery boy I am bound to express my unbiased opinion either for or against any play which I may happen to see at a first night!’”

“‘No, sir, I’m your loyal servant working behind the scenes, but as an independent guy and honest gallery boy, I have to share my honest opinion, whether I like or dislike any play I see on opening night!’”

Mr. Hare, like most men, has his hobby, and it is racing: he loves a horse, and he loves a race meeting. In fact, on one occasion report says he nearly missed appearing at the theatre in consequence.

Mr. Hare, like most guys, has his hobby, and it's racing: he loves a horse, and he loves a race meeting. In fact, on one occasion, reports say he almost missed performing at the theater because of it.

John Hare is one of the greatest character-actors of our day. He is a dapper little gentleman, and lives in Upper Berkeley Street, near Portman Square. His house is most tasteful, and while his handsome wife has had much to say to the decoration, the actor-manager has decided views of his own in these matters. He has a delightful study at the back of the house, round the sides of which low book-cases run, while the walls reflect copper and brass pots, and old blue china. It is here he is at his best, as he sits smoking a cigarette, perched on the high seat in front of the fire.

John Hare is one of the best character actors of our time. He’s a stylish little guy and lives on Upper Berkeley Street, close to Portman Square. His home is very tastefully decorated, and while his beautiful wife has played a big role in the decor, the actor-manager has some distinct ideas of his own. He has a charming study at the back of the house, with low bookcases running along the sides, and the walls adorned with copper and brass pots, along with old blue china. This is where he shines, sitting back and smoking a cigarette, perched on the tall seat in front of the fire.

What an expressive face his is. The fine-chiselled features, the long thin lips are like a Catholic priest of æsthetic tendency; but as the expression changes with lightning speed, and the dark deep-set eyes sparkle or sadden, one realises the actor-spirit.

What an expressive face he has. The finely chiseled features and long, thin lips resemble those of an aesthetic priest; but as the expression shifts in an instant, and the dark, deep-set eyes shine or fade, you can see the spirit of an actor.

[Pg 138]

Evidence of fads may often be seen in an actor’s dressing-room, where the walls are decorated according to the particular taste of its occupant.

Evidence of trends can often be observed in an actor’s dressing room, where the walls are decorated based on the specific tastes of the person occupying it.

Cyril Maude has a particularly interesting dressing-room at the Haymarket Theatre. It is veritably a studio, for he has persuaded his artistic friends to do sketches for him on the distempered walls, and a unique little collection they make. Phil May, Harry Furniss, Dudley Hardy, Holman Clarke, Bernard Partridge, Raven Hill, Tom Brown, are among the contributors, and Leslie Ward’s portrait of Lord Salisbury is one of the finest ever sketched of the late Prime Minister. It is a quaint and original idea of Mr. Maude’s, but unfortunately those walls are so precious he will never dare to disturb the grime of ages and have them cleaned.

Cyril Maude has a particularly interesting dressing room at the Haymarket Theatre. It’s practically a studio, as he has convinced his artistic friends to create sketches on the faded walls, and they’ve made a unique little collection. Phil May, Harry Furniss, Dudley Hardy, Holman Clarke, Bernard Partridge, Raven Hill, and Tom Brown are among the contributors, and Leslie Ward’s portrait of Lord Salisbury is one of the best ever drawn of the late Prime Minister. It’s a charming and original idea of Mr. Maude’s, but unfortunately, those walls are too special for him to ever clean off the grime that has built up over the years.

The St. James’s Theatre, as it stands, is very modern, and therefore Mr. Alexander is the proud possessor of a charming sitting-room with a little dressing-room attached. It is quite near the stage, and has first-floor windows which look out on King Street, next door to Willis’s Rooms, once so famous for their dinners, and still more famous at an earlier date as Almack’s, where the beaux and belles of former days disported themselves.

The St. James’s Theatre is quite modern, so Mr. Alexander proudly owns a lovely sitting room with a small dressing room attached. It's close to the stage and has first-floor windows that overlook King Street, right next to Willis’s Rooms, which were once famous for their dinners and even more well-known previously as Almack’s, where the fashionable men and women of earlier times entertained themselves.

Both Mr. Alexander and his wife are fond of artistic surroundings, and his little room at the theatre is therefore charming. Here on matinée days the actor-manager dines, an arrangement which saves him much time and trouble, and his huge dog Boris—the famous boarhound which appeared in Rupert[Pg 139] of Hentzau—is his companion, unless Mrs. Alexander pops in with some little delicacy to cheer him over his solitary meal.

Both Mr. Alexander and his wife love artistic surroundings, so his small room at the theater is quite charming. Here on matinée days, the actor-manager eats, which saves him a lot of time and hassle, and his big dog Boris—the famous boarhound that appeared in Rupert[Pg 139] of Hentzau—keeps him company, unless Mrs. Alexander drops by with some treat to brighten his lonely meal.

That is one of the drawbacks of the stage, the poor actor generally has to eat alone. He cannot expect ordinary mortals to dine at his hours, and he cannot accommodate himself to theirs. The artist who appears much in public is forced to live much by himself, and his meals are consequently as lonely as those of a great Indian potentate.

That’s one of the downsides of being on stage; the struggling actor usually has to eat solo. He can’t expect regular people to eat at his schedule, nor can he adjust to theirs. An artist who is often in the spotlight ends up living a pretty solitary life, and his meals become as lonely as those of a powerful Indian ruler.

If we are to follow Mr. Pinero’s advice we shall all have to eschew dinner and adopt a “high-tea” principle before the play; but as all the audience are not agreed upon the subject there seems to be some difficulty about it.

If we're going to take Mr. Pinero’s advice, we’ll all need to skip dinner and embrace a “high-tea” approach before the show; however, since not everyone in the audience is on the same page about this, it seems there’s some trouble with it.

Why not have the evening performance as late as usual on matinée days, to allow the players time to take food and rest, and early on other days to suit those folk who prefer the drama from seven to ten instead of nine to twelve? By this means early comers and late diners would both be satisfied. Instead of which, as matters stand in London, the late diners arrive gorged and grumbling half through the first act to disturb every one, and the ’bus and train folk struggle out halfway through the last act, sad and annoyed at having to leave.

Why not have the evening performance as late as usual on matinée days to give the actors time to eat and rest, and start early on other days for those who prefer the show from seven to ten instead of nine to twelve? This way, both early attendees and late diners would be happy. Instead, as things are in London, late diners arrive stuffed and complaining halfway through the first act, disturbing everyone, while those catching buses and trains have to leave halfway through the last act, feeling frustrated and sad.

Most theatrical folk dine at five o’clock. Allowing an hour for this meal, they are able to get a little rest before starting for the theatre, which generally has to be reached by seven.

Most theater people eat dinner at five o’clock. Taking an hour for this meal allows them to get a bit of rest before heading to the theater, which usually needs to be reached by seven.

Preparing for the stage is a serious matter. All that can be put on beforehand is of course donned.[Pg 140] Ladies have been known to wear three pairs of stockings, so that a pair might be taken off quickly between each act. Then a long time is required to “make up.” For instance in such a part as Giovanni Malatesta (Paolo and Francesca), Mr. Alexander spent an hour each day painting his face and arranging his wig. He did not look pretty from the front, but the saffron of his complexion and the blue of his eyes became absolutely hideous when beheld close at hand. That make-up, however, was really a work of art.

Getting ready for the stage is no small task. Everything that can be put on in advance is, of course, worn. [Pg 140] Women have been known to wear three pairs of stockings, just so they can quickly remove a pair between each act. Then, a considerable amount of time is needed for makeup. For example, in a role like Giovanni Malatesta (Paolo and Francesca), Mr. Alexander spent an hour each day applying his makeup and arranging his wig. He didn't look attractive from the front, but the yellow tint of his skin and the blue of his eyes became absolutely grotesque when viewed up close. That makeup, however, was truly a work of art.

An actor’s day, even in London, is often a heavy one. Breakfast between nine and ten is the rule, then a ride or some form of exercise, and the theatre at eleven or twelve for a “call,” namely, a rehearsal. This “call” may go on till two o’clock or later, at which hour light luncheon is allowed; but if the rehearsal be late, and the meal consequently delayed, it is impossible to eat again between five and six, consequently the two meals get merged into one. Rehearsals for a new play frequently last a whole month, and during that month the players perform eight times a week in the old piece, and rehearse, or have to attend the theatre nearly all day as well. Three months is considered a good run for a play—so, as will be seen, the company scarcely recover from the exertions of one play before they have to commence rehearsing for another, to say nothing of the everlasting rehearsals for charity performances. The actor’s life is necessarily one of routine, and routine tends to become monotonous.

An actor's day, even in London, is often quite intense. Breakfast usually happens between nine and ten, followed by a ride or some form of exercise, and then it's off to the theatre around eleven or twelve for a "call," which means a rehearsal. This "call" can last until two o'clock or later, at which point a light lunch is permitted; however, if the rehearsal runs late, and the meal gets pushed back, it's impossible to eat again between five and six, so the two meals end up blending into one. Rehearsals for a new play often take a whole month, and during that time, the actors perform eight times a week in the current show and have to attend the theatre nearly all day as well. Three months is considered a decent run for a play—so, as you can see, the company barely recovers from the efforts of one play before they have to start rehearsing for another, not to mention the constant rehearsals for charity performances. The actor's life is inevitably one of routine, and that routine can become monotonous.

[Pg 141]

A well-known actor was a very absent-minded man except about his profession, where habit had drilled him to punctuality. One Sunday he was sitting in the Garrick Club when a friend remarked he was dining at A——.

A well-known actor was a pretty forgetful guy except when it came to his work, where routine had trained him to be on time. One Sunday, he was sitting in the Garrick Club when a friend mentioned that he was having dinner at A——.

“God bless me, so am I.”

“God bless me, I guess I am.”

He rushed home, dressed, and went off to the dinner, during the course of which his neighbour asked him if he were going to the B.’s.

He hurried home, got dressed, and went to dinner, during which his neighbor asked him if he was going to the B.'s.

“I’d really forgotten it—but if you are going I’ll go too.”

“I totally forgot about it—but if you’re going, I’ll go too.”

So he went.

So he left.

About midnight he got home. His wife was sitting in full evening dress with her gloves and cloak on.

About midnight, he got home. His wife was sitting in her evening gown, still wearing her gloves and cloak.

“You are very late,” she said.

“You're really late,” she said.

“Late? I thought it was early. It is only a quarter past twelve.”

“Late? I thought it was early. It’s only 12:15.”

“I’ve been waiting for nearly two hours.”

“I’ve been waiting for almost two hours.”

“Waiting—what for?”

"Waiting—what's the point?"

“Why, you arranged to fetch me a little after ten o’clock to go to the B’s.”

“Why did you plan to pick me up a little after ten o’clock to go to the B’s?”

“God bless me—I forgot I had a dinner-party, forgot there was a soirée, and forgot I had a wife.”

“God bless me—I forgot I had a dinner party, forgot there was a soirée, and forgot I had a wife.”

“And where’s your white tie?” asked his wife stiffly.

“And where’s your white tie?” his wife asked coldly.

“Oh dear, I must have forgotten that too! Dear, dear, what a man I am away from the stage and my dresser!”

“Oh no, I must have forgotten that too! Seriously, what a guy I am when I’m off the stage and away from my dresser!”

There is a wonderful bonne camaraderie among all people engaged in the theatrical profession.

There is a great bonne camaraderie among everyone involved in the theater profession.

[Pg 142]

Theatrical people are as generous to one another in misfortune as the poor. In times of success they are apt to be jealous; but let a comrade fall on evil days, let him be forced to “rest” when he wants to work, and his old colleagues will try and procure him employment, and when work and health fail utterly, they get up a benefit for him. These benefits take much organising; they often entail endless rehearsals and some expense, and yet the profession is ever ready to come forward and help those in need.

Theatrical people are just as generous to each other in tough times as those who are less fortunate. When they're successful, they can be jealous, but if a colleague hits hard times and needs to “rest” when they want to work, their old friends will step in to help them find jobs. And when work and health completely fail, they organize benefit performances. These benefits require a lot of planning; they often involve countless rehearsals and some costs, yet the industry is always willing to come together and support those in need.

People on the stage have warm hearts and generous purses, but to give gracefully requires as much tact as to receive graciously.

People on stage have warm hearts and generous wallets, but giving gracefully takes as much skill as receiving graciously.

It is a curious thing how few actors have died rich men. Many have made fortunes, but they have generally contrived to lose them again. Money easily made is readily lost. He who buys what he does not want ends in wanting what he cannot buy. Style and show begun in flourishing times are hard to relinquish. Capital soon runs away when drawn upon because salary has ceased, even temporarily. Many an actor, once a rich man, has died poor. Kate Vaughan, once a wealthy woman, died in penury, and so on ad infinitum.

It’s interesting how few actors have actually died rich. Many have made a lot of money, but they usually find a way to lose it. Easy come, easy go. When you buy things you don’t really need, you end up wanting things you can’t afford. Maintaining a glamorous lifestyle is hard to give up once you’ve started, especially during prosperous times. Money disappears quickly when you’re not earning a salary, even for a short time. Many actors who were once wealthy have ended up broke. Kate Vaughan, who was once well-off, died in poverty, and the same story goes on ad infinitum.

Actors, like other people, have to learn there is no disgrace in being poor—it is merely inconvenient.

Actors, like everyone else, need to realize that being poor isn’t shameful—it’s just a hassle.

Theatrical salaries are sometimes enormous, although George Edwardes has informed the public that £100 a week is the highest he ever gives, because he finds to go beyond that sum does not pay him.

Theatrical salaries can be huge, but George Edwardes has told the public that he never pays more than £100 a week, because he believes anything beyond that amount isn't worth it for him.

It seems a great deal for a pretty woman, not highly[Pg 143] born, nor highly educated, nor highly gifted—merely a pretty woman who has been well drilled by author, stage manager, and conductor, to be able to command £100 a week in a comic opera, but after all it is not for long. It is never for fifty-two weeks in the year, and only for a few years at most. Beauty fades, flesh increases, the attraction goes, and she is relegated to the shelf, a poorer, wiser woman than before. But meanwhile her scintillating success, the glamour around her, have acted as a bait to induce others to rush upon the stage.

It seems like a big deal for a pretty woman, not born into wealth, not highly educated, and not particularly talented—just a pretty woman who has been trained by authors, stage managers, and conductors to earn £100 a week in a comic opera, but after all, it doesn’t last long. It’s never for fifty-two weeks a year, and only for a few years at most. Beauty fades, youth diminishes, the allure fades, and she ends up on the shelf, a poorer, wiser woman than before. But in the meantime, her dazzling success and the glamour surrounding her have served as bait to lure others to the stage.

The largest salary ever earned by a man was probably that paid to Charles Kean, who once had a short engagement at Drury Lane for £50 a night, and on one occasion he made £2,000 by a benefit. Madame Vestris, however, beat him, for she had a long engagement at the Haymarket at £40 a night, or £240 a week, a sum unheard of to-day.

The largest salary ever earned by a man was likely that paid to Charles Kean, who once had a brief engagement at Drury Lane for £50 a night, and he made £2,000 on one occasion through a benefit. However, Madame Vestris surpassed him, as she had a long engagement at the Haymarket for £40 a night, or £240 a week, an amount that's unimaginable today.

It may be here mentioned that salaries are doled out according to an old and curious custom.

It’s worth noting that salaries are distributed based on an old and interesting custom.

“Treasury day” is a great event; theatrical folk never speak of “pay”: it is always “salaries” and “treasury day.” Each “house” has its own methods of procedure, but at a great national theatre like Drury Lane the “chiefs” are paid by cheque, while every Friday night the treasurer and his assistants with trays full of “salary” go round the theatre and distribute packets in batches to the endless persons who combine to make a successful performance. The money is sealed up in an envelope which bears the name of the receiver, so no one knows what his[Pg 144] neighbour gets. It takes five or six hours for the treasurer and his two assistants to pay off a thousand people at a pantomime, and check each salary paid.

“Treasury day” is a big deal; people in theater never say “pay”: it’s always “salaries” and “treasury day.” Each “house” has its own way of doing things, but at a major national theater like Drury Lane, the “chiefs” get paid by check, while every Friday night the treasurer and his staff, with trays full of “salary,” go around the theater and hand out packets in groups to the many people who contribute to making a successful performance. The cash is sealed in an envelope with the receiver’s name on it, so no one knows what their neighbor is getting. It takes five or six hours for the treasurer and his two assistants to pay a thousand people at a pantomime and check each salary that is paid.

There is no field where that little colt imagination scampers more wildly than in the matter of salaries. For instance, a girl started as “leading lady” in a well-known play on a provincial tour. Her name, in letters nearly as big as herself, met her on the hoardings of every town the company visited. She was given the star dressing-room, and a dresser to herself. This all meant extra tips and extra expenses everywhere, for she was the “leading lady”! Wonderful notices appeared in all the provincial papers and this girl was the draw. The manager knew that, and advertised her and pushed her forward in every way. All the company thought she began at a salary of £10 a week, and rumour said this sum had been doubled after her success. Such was the story. Now for the truth. She was engaged for the tour at £3 a week, and £3 a week she received without an additional penny, although the tour of weeks extended into months. She was poor, others were dependent on her, and she dared not throw up that weekly sixty shillings for fear she might lose everything in her endeavour to get more.

There’s no area where that little colt of imagination runs more freely than when it comes to salaries. For example, a girl started as the “leading lady” in a popular play on a regional tour. Her name, in letters almost as big as she was, greeted her on the billboards in every town the company visited. She got the star dressing room and a dresser all to herself. This meant more tips and added expenses everywhere because she was the “leading lady”! Amazing reviews popped up in all the regional papers, and this girl was the main attraction. The manager knew that and promoted her in every way possible. The whole company thought she began with a salary of £10 a week, and rumors claimed that this amount had doubled after her success. That was the story. Now for the truth. She was hired for the tour at £3 a week, and that’s all she got, not even a penny more, even though the tour that was supposed to last weeks stretched into months. She was struggling financially, others depended on her, and she couldn’t risk losing that weekly sixty shillings for the chance to earn more.

This is only one instance: there are many such upon the stage.

This is just one example: there are many like it on stage.

“I suppose A—— has given more time to rehearsals this year,” said the wife of a well-known actor, “than any man in London, and yet he has only drawn ten weeks’ salary. Everything has turned out badly;[Pg 145] so we have had to live for fifty-two weeks on ten weeks’ pay and thirty-four weeks’ work.”

“I guess A—— has spent more time rehearsing this year,” said the wife of a famous actor, “than anyone in London, and yet he has only earned ten weeks' salary. Everything has gone wrong;[Pg 145] so we've had to get by for fifty-two weeks on ten weeks' pay and thirty-four weeks' work.”

Large sums and well-earned salaries have, of course, been made—in fact, Sir Henry Irving was earning about £30,000 a year at the beginning of the century, an income very few actor-managers could boast.

Large sums and well-deserved salaries have, of course, been earned—in fact, Sir Henry Irving was making about £30,000 a year at the start of the century, an income that very few actor-managers could claim.

Among thrifty theatrical folk the Bancrofts probably take front rank. Marie Wilton and her husband amused England for thirty years, and had the good sense always to spend less than they made. The result was that, while still young enough to enjoy their savings they bought a house in Berkeley Square, retired, and have enjoyed a well-earned rest. More than that, Sir Squire Bancroft stands unique as regards charities. Although not wishing to be tied any more to the stage, he does not mind giving an occasional “Reading” of Dickens’s Christmas Carol, and he has elected to give his earnings to hospitals and other charities, which are over £15,000 the richer for his generosity. Could anything be more delightful than for a retired actor to give his talent for the public good?

Among frugal theater people, the Bancrofts probably take the lead. Marie Wilton and her husband entertained England for thirty years and smartly spent less than they earned. As a result, while they were still young enough to enjoy their savings, they bought a house in Berkeley Square, retired, and have enjoyed a well-deserved break. Moreover, Sir Squire Bancroft is unique when it comes to charities. Although he doesn't want to be tied to the stage any longer, he doesn't mind giving an occasional reading of Dickens’s Christmas Carol, and he has chosen to donate his earnings to hospitals and other charities, which have benefited by over £15,000 from his generosity. Could anything be more wonderful than a retired actor sharing his talent for the public good?

I was brought up on Mrs. Bancroft and Shakespeare, so to speak. The Bancrofts at that time had the Haymarket Theatre, and their Robertson pieces were considered suitable to my early teens by way of amusement, while I was taken to Shakespeare’s plays by way of instruction. I remember I thought the Robertson comedies far preferable, and should love to see them again.

I was raised on Mrs. Bancroft and Shakespeare, so to speak. The Bancrofts at that time had the Haymarket Theatre, and their Robertson plays were seen as appropriate entertainment for my early teens, while I was taken to Shakespeare's plays for educational purposes. I remember thinking the Robertson comedies were much better and I would love to see them again.

It is always averred by old playgoers that Marie[Pg 146] Wilton (Lady Bancroft) was the originator of modern comedy. She and her husband at one time had a little play-house in an unfashionable part of London, to which they attracted society people of that day. The theatre was not then what it is now, the “upper ten” seldom visited the play at that time, and yet the Prince of Wales’ Theatre known as “The Dust-hole” drew all fashionable London to the Tottenham Court Road to laugh with Marie Wilton over Robertson’s comedies.

It’s often said by old theater-goers that Marie[Pg 146] Wilton (Lady Bancroft) was the creator of modern comedy. At one point, she and her husband owned a small theater in a less fashionable area of London, where they attracted the high society of their time. The theater scene was different back then; the elite rarely attended plays. However, the Prince of Wales’ Theatre, known as “The Dust-hole,” pulled in all of fashionable London to laugh with Marie Wilton at Robertson’s comedies.

Her company consisted of men and women who are actor-managers to-day: people went forth well drilled in their profession, accustomed to expending minute care over details, each in their turn to inculcate the same thoroughness in the next generation. These people numbered John Hare, Mr. and Mrs. Kendal (Madge Robertson was the younger sister of the dramatist), H. J. Montague, and Arthur Cecil. Again one finds the best succeeds, and there is always room at the top, hence the Bancroft triumph.

Her company was made up of men and women who are actor-managers today: they went out well-trained in their craft, used to spending careful attention on details, each taking their turn to instill the same level of dedication in the next generation. This group included John Hare, Mr. and Mrs. Kendal (Madge Robertson was the younger sister of the playwright), H. J. Montague, and Arthur Cecil. Once again, the best rise to the top, proving there's always room for success, which explains the Bancroft triumph.

One of their innovations was to rope off the front rows of the pit, which then occupied the entire floor of the house, and call them “stalls,” for which they dared ask 6/-apiece. They got it—more were wanted. Others were added, and gradually the price rose to 10/6, which is now the charge: but half-guinea stalls, though now universal, are a modern institution.

One of their innovations was to section off the front rows of the pit, which then took up the entire floor of the venue, and call them “stalls,” for which they boldly charged 6/- each. They got it—more were in demand. Others were added, and gradually the price increased to 10/6, which is now the rate: but half-guinea stalls, though now common, are a modern addition.

At a dinner given by the Anderson Critchetts in 1891 I sat between Squire Bancroft and G. Boughton, R.A. Mr. Bancroft remarked in the course of conversation that he was just fifty, though he looked[Pg 147] much younger. His tall figure was perfectly erect, and his white hair showed up the freshness of his complexion. I asked him if he did not miss acting, the applause, and the excitement of the theatre.

At a dinner hosted by the Anderson Critchetts in 1891, I sat between Squire Bancroft and G. Boughton, R.A. Mr. Bancroft mentioned during our conversation that he had just turned fifty, even though he looked[Pg 147] much younger. His tall frame was perfectly upright, and his white hair highlighted the freshness of his complexion. I asked him if he missed acting, the applause, and the thrill of the theater.

“No,” he replied. “It will be thirty years this September since I first went on the stage, and it is now nearly six since I gave it up. No, I don’t think I should mind much if I never entered a theatre again, either as spectator or actor—and my wife feels the same. My only regret about our theatrical career is that we never visited America, but no dollars would induce Mrs. Bancroft to cross the sea, so we never went.”

“No,” he answered. “This September marks thirty years since I first stepped on stage, and it’s nearly six years since I quit. No, I don’t think I’d really mind if I never went to a theater again, as either a viewer or a performer—and my wife feels the same way. My only regret about our time in theater is that we never made it to America, but no amount of money would convince Mrs. Bancroft to cross the ocean, so we never went.”

He surprised me by saying that during the latter years of their theatrical life they never took supper, but dined at 6.0 or 6.30 as occasion required, and afterwards usually walked to the theatre. During the performance they had coffee and biscuits, or sometimes, on cold nights, a little soup, and the moment the curtain was down they jumped into their carriage, and were in their own house in Cavendish Square, where they then lived, by 11.30, and in bed a few minutes later. They were always down to breakfast at 9 o’clock year in year out; an early hour for theatrical folk.

He surprised me by saying that in the later years of their theater career, they never had supper but usually ate dinner at 6:00 or 6:30, depending on the occasion, and then typically walked to the theater. During the performance, they had coffee and biscuits, or sometimes, on cold nights, a bit of soup. The moment the curtain fell, they jumped into their carriage and were back in their home in Cavendish Square by 11:30, and in bed just a few minutes later. They always had breakfast at 9 o’clock, consistently year after year—a pretty early time for people in the theater.

I spoke of the autograph photographs which I had seen in the Haymarket green-room.

I talked about the autograph photos I had seen in the Haymarket green room.

“How curious,” he said, “that you should mention them to-night. We have always intended to take them away, and only yesterday, after an interval of six years, I gave the order for their removal. This[Pg 148] evening as we started for dinner they arrived in Berkeley Square. A strange coincidence.”

“How strange,” he said, “that you'd bring them up tonight. We’ve always planned to take them away, and just yesterday, after waiting six years, I ordered their removal. This[Pg 148] evening as we were heading to dinner, they arrived in Berkeley Square. What a coincidence.”

Lady Bancroft has the merriest laugh imaginable. I used to love to see her act when I was quite a girl, and somehow Miss Marie Tempest reminds me strongly of her to-day. She has the same lively manner.

Lady Bancroft has the happiest laugh you can imagine. I used to love watching her perform when I was a little girl, and for some reason, Miss Marie Tempest really reminds me of her today. She has the same energetic vibe.

Lady Bancroft’s eyes are her great feature—they are deeply set, with long dark lashes, and their merry twinkle is infectious. When she laughs her eyes seem to disappear in one glorious smile, and every one near her joins in her mirth. Mrs. Bancroft was comparatively a young woman when she retired from the stage, and one of her greatest joys at the time was to feel she was no longer obliged to don the same gown at the same moment every day.

Lady Bancroft’s eyes are her standout feature—they're deep-set with long dark lashes, and their playful sparkle is contagious. When she laughs, her eyes nearly vanish in a beautiful smile, drawing everyone around her into her joy. Mrs. Bancroft was relatively young when she left the stage, and one of her biggest pleasures at the time was knowing she didn’t have to wear the same dress at the same time every day anymore.

At some theatres a dress rehearsal is a great affair. The term properly speaking means the whole performance given privately right through, without even a repeated scene. The final dress rehearsal, as a rule, is played before a small critical audience, and the piece is expected to run as smoothly as on the first night itself—to be, in fact, a sort of prologue to the first night. This is a dress rehearsal proper, such as is given by Sir Henry Irving, Messrs. Beerbohm Tree, Cyril Maude, George Alexander, or the old Savoy Company.

At some theaters, a dress rehearsal is a big deal. The term means doing the entire performance privately from start to finish, without repeating any scenes. Usually, the final dress rehearsal is performed before a small, critical audience, and it’s expected to go as smoothly as it will on opening night—essentially serving as a preview for the first night. This is a true dress rehearsal, like those done by Sir Henry Irving, Messrs. Beerbohm Tree, Cyril Maude, George Alexander, or the old Savoy Company.

Before this, however, there are endless “lighting rehearsals,” “scenic rehearsals,” or “costume parades,” all of which are done separately, and with the greatest care. As we saw before, Mrs. Kendal disapproves of a dress rehearsal, but she is almost alone in her opinion.[Pg 149] It is really, therefore, a matter of taste whether the whole performance be gone through in separate portions or whether one final effort be made before the actual first night. As a rule Sir Henry Irving has three dress rehearsals, but the principals only appear in costume at one of them. They took nine weeks to rehearse the operetta The Medal and the Maid, yet Irving put The Merchant of Venice with all its details on the Lyceum stage in twenty-three days.

Before this, though, there are countless “lighting rehearsals,” “scenic rehearsals,” and “costume parades,” all of which are done separately and with great care. As we mentioned earlier, Mrs. Kendal isn’t a fan of dress rehearsals, but she’s pretty much the only one with that view.[Pg 149] Ultimately, it comes down to personal preference whether the entire performance is rehearsed in separate parts or if there’s one last run-through right before the actual opening night. Generally, Sir Henry Irving schedules three dress rehearsals, but the lead actors only wear their costumes for one of them. They spent nine weeks rehearsing the operetta The Medal and the Maid, while Irving managed to put The Merchant of Venice with all its details on the Lyceum stage in just twenty-three days.

Sir Henry strongly objects to the public being present at any rehearsal. “The impression given of an incomplete effort cannot be a fair one,” he says. “It is not fair to the artistes. A play to be complete must pass through one imagination, one intellect must organise and control. In order to attain this end it is necessary to experiment: no one likes to be corrected before strangers, therefore rehearsals—or in other words ‘experiments’—should be made in private. Even trained intellect in an outsider should not be admitted, as great work may be temporarily spoiled by some slight mechanical defect.”

Sir Henry strongly objects to having the public at any rehearsals. “The impression given of an unfinished effort can’t be a fair one,” he says. “It’s not fair to the artists. A play needs to go through one vision; one mind must organize and control it. To achieve this, we need to experiment: no one wants to be corrected in front of strangers, so rehearsals—or, in other words, ‘experiments’—should happen in private. Even input from a trained outsider shouldn’t be allowed, as great work can be temporarily ruined by some minor mechanical issue.”

In Paris rehearsals used to be great institutions. They were opportunities for meeting friends. In the foyers and green-rooms of the theatres, at répètitions générales, every one talked and chatted over the play, the actors, and the probable success or failure. This, however, gradually became a nuisance, and early in this twentieth century both actors and authors struck. They decided that even privileged persons should be excluded from final rehearsals, which are always in[Pg 150] costume in Paris. As a sort of salve to the offended public, it was agreed that twenty-four strangers should be admitted to the last great dress rehearsal before the actual production of a new piece, hence everybody who is anybody clamours to be there.

In Paris, rehearsals used to be major social events. They were chances to hang out with friends. In the foyers and green rooms of the theaters, at répétitions générales, everyone talked and chatted about the play, the actors, and whether it would succeed or not. However, this eventually became a hassle, and early in the twentieth century, both actors and writers decided to put a stop to it. They concluded that even VIPs should be kept out of final rehearsals, which always take place in[Pg 150] costume in Paris. As a compromise to the upset public, they agreed to allow twenty-four outsiders into the last big dress rehearsal before the actual opening of a new piece, so now everyone who’s anyone fights to get a spot there.

[Pg 151]

CHAPTER VIII

MADAME SARAH BERNHARDT

Sarah Bernhardt and Her Tomb—The Actress’s Getaway—Her Love for Her Son—Sarah Bernhardt Crab Fishing—Why She Left the Comédie Française—Life in Paris—A French Audience—Three Ominous Knocks—Orchestra Strike—Paris Theatre Customs—Programs—Late Arrivals—The Matinée Hat—Advertisement Drop Scene—First Night of Hamlet—Madame Bernhardt’s Own Reading of Hamlet—Yorick’s Skull—Dr. Horace Howard Furness—A Great Shakespearian Library.

It is not every one who cares to erect his own mausoleum during his life.

It’s not everyone who wants to build their own tomb while they’re still alive.

There are some quaint and weird people who prefer to do so, however: whether it is to save their friends and relations trouble after their demise, whether from some morbid desire to face death, or whether for notoriety, who can tell? Was it not one of our dukes who built a charming crematorium for the benefit of the public, and beside it one for himself, the latter to be given over to general use after he himself had been reduced to spotless ashes within its walls? He was a public benefactor, for his wise action encouraged cremation, a system which for the sake of health and prosperity is sure to come in time.

There are some quirky and unusual people who choose to do this, though: whether it’s to save their friends and family the hassle after they’re gone, because of a morbid curiosity about facing death, or just for attention, who knows? Wasn’t it one of our dukes who built a lovely crematorium for the public's benefit, along with one for himself, which would be open to everyone after he’d become nothing but ashes inside? He was a public benefactor because his thoughtful move promoted cremation, a practice that is bound to be adopted eventually for the sake of health and well-being.

[Pg 152]

Madame Sarah Bernhardt has not erected a crematorium, but on one of the highest spots of the famous Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris she has placed her tomb. It is a solid stone structure, like a large sarcophagus, but it is supported on four arches, so that light may be seen beneath, and the solidity of the slabs is thereby somewhat lessened. One word only is engraven on the stone:

Madame Sarah Bernhardt hasn't built a crematorium, but on one of the highest points of the famous Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, she has placed her tomb. It's a solid stone structure, resembling a large sarcophagus, but it's supported by four arches, allowing light to shine underneath, which slightly softens the heaviness of the slabs. Only one word is engraved on the stone:

BERNHARDT.

This is the mausoleum of one of the greatest actresses the world has ever known. What is lacking in the length of inscription is made up by the size of the lettering.

This is the tomb of one of the greatest actresses the world has ever known. What the inscription lacks in length is compensated by the size of the lettering.

Upon the tomb lay one enormous wreath on the Jour des Morts, 1902, and innumerable people paid homage to it, or stared out of curiosity at the handsome erection.

Upon the tomb lay one huge wreath on the Jour des Morts, 1902, and countless people paid their respects to it or gazed out of curiosity at the impressive structure.

Though folk say Madame Bernhardt courts notoriety, there are moments when she seeks solitude as a recreation, and she has a great love of the sea.

Though people say Madame Bernhardt craves attention, there are times when she looks for solitude as a way to relax, and she has a deep love for the sea.

Every year for two months she disappears from theatrical life. She forgets that such a thing as the stage exists, she never reads a play, and as far as theatrical matters are concerned she lives in another sphere. That is part of her holiday. It is not a holiday of rest, for she never rests; it is a holiday because of the change of scene, change of thought, change of occupation. Her day at her seaside home is really a very energetic one.

Every year for two months, she vanishes from the theater scene. She forgets the stage even exists, never reads a script, and in terms of theater, she lives in a completely different world. That’s part of her time off. It’s not a break for relaxation, since she never truly rests; it’s a break because of the change in scenery, thoughts, and activities. Her days at her beach house are actually quite busy.

Photo by Lafayette, New Bond Street.

MADAME SARAH BERNHARDT AS HAMLET.

Sarah Bernhardt as Hamlet.

At five the great artiste rises, dons a short skirt, [Pg 153]country boots, and prepares to enjoy herself. Often the early hours are spent in shooting small birds. She rarely misses her quarry, for her artistic eye helps her in measuring distance, and her aim is generally deadly. Another favourite entertainment is to shrimp. She takes off her shoes and stockings and for a couple of hours will stand in the water shrimping, for her “resting” is as energetic as everything else she does. She plies her net in truly professional style, gets wildly enthusiastic over a good catch, and loves to eat her freshly boiled fish at déjeuner. Perhaps she has a game with her ten lovely Russian dogs before that mid-day meal.

At five, the great artist wakes up, puts on a short skirt, [Pg 153]country boots, and gets ready to have some fun. She often spends the early hours shooting small birds. She rarely misses her target, as her artistic eye helps her judge distance, and her aim is usually spot on. Another favorite activity is shrimping. She takes off her shoes and stockings and spends a couple of hours in the water shrimping, because her “resting” is just as active as everything else she does. She uses her net like a true pro, gets really excited over a good catch, and loves to eat her freshly boiled shrimp at déjeuner. Maybe she'll play with her ten beautiful Russian dogs before that midday meal.

Her surroundings are beautiful. She adores flowers—flowers are everywhere; she admires works of art—works of art are about her, for she has achieved her own position, her own wealth, and why should she not have all she loves best close at hand?

Her surroundings are beautiful. She loves flowers—flowers are everywhere; she appreciates art—art is all around her, since she has earned her own place, her own wealth, and why shouldn’t she have everything she loves most nearby?

After déjeuner the guests, of whom there are never more than two or three, such as M. Rostand (author of Cyrano de Bergerac) and his wife, rest and read. Not so Madame Bernhardt. She sits in the open air, her head covered with a shady hat, and plays Salta with her son. This game is a kind of draughts, and often during their two months’ holiday-making she and her only child Maurice will amuse themselves in this way for two or three hours in the afternoon; generally she wins, much to her joy. She simply loves heat, like the Salamanders, and, even in July, when other people feel too hot, she would gladly wear furs and have a fire. She can never be too[Pg 154] warm apparently. Her own rooms are kept like a hothouse, for cold paralyses her bodily and mentally.

After lunch, the guests, who are usually just two or three, like M. Rostand (the author of Cyrano de Bergerac) and his wife, relax and read. Not Madame Bernhardt, though. She sits outside with a stylish hat on her head and plays Salta with her son. This game is similar to checkers, and often during their two-month vacation, she and her only child Maurice will play for two or three hours in the afternoon; she usually wins, which makes her very happy. She absolutely loves the heat, just like Salamanders, and even in July, when everyone else feels too hot, she would happily wear furs and sit by a fire. She can never seem to be too[Pg 154] warm. Her rooms are kept like a greenhouse because cold makes her feel sluggish, both physically and mentally.

How she adores her son—she speaks of him as a woman speaks of her lover; Maurice comes before all her art, before all else in the world, for Maurice to her is life. He has married a clever woman, a descendant of a Royal house, and has a boy and two girls adored by their grandmother almost as much as their father. She plays with them, gets up games for them, dances with them, throws herself as completely into their young lives as she does into everything else.

How she adores her son—she talks about him like a woman talks about her lover; Maurice is more important to her than all her art, more than anything else in the world, because to her, Maurice is life. He has married a smart woman, a descendant of royalty, and they have a boy and two girls who are almost as loved by their grandmother as their father. She plays with them, organizes games, dances with them, and immerses herself fully in their young lives just like she does with everything else.

About 3.30 au tennis is the cry. Salta is put aside and every one has to play tennis. Away to tennis she trips. Sarah never gets hot, but always looks cool in the white she invariably wears. She wants an active life, and if her brain is not working her body must be, so she plays hard at the game, and when tea is ready in the arbour close at hand, about 6.30, she almost weeps if she has to leave an unfinished “sett.”

About 3:30 for tennis is the shout. Salta is put aside, and everyone has to play tennis. She hurries off to the court. Sarah never gets too warm but always looks cool in the white she always wears. She craves an active life, and if her mind isn't engaged, her body has to be, so she plays hard. When tea is ready in the nearby arbor around 6:30, she nearly cries if she has to leave a game unfinished.

She must be interested, or she would be bored; she must be amused, or she would be weary; thus she works hard at her recreations, the enforced rest while reading a novel being her only time of repose during her summer holiday. She walks when she has nothing else to do, and rambles for miles around her seaside home, only occasionally going on long carriage expeditions, with her tents and her servants, to pitch camp for the night somewhere along the coast.

She has to be interested, or she’d be bored; she has to be entertained, or she’d be tired. So, she puts a lot of effort into her leisure activities, with reading a novel being the only time she truly relaxes during her summer vacation. She takes walks when she has nothing else to do and strolls for miles around her beach house, only occasionally going on long carriage trips with her tents and servants to camp for the night somewhere along the coast.

Then comes dinner—dinner served with all the[Pg 155] glories of a Parisian chef, for Madame, although a small eater, believes well-cooked food necessary to existence. There is no hurry over dinner, and “guess” games are all the fashion, games which she cleverly arranges to suit the children. No evening dresses are allowed, nor décolleté frocks; except for flowers and well-cooked food, Madame likes to feel she is in the country and far removed from Paris, therefore a dainty blouse is all that is permitted. Music is often enjoyed in the evening. Sometimes on a fine night Madame will exclaim:

Then comes dinner—dinner served with all the[Pg 155] delights of a Parisian chef, because Madame, though a light eater, believes that good food is essential to life. There's no rush during dinner, and “guess” games are all the rage, which she skillfully organizes for the kids. Evening dresses and décolleté outfits are not allowed; aside from flowers and well-prepared food, Madame prefers to feel like she’s in the countryside, far from Paris, so only a nice blouse is acceptable. Music is often enjoyed in the evenings. Sometimes on a beautiful night, Madame will exclaim:

“Let us go and fish,” and off they all go. Down the endless steps cut in the rock the party stumble, and on the seashore they drag their nets. Up those same steps every night toil men with buckets of salt water, for the great actress has a boiling salt water bath every morning, to which she attributes much of her good health. Fishermen throw nets for the evening’s catch, but “Sarah” is most energetic in hauling them in, and gets wildly excited at a good haul. Her unfailing energy is thrown even into the fishing, and she will stay out till the small hours enjoying the sport. One summer Madame Bernhardt caught a devil fish—this delighted her. She took it home and quickly modelled a vase from her treasure. Seaweed and shells formed its stand, the tail its stem. She seldom sculpts nowadays, but the power is still there.

“Let’s go fishing,” and off they all go. Down the endless steps carved into the rock, the group stumbles, and on the shore, they drag their nets. Up those same steps every night, men carry buckets of saltwater, because the great actress has a boiling saltwater bath every morning, which she credits for much of her good health. Fishermen throw nets for the evening's catch, but "Sarah" is most enthusiastic about pulling them in and gets wildly excited with a good catch. Her boundless energy even extends to fishing, and she’ll stay out until the early hours enjoying the activity. One summer, Madame Bernhardt caught a devil fish—this thrilled her. She took it home and quickly shaped a vase from her find. Seaweed and shells made up its base, the tail served as its stem. She rarely sculpts these days, but the talent is still there.

It was in 1880 that she retired from the Comédie Française, not being content with her salary of £1,200 a year, and she then announced her intention of making sculpture and painting her profession. After[Pg 156] a rest, however, she fortunately changed her mind, or the stage would have lost one of the greatest actresses the world has known. Perhaps the apotheosis of her life was in December, 1896, when she was acclaimed Queen of the French stage, and the leading poets of her country recited odes in her honour. On that occasion the heroine of the fête declared:

It was in 1880 that she retired from the Comédie Française, unhappy with her salary of £1,200 a year, and she then announced her plan to make sculpture and painting her career. After[Pg 156] a break, however, she thankfully changed her mind, or the stage would have lost one of the greatest actresses the world has ever known. Perhaps the highlight of her life was in December 1896, when she was celebrated as the Queen of the French stage, and the leading poets of her country recited odes in her honor. On that occasion, the heroine of the fête declared:

“For twenty-nine years I have given the public the vibrations of my soul, the pulsations of my heart, and the tears of my eyes. I have played 112 parts, I have created thirty-eight new characters, sixteen of which are the work of poets. I have struggled as no other human being has struggled.... I have ardently longed to climb the topmost pinnacle of my art. I have not yet reached it. By far the smaller part of my life remains for me to live; but what matters it? Every day brings me nearer to the realisation of my dream. The hours that have flown away with my youth have left me my courage and cheerfulness, for my goal is unchanged, and I am marching towards it.”

“For twenty-nine years, I have shared the depths of my soul, the beats of my heart, and the tears from my eyes with the public. I have taken on 112 roles, creating thirty-eight new characters, sixteen of which were crafted by poets. I have struggled harder than anyone else... I have passionately wished to reach the highest peak of my craft. I haven’t gotten there yet. A smaller portion of my life is left to live; but does it really matter? Every day brings me closer to achieving my dream. The hours that have slipped away with my youth have left me with my courage and positivity, because my goal remains the same, and I am moving towards it.”

She was right; there is always something beyond our grasp, and those who think they have seized it must court failure from that moment. Those nearest perfection best know how far they really are from it.

She was right; there's always something just out of reach, and those who believe they've got it must invite failure from that moment on. Those closest to perfection understand best how far away they actually are from it.

Madame Bernhardt’s mind is penetrating, yet her body never rests. She can do with very little sleep—can live without butcher’s meat, rarely drinks alcohol, and prefers milk to anything. Perhaps this is the reason of her perpetual youth. She loves her holiday, she loves the simple life of the country,[Pg 157] the repose from the world, the knowledge that autograph hunters and reporters cannot waylay her, and in the country she ceases to be an actress and can enjoy being a woman.

Madame Bernhardt’s mind is sharp, yet her body is always in motion. She needs very little sleep—can get by without red meat, rarely drinks alcohol, and prefers milk over anything else. Maybe this is why she seems forever young. She loves her vacations, she enjoys the simple life in the countryside,[Pg 157] the break from the hustle of the world, knowing that autograph hunters and reporters can't catch her off guard, and in the country, she stops being an actress and can just enjoy being a woman.

In Paris her life is very different. She resides in a beautiful hotel surrounded by works of art, and keeps a table ouverte for her friends. She rises at eleven, when she has her masseuse and her boiling bath, sees her servants, and gives personal orders for everything in the establishment. She is one of those women who find time for all details, and is capable of seeing to most matters well. At 12.30 is déjeuner, rarely finished till 2 o’clock, as friends constantly drop in. Then off to the theatre, where she rehearses till six. There she sits in a little box, from which point of vantage she can see everything and yet be out of draughts. She always wears white, even in the theatre, and looks as smart as though at a party instead of on business bent. Dresses are brought her for inspection, she alters, changes, admires, or deplores as fancy takes her; she arranges the lighting, decides a little more blue or a little less green will give the tone required; but then she has that inner knowledge of harmony and the true painter spirit. She is never out of tune. At six high-tea is served in her dressing-room, for she rarely leaves the theatre. The meal consists mostly of fish—lobster, crab, cray-fish, shrimps, scallops cooked or raw—with a little tea and lots of milk. A chat with a friend, a peep at a new play, and then it is time to dress for the great work of the day. She changes quickly. After the performance is over[Pg 158] she sees her manager, and rarely leaves the theatre in Paris before 1.30, when she returns home to a good hot supper. But her day is not ended even then. She will have a play read to her or read it herself, study a new part, write letters, and do dozens of different things before she goes to bed. She can do with little rest, and seems to have the energy of many persons in one. In spite of this she has never mastered English, although she can read it.

In Paris, her life is very different. She lives in a beautiful hotel surrounded by art and keeps a table ouverte for her friends. She gets up at eleven, when she has her masseuse and her boiling bath, sees her staff, and gives personal instructions for everything in the place. She’s one of those women who manages to find time for all the details and is good at handling most things. Lunch is at 12:30 and rarely finishes before 2 o'clock, as friends are always dropping by. Then it’s off to the theater, where she rehearses until six. She sits in a little box, from which she can see everything while staying warm. She always wears white, even at the theater, looking as stylish as if she were at a party rather than working. Dresses are brought for her to check; she alters, changes, admires, or complains as she likes. She arranges the lighting and decides if a bit more blue or a little less green is needed for the right tone; she has an innate sense of harmony and the true spirit of a painter. She is always in tune. High tea is served in her dressing room at six since she rarely leaves the theater. The meal mostly includes fish—lobster, crab, crayfish, shrimp, and scallops, cooked or raw—along with some tea and plenty of milk. A chat with a friend, a glance at a new play, and then it’s time to get ready for the main event of the day. She changes quickly. After the performance is over[Pg 158], she meets her manager and rarely leaves the theater in Paris before 1:30, when she goes home to a nice hot supper. But her day doesn’t end there. She will have a play read to her or read it herself, study a new role, write letters, and do dozens of other things before going to bed. She needs little rest and seems to have the energy of multiple people in one. Despite this, she has never fully mastered English, although she can read it.

Madame Bernhardt will ever be associated in my mind with a night spent at a theatre behind a French claque. That claque was terrible, but the actress was so wonderful I almost forgot its existence, and sat rapt in admiration of her first night of Hamlet.

Madame Bernhardt will always be linked in my mind to a night at a theater behind a French claque. That claque was awful, but the actress was so fantastic that I almost forgot it was there, completely captivated by her performance on the first night of Hamlet.

Till quite lately there was a terrible institution in France known as the claque, nothing more or less than a paid body of men whose duty it was to applaud actors and actresses at certain points duly marked in their play-books.

Until recently, there was a terrible practice in France called the claque, which was simply a group of paid people whose job was to applaud actors and actresses at specific points noted in their scripts.

At the Comédie Française of Paris a certain individual known as the Chef de Claque had been retained from 1881 for over twenty years at a monthly salary of three hundred francs, that is to say, he received £12 a month, or £3 a week, for “clapping” when required. He was a person of great importance. Though disliked by the public, he was petted and feasted by actors and actresses, for a clap at the wrong moment, or want of applause at the right, meant disaster; besides, there was a sort of superstitious fear that being on bad terms with the Chef de Claque foreboded ill luck.

At the Comédie Française in Paris, a certain person known as the Chef de Claque had been employed since 1881 for over twenty years, earning a monthly salary of three hundred francs, which is £12 a month or £3 a week, for “clapping” on cue. He was a highly significant figure. Although the public disliked him, actors and actresses pampered and entertained him, because a clap at the wrong time or a lack of applause at the right moment could lead to disaster. Additionally, there was a kind of superstitious belief that being on bad terms with the Chef de Claque would bring bad luck.

After performing his duties for twenty-one years[Pg 159] with considerable success, the Chef de Claque was dismissed, and it was decided that professional applause should be discontinued. Naturally the Chef was indignant, and in the autumn of 1902 sued the Comédie Française for 30,000 francs damages or a pension. Paris, however, found relief in the absence of the original claque, and gradually one theatre after another began to dispense with a nuisance it had endured for long. History says that during the early days of the claque there was an equally obnoxious institution, a sort of organised opposition known as siffleurs. It was then as fashionable to whistle a piece out of the world as to clap it into success. There was a regular instrument made for the purpose, known as a sifflet, which was wooden and emitted a harsh creaking noise. No man thought of going to the theatre without his sifflet—but the claque gradually clapped him away. Thus died out the official dispensers of success or failure.

After serving in his role for twenty-one years[Pg 159] with significant success, the Chef de Claque was let go, and it was decided that professional applause should come to an end. Naturally, the Chef was outraged, and in the fall of 1902, he sued the Comédie Française for 30,000 francs in damages or a pension. However, Paris found relief in the absence of the original claque, and one by one, theaters started to get rid of this long-endured nuisance. History tells us that during the early days of the claque, there was an equally annoying organization known as the siffleurs, a type of organized opposition. It was as common to whistle a show out of favor as it was to clap it into success. There was a specific instrument made for this purpose called a sifflet, which was wooden and produced a harsh creaking sound. No one thought of going to the theater without their sifflet—but the claque eventually clapped them away. Thus, the official arbiters of success or failure faded away.

It so chanced that having bicycled through France from Dieppe along the banks of the Seine, my sister and I were leaving Paris on the first occasion of Sarah Bernhardt’s impersonation of Hamlet—that is to say, in May, 1899. We were so anxious to see her first performance, however, that we decided to stay an extra day. So far all was well, but not a single ticket could be obtained. Here was disappointment indeed. Of course our names were not on the first night list in Paris and, as in England, it is well-nigh impossible for any ordinary member of the public to gain admittance on such an occasion.

It just so happened that after biking through France from Dieppe along the Seine, my sister and I were leaving Paris during Sarah Bernhardt’s first performance as Hamlet—in May 1899. We were so eager to see her debut that we decided to stay an extra day. Up until then, everything was great, but we couldn't get a single ticket. That was a real disappointment. Of course, our names weren't on the guest list for the opening night in Paris, and, like in England, it's virtually impossible for an average person to get in on such an occasion.

The gentleman in the box office became sympathetic[Pg 160] at beholding our distress, and finally suggested he might let us have seats upstairs.

The guy at the box office felt sorry for us[Pg 160] when he saw how upset we were, and he finally suggested that he could get us seats upstairs.

“It is very high up, but you will see and hear everything,” he added.

“It’s really high up, but you’ll see and hear everything,” he added.

We decided to ascend to the gods, where, instead of finding ourselves beside Jupiter and Mars, Venus or Apollo, we were seated immediately behind the claque.

We chose to rise up to the gods, where, instead of being next to Jupiter and Mars, Venus or Apollo, we ended up seated right behind the claque.

Never, never shall I forget my own personal experience of the performance of a claque. Six men sat together in the centre of the front row. The middle one had a marked book—fancy Shakespeare’s Hamlet marked for applause!—and according to that book’s instructions the Chef and his friends clapped once, twice, thrice.

Never, I will never forget my own personal experience of witnessing a claque. Six men sat together in the center of the front row. The one in the middle had a special book—imagine having Shakespeare’s Hamlet with directions for applause!—and following that book’s instructions, the Chef and his friends clapped once, twice, and then three times.

On ordinary occasions the claque slept or read, and only woke up to make a noise when called upon by the Chef, who seemed to have free passes for his supporters every night, and took any one he liked to help him in his curious work. The noise those men made at Hamlet was deafening. The excitement of the leader lest the play should not go off well on a first night was terrible—and if their hands were not sore, and their arms did not ache, it was a wonder indeed. They were so appallingly near us, and so overpowering and disturbing, nothing but interest in the divine Sarah could have kept us in our seats during all those hot, stuffy, noisy hours. It was a Saturday night, the piece began at 8 p.m., and ended at 2 a.m.

On regular nights, the claque would either sleep or read, waking only to make noise when called by the Chef, who seemed to have unlimited access to bring in his supporters each night and chose whoever he wanted to assist him with his peculiar tasks. The noise those guys made during Hamlet was deafening. The leader's anxiety that the play wouldn’t go well on opening night was intense—and if their hands weren’t sore and their arms didn’t ache, that would be quite a surprise. They were so incredibly close to us, and so overwhelming and disruptive, that only our fascination with the incredible Sarah kept us in our seats through all those hot, stuffy, noisy hours. It was a Saturday night; the show started at 8 p.m. and wrapped up at 2 a.m.

Think of it, ye London first-nighters! Especially in a French theatre, where the seats are torture racks, the heat equal to Dante’s Inferno, and no sweet music[Pg 161] soothes the savage breast, only long dreary entr’actes and the welcome—if melancholy—three raps French playgoers know so well.

Think about it, you London first-nighters! Especially in a French theater, where the seats are torture devices, the heat feels like Dante’s Inferno, and there’s no sweet music[Pg 161] to calm the savage heart, only long, dreary entr’actes and the familiar—if sad—three knocks that French theatergoers know all too well.

Two years later, when I was again in Paris, there were different excitements in the air, one a strike of coal-miners, the other—and in Paris apparently the more important—a strike of the orchestras at the theatres. A few years previously there could not have been a strike, for the sufficient reason there were no orchestras; but gradually our plan of having music during the long waits crept in. The musicians at first engaged as an experiment were badly paid. When they became an institution they naturally asked for more money, which was promptly refused.

Two years later, when I was back in Paris, the atmosphere was buzzing with different events: one was a coal miners' strike, and another—and apparently more significant in Paris—was a strike by the orchestra musicians at the theaters. Just a few years earlier, a strike wouldn't have been possible because there were no orchestras; but gradually, our idea of having music during the long waits became established. Initially, the musicians we hired as a test were paid poorly. As they became a regular part of the scene, they naturally requested higher pay, which was quickly denied.

Then came the revolt. From the first violin to the big drum all demanded higher pay. It seems that theatre, music hall, and concert orchestras belong to a syndicate of Artistes Musiciens numbering some sixteen hundred members. During the strike I chanced to be present at a theatre where there was generally an orchestra—that night one small cottage piano played by a lady usurped its place. She managed fairly well—but a piano played by a mediocre musician, does not add to the gaiety of a theatre although it may decrease its melancholy. When November came, the strike ceased. The managers capitulated.

Then came the strike. From the first violin to the big drum, everyone demanded higher pay. It turns out that theatre, music hall, and concert orchestras are part of a group called Artistes Musiciens, which has around sixteen hundred members. During the strike, I happened to be at a theatre that usually had an orchestra— that night, a small cottage piano played by a lady took its place. She played fairly well—but a piano played by a mediocre musician doesn’t really lift the mood of a theatre, even if it can make it less sad. When November arrived, the strike ended. The managers gave in.

The orchestra in an English theatre is a little world to itself. The performers never mix with the actors, they have their own band-room, and there they live when not before the curtain. At the chief theatres, as is well known, the performers are extremely good,[Pg 162] and that is because they are allowed to “deputise”; when there is a grand concert at the St. James’s Hall or elsewhere, provided they find some one to take their place in their own orchestra, they may go and play. Consequently, when there is a big concert several may be away from their own theatre. Many of these performers remain in the same orchestra for years. For instance, Mr. Alexander told me he met a man one day roving at the back of the stage, so he stopped and asked whom he wanted. The man smiled and replied:

The orchestra in an English theater is like a small world of its own. The musicians don’t interact with the actors; they have their own rehearsal space where they hang out when they’re not on stage. At the main theaters, it’s well known that the musicians are really talented,[Pg 162] which is because they’re allowed to "substitute"; when there’s a big concert at St. James’s Hall or somewhere else, they can go as long as they find someone to fill in for them in their own orchestra. So, during a major concert, many might be absent from their theater. A lot of these musicians stay in the same orchestra for years. For example, Mr. Alexander once told me he saw a guy wandering around the back of the stage, so he stopped to ask what he needed. The guy smiled and replied:

“I am in your orchestra, sir, and have been for eleven years.”

“I’ve been in your orchestra for eleven years, sir.”

“Ah, yes, so you are; I thought I knew your face; but I am accustomed to look at it from above, you see!”

“Ah, yes, that’s you; I thought I recognized your face; but I’m used to seeing it from above, you know!”

In many London theatres the orchestra is hidden under the stage, a decided advantage with most plays.

In many London theaters, the orchestra is concealed beneath the stage, which is definitely a plus for most plays.

Parisian theatres are strange places. They are very fashionable, and yet they are most uncomfortable. The seats are invariably too small and too high. The result is there is nowhere to lay a cloak or coat, and short people find their little legs dangling high above the ground. All this causes inconvenience which ends in annoyance, and the hangers-on at the theatres are a veritable nuisance. Ugly old women in blue aprons, without caps, pounce upon one on entering and pester for wraps. It is difficult to know which is the worse evil, to cling to one’s belongings in the small space allotted each member of the audience, or to let one of those women take them away. In the latter case before the last act she returns with a great deal of[Pg 163] fuss, hands over the articles, and demands her sous. If the piece be only in three acts, one pays for being free of a garment for two of them and is annoyed by its presence during the third. Again, when one enters a box these irritating ouvreuses demand tips pour le service de la loge, s’il vous plaît, and will often insist on forcing footstools under one’s feet so as to claim the pourboires afterwards. The pourboires of the vestiaire are also a thorn in the flesh, and the system which exacts payment from these women turns them from obliging servants into harpies. How Parisians put up with these disagreeable creatures is surprising, but they do.

Parisian theaters are strange places. They’re very trendy, yet super uncomfortable. The seats are always too small and too high. As a result, there’s nowhere to put a cloak or coat, and shorter people have their legs dangling high above the ground. All of this creates hassle that leads to frustration, and the people hanging around the theaters are quite annoying. Ugly old women in blue aprons, without bonnets, jump on you as you enter and bug you for your wraps. It’s tough to decide what’s worse: holding onto your belongings in the small space given to each audience member, or letting one of those women take them away. If you choose the latter, before the last act, she comes back with a lot of fuss, hands over your items, and asks for her payment. If the show is only three acts long, you pay to ditch your coat for two acts but are annoyed by it during the third. Plus, when you enter a box, these annoying ushers ask for tips for “the service of the box, please” and often insist on slipping footstools under your feet just so they can ask for tips afterward. The tips for the coat check are also a pain, and the system that makes you pay these women turns them from helpful attendants into greedy pests. It’s surprising that Parisians tolerate these unpleasant people, but they do.

The stage is conservative in many ways; for instance, that tiresome plan of charging for programmes still exists in England in some theatres, and even good theatres too. Programmes cost nothing: the expense of printing is paid by the advertisements. Free distribution, therefore, does not mean that the management are out of pocket. Why, then, do they not present them gratis? As things are it is most aggravating. Suppose two ladies arrive; as they are shown to their seats, holding their skirts, opera-bags and fans in their hands, they are asked for sixpence. While they endeavour to extract their money they are dropping their belongings and inconveniencing their neighbours: in the case of a man requiring change the same annoyance is felt by all around, especially if the play has begun.

The stage is pretty old-fashioned in many ways; for example, that annoying practice of charging for programs still happens in England in some theaters, even decent ones. Programs should be free: the cost of printing is covered by the ads. So, giving them away doesn’t mean the management loses money. So why don't they just hand them out for free? As it stands, it's really frustrating. Imagine two ladies arriving; as they’re shown to their seats, holding their skirts, bags, and fans, they’re asked for sixpence. While they try to dig out their money, they’re dropping their things and bothering the people around them. If a guy needs change, everyone nearby gets equally annoyed, especially if the show has already started.

Programmes and their necessary “murmurings” are annoying, and so is the meagreness of the space[Pg 164] between the rows of stalls. There are people who openly declare they never go to a theatre because they have not got room for their knees. This is certainly much worse in Parisian theatres, where the seats are high and narrow as well; but still, when people pay for a seat they like room to pass to and fro without inconveniencing a dozen persons en route.

Programs and their constant “murmurs” are irritating, and so is the lack of space[Pg 164] between the rows of seats. Some people openly say they don’t go to the theater because there’s no room for their knees. It's definitely worse in theaters in Paris, where the seats are also high and narrow; but still, when people pay for a seat, they want enough space to move around without bothering a dozen people on the way.

Matinée hats and late arrivals are sins on the part of the audience so cruel that no self-respecting person would inflict either upon a neighbour. But some women are so inconsiderate that we shall soon be reduced to an American notice like the following, “Ladies who cannot, or are unwilling to, remove their hats while occupying seats in this theatre, are requested to leave at once; their money will be returned at the box office.” A gentlewoman never wears a picture hat at the play; if she arrives in one she takes it off. In the same way a gentleman makes a point of being in time. People who offend in these respects belong to a class which apparently knows no better, a class which complacently talks, or makes love, through a theatrical entertainment!

Matinée hats and showing up late are offenses by the audience so rude that no self-respecting person would subject a neighbor to them. Yet some women are so thoughtless that we'll soon have to put up a sign like this: “Ladies who cannot or choose not to remove their hats while seated in this theater are asked to leave immediately; their ticket price will be refunded at the box office.” A proper lady never wears a big hat at a play; if she does arrive in one, she takes it off. Similarly, a gentleman makes it a point to be on time. Those who commit these offenses seem to belong to a group that just doesn’t know any better, a group that casually talks or flirts through a performance!

Another strange Parisian custom is the advertisement drop-scene. At the end of the act, a curtain descends literally covered with pictures and puffs of pills, automobiles, corsets, or tobacco. After a tragedy the effect is comical, but this is an age of advertisement.

Another odd Parisian tradition is the advertisement drop-scene. At the end of the act, a curtain comes down, completely covered in images and promotions for pills, cars, corsets, or tobacco. After a tragic performance, the effect is humorous, but this is the era of advertising.

But to return to Madame Bernhardt’s Hamlet. When the great Sarah appeared upon the scene I did not recognise her. Why? Because she looked so young and so small. This woman, who was[Pg 165] nearly sixty, appeared quite juvenile. This famous tragédienne, who had always left an impression of a tall, thin, willowy being in her wonderful scenes in La Tosca, or Dame aux Caméllias, deprived of her train appeared quite tiny. She had the neatest legs, encased in black silk stockings, the prettiest feet with barely any heel to give her height, while her flaxen wig which hung upon her shoulders, made her look a youth, in the sixteenth century clothes she elected to wear. At first I felt woefully disappointed; she did not act at all, and when she saw her father’s ghost, instead of becoming excited, as we are accustomed to Hamlet’s doing in this country, she insinuated a lack of interest, an “Oh, is that really my father’s ghost!” sort of style, which seemed almost annoying; but as she proceeded, I was filled with admiration—her players’ scene was a great coup.

But to go back to Madame Bernhardt’s Hamlet. When the great Sarah stepped onto the stage, I didn’t recognize her. Why? Because she looked so young and so small. This woman, who was[Pg 165] nearly sixty, appeared so youthful. This famous tragédienne, who always gave the impression of a tall, thin, willowy figure in her amazing performances in La Tosca and Dame aux Caméllias, looked quite tiny without her train. She had the neatest legs, wrapped in black silk stockings, the prettiest feet with barely any heel to give her height, and her flaxen wig resting on her shoulders made her look like a young person in the sixteenth-century outfit she chose to wear. At first, I felt really disappointed; she didn’t act at all, and when she saw her father’s ghost, instead of reacting with excitement like we’re used to seeing with Hamlet here, she expressed a lack of interest, with an “Oh, is that really my father’s ghost!” kind of attitude, which was almost annoying; but as she continued, I was filled with admiration—her players’ scene was a fantastic coup.

On the left of the stage a smaller one was arranged for the players’ scene, and before it half a dozen torches were stuck in as footlights. On the right there was a high raised daïs with steps leading up on either side—a sort of platform erection. The King and Queen sat upon two seats at the top, the courtiers grouped themselves upon the stairs. Immediately below the Royal pair sat Ophelia, and at her feet, upon a white polar-bear-skin rug, reclined Sarah Bernhardt, with her elbow upon Ophelia’s knee and her hand upon some yellow cushions. As the play went on she looked up to catch a glimpse of the King, but he was too high above her, the wall of the platform hid him from view. Very quietly she rose from[Pg 166] her seat, crawled round to the back, where she gradually and slowly pulled herself up towards the daïs, getting upon a stool in her eagerness to see her victim’s face. The King, in his excitement, rose from his seat at the fatal moment, and putting his hand upon the balustrade, peered downwards upon the play-actors.

On the left side of the stage, a smaller area was set up for the actors' scene, and in front of it, about six torches were placed as footlights. On the right, there was a high raised platform with steps on either side. The King and Queen sat in two seats at the top, and the courtiers gathered on the stairs. Right below the royal couple was Ophelia, and at her feet, on a white polar-bear-skin rug, reclined Sarah Bernhardt, resting her elbow on Ophelia’s knee and her hand on some yellow cushions. As the play continued, she looked up to catch a glimpse of the King, but he was too high above her; the wall of the platform blocked her view. Very quietly, she got up from her seat, crawled around to the back, and gradually pulled herself up towards the platform, eagerly climbing onto a stool to see her victim's face. In his excitement, the King stood up at the critical moment, placing his hand on the balustrade and leaning forward to look down at the actors.

At that instant Sarah Bernhardt rose, and the two faces came close together across the barrier in eager contemplation of each other. It was a magnificent piece of acting, one which sent a thrill through the whole house; and as the “divine Sarah” saw the guilt depicted upon her uncle’s face she gave a shriek of triumph, a perfectly fiendish shriek of joy, once heard never to be forgotten, and springing down from her post, rushed to the torch footlights, and seizing one in her hand stood in the middle of the stage, her back to the audience, waving it on high and yelling with wild exultant delight as the King and all his courtiers slunk away, to the fall of the curtain. It was a brilliant ending to a great act, and Sarah triumphed not only in the novelty of her rendering, but in the manner of its execution.

At that moment, Sarah Bernhardt stood up, and the two faces drew close together over the barrier, eagerly studying each other. It was an incredible display of acting that sent a thrill through the entire audience; and as the “divine Sarah” saw the guilt written on her uncle’s face, she let out a triumphant shriek, a wickedly joyful shriek that, once heard, would never be forgotten. Jumping down from her spot, she rushed to the footlights and grabbed one in her hand, standing in the center of the stage with her back to the audience, raising it high and shouting with wild, ecstatic joy as the King and all his courtiers slipped away, just as the curtain fell. It was a spectacular finish to a great performance, and Sarah not only succeeded in the uniqueness of her interpretation but also in how she executed it.

Another hit that struck me as perfectly wonderful in its contrasting simplicity, was, when she sat upon a sofa, her feet straight out before her, a book lying idle upon her lap, and murmured, mots, mots, or again, when she came in through the arch at the back of the stage, and leaning against its pillar repeated quietly and dreamily the lines “To be, or not to be.”

Another moment that felt perfectly wonderful in its simple contrast was when she sat on a sofa, her feet stretched out in front of her, a book resting idly on her lap, and murmured, words, words. Or again, when she entered through the arch at the back of the stage and leaned against the pillar, softly and dreamily repeating the lines, "To be, or not to be."

Apropos of Hamlet, Madame Bernhardt wrote to the Daily Telegraph:

Regarding Hamlet, Madame Bernhardt wrote to the Daily Telegraph:

[Pg 167]

“Hamlet rêve quand il est seul; mais quand il y a du monde il parle; il parle pour cacher sa pensée....

Hamlet dreams when he's alone, but when others are around, he talks; he talks to conceal his thoughts....

“On me reproche, dans la scène de l’Oratoire, de m’approcher trop près du Roi; mais, si Hamlet veut tuer le Roi, il faut bien qu’il s’approche de lui. Et quand il l’entend prier des paroles de repentir, il pense que s’il le tue il l’enverra au ciel, et il ne tue pas le Roi; non pas parcequ’il est irrésolu et faible, mais parcequ’il est tenace et logique; il veut le tuer dans le péché, non dans le repentir, car il veut qu’il aille en enfer, et pas au ciel. On veut absolument voir, dans Hamlet, une âme de femme, hésitante, imponderée; moi, j’y vois l’âme d’un homme, résolue mais refléchie. Aussitôt que Hamlet voit l’âme de son père et appréhend le meurtre, il prend la résolution de le venger; mais, comme il est le contraire d’Othello, qui agit avant de penser, lui, Hamlet, pense avant d’agir, ce qui est le signe d’une grande force, d’une grande puissance d’âme.

People criticize me for getting too close to the King in the Oratory scene, but if Hamlet wants to kill the King, he needs to approach him. When he hears the King pray for forgiveness, he thinks that if he kills him then, he would send him to heaven, so he decides not to kill him. This isn't because he’s indecisive or weak; it's because he’s determined and logical. He wants to kill the King when he’s in a state of sin, not repentance, because he wants him to go to hell, not heaven. Many people insist on seeing Hamlet as having a woman’s soul, hesitant and unfocused; I see the soul of a man, resolute but thoughtful. As soon as Hamlet sees his father's soul and feels the weight of the murder, he decides to take revenge. Unlike Othello, who acts impulsively, Hamlet carefully considers his actions first, which shows significant strength and profound inner power.

“Hamlet aime Ophélie! il renonce à l’amour! il renonce à l’étude! il renonce à tout! pour arriver à son but! Et il y arrive! Il tue le Roi quand il est pris dans le péché le plus noir, le plus criminel; mais il ne le tue que lorsqu’il est absolument sûr. Lorsqu’on l’envoie en Angleterre, à la première occasion qu’il rencontre il bondit tout seul sur un bateau ennemi et il se nomme pour qu’on le fasse prisonnier, sûr qu’on le ramenera. Il envoie froidement Rosencrantz et Guildenstern à la mort. Tout cela est d’un être jeune, fort et résolu![Pg 168]

"Hamlet loves Ophelia! He gives up love! He gives up studying! He gives up everything! To achieve his goal! And he does! He kills the King when he’s caught in the darkest, most criminal sin; but he only does it when he’s absolutely sure. When he’s sent to England, at the first opportunity he finds, he jumps alone onto an enemy ship and identifies himself to get captured, confident that he’ll be brought back. He coldly sends Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to their deaths. All of this is from a young, strong, and determined person!"[Pg 168]

“Quand il rêve: c’est à son projet! c’est à sa vengeance! Si Dieu n’avait pas défendu le suicide, il se tuerait par dégoût du monde! mais, puisqu’il ne peut pas se tuer, il tuera!

“Enfin, Monsieur, permettez-moi de vous dire que Shakespeare, par son génie colossal, appartient à l’Univers! et qu’un cerveau Français, Allemand, ou Russe a le droit de l’admirer et de le comprendre.

"Finally, sir, let me say that Shakespeare, with his immense talent, belongs to the Universe! A French, German, or Russian intellect has the right to appreciate and comprehend his work."

“SARAH BERNHARDT.

“SARAH BERNHARDT.”

“Londres, le 16 Juin, 1899.”

“London, June 16, 1899.”

Madame Bernhardt made Hamlet a man, and a strong man—there was nothing of the halting, hesitating woman about her performance, one which she herself loves to play.

Madame Bernhardt turned Hamlet into a real man, a strong one—there was none of the wavering, uncertain woman in her performance, which she herself loves to perform.

It was a fine touch also when she went into her uncle’s room, where, finding him on his knees, she crept up close behind, and taking out her dagger, prepared to kill him. She said nothing, but her play was marvellous, her expression of hatred and loathing, her pause to contemplate, and final decision to let the man alone, were done in such a way as only Sarah Bernhardt could render them.

It was a nice touch when she entered her uncle’s room, where she found him on his knees. She crept up close behind him, took out her dagger, and got ready to kill him. She didn’t say a word, but her performance was incredible—her expression of hatred and disgust, her pause to think it over, and her final choice to spare him were all done in a way that only Sarah Bernhardt could pull off.

Another drama took place on this memorable first night of Hamlet. Two famous men when discussing whether Hamlet ought to be fat or thin, struck one another in the face and finally arranged a duel—a duel fought two or three days later, which nearly cost one of them his life.

Another drama unfolded on this memorable first night of Hamlet. Two famous men, while debating whether Hamlet should be fat or thin, struck each other in the face and ultimately agreed to a duel—a duel that was fought two or three days later, which nearly cost one of them his life.

Opposite is the programme of the first night of Sarah Bernhardt’s Hamlet.

Opposite is the program for the opening night of Sarah Bernhardt’s Hamlet.

[Pg 169]

THE TRAGIC STORY OF
HAMLET
PRINCE OF DENMARK
Drama in 15 Scenes by William SHAKESPEARE
Prose translation of MM. Eugène MORAND et Marcel SCHWOB

Mᵐᵉ Sarah Bernhardt
HAMLET
MM.
Bremont	The King
Magnier	Laertes
Chameroy	Polonius
Deneubourg	Horatio
Ripert	The Phantom
Protection	Top undertaker
Lacroix	Second „
Teste	The Comedy King
Scheler	Osric
Jean Darav	Rosencrantz
Jahan	Voltimand
Colas	Bernardo
Krauss	Marcellus
Laurent	Guildenstern
Barber	Fortinbras
Stebler	Deuxᵐᵉ comédien
Cauroy	Francesco
Lahore	A Priest
Bary	Cornelius
Caillere	Troisème comédien
Bertaut	A Gentleman
MMemes
Marthe Mellot	Ophélie
Marcya	Queen Gertrude
Baker	The acting queen
Priests, actors, sailors, officers, soldiers, etc.

[Pg 170]

There is a famous Hamlet skull in America, known as Yorick’s skull, which is in the possession of Dr. Horace Howard Furness, of Philadelphia.

There is a famous Hamlet skull in America, known as Yorick’s skull, which belongs to Dr. Horace Howard Furness of Philadelphia.

Dr. Furness is one of the greatest Shakespearian scholars of the day. Dr. Georg Brandes, of Copenhagen, Mr. Sydney Lee, of London, and he probably know more of the work of this great genius than any other living persons.

Dr. Furness is one of the top Shakespeare scholars today. Dr. Georg Brandes from Copenhagen, Mr. Sydney Lee from London, and he probably know more about the work of this great genius than anyone else alive.

When I was in America I had the pleasure of spending a few days at Dr. Furness’s delightful home at Wallingford, on the shores of the Delaware River. The place might be in England, from its appearance—a low, rambling old house with wide balconies, creeper-grown with roses, and honey-suckle hugging the porch. The dear old home was built more than a century ago, by some of Dr. Furness’s ancestors, and one sees the love of those ancestors for the old English style manifest at every turn. The whole interior bespeaks intellectual refinement.

When I was in America, I had the pleasure of spending a few days at Dr. Furness’s lovely home in Wallingford, by the Delaware River. The place could easily be in England, from how it looks—a low, sprawling old house with wide balconies, covered in roses and honeysuckle wrapping around the porch. This charming home was built over a century ago by some of Dr. Furness’s ancestors, and you can see their appreciation for the old English style everywhere you look. The entire interior reflects a sense of intellectual elegance.

He stood on the doorstep to welcome me, a grey-headed man of some sixty-eight years, with a ruddy complexion, and closely cut white moustache. His manner was delightful; no more polished gentleman ever walked this earth than Horace Howard Furness, the great American writer. His father was an intimate friend of Ralph Waldo Emerson, whose famous portrait at the Philadelphia Art Gallery was painted by the doctor’s brother; so young Horace was brought up amid intellectual surroundings.

He stood at the doorstep to welcome me, a gray-haired man of about sixty-eight, with a healthy complexion and a neatly trimmed white mustache. His demeanor was charming; no more refined gentleman has ever walked this earth than Horace Howard Furness, the great American writer. His father was a close friend of Ralph Waldo Emerson, whose famous portrait at the Philadelphia Art Gallery was painted by the doctor’s brother, so young Horace grew up in an intellectually stimulating environment.

At the back of the house is the world-renowned iron-proof Shakespearian library, the collection of[Pg 171] forty ardent years. It is a veritable museum with its upper galleries, its many tables, and its endless cases of treasures. The books which line the walls were all catalogued by the doctor himself. He has many of the earlier editions of Shakespeare besides other rare volumes. Some original MSS. of Charles Lamb, beautifully written and signed Elia, are there; a delightful sketch of Mary Anderson by Forbes Robertson; Lady Martin’s (Helen Faucit) own acting editions of the parts she played marked by herself; and in a special glass case lie a pair of grey gauntlet gloves, richly embroidered in silver, which were worn by Shakespeare himself when an actor. If I remember rightly they came from David Garrick, and the card of authenticity is in the case. Then there are Garrick’s and Booth’s walking-sticks, and on a small ebony stand, the famous Yorick skull handled in the grave-digging scene by all the great actors who have visited Philadelphia, and signed by them—Booth, Irving, Tree, Sothern, etc.

At the back of the house is the famous iron-proof Shakespearean library, a collection of[Pg 171] forty passionate years. It's basically a museum with its upper galleries, numerous tables, and endless display cases of treasures. All the books that line the walls were cataloged by the doctor himself. He has many early editions of Shakespeare along with other rare volumes. Some original manuscripts by Charles Lamb, beautifully written and signed "Elia," are there; a charming sketch of Mary Anderson by Forbes Robertson; Lady Martin’s (Helen Faucit) personal acting editions of the roles she played with her own markings; and in a special glass case are a pair of grey gauntlet gloves, richly embroidered in silver, which were worn by Shakespeare himself during his acting days. If I remember correctly, they came from David Garrick, and the authenticity card is in the case. There are also Garrick’s and Booth’s walking sticks, and on a small ebony stand, the famous Yorick skull used in the grave-digging scene by all the great actors who have visited Philadelphia, signed by them—Booth, Irving, Tree, Sothern, and others.

I never spent a more delightful evening than one in October, 1900, when the family went off to Philadelphia to see the dramatisation of one of Dr. Weir Mitchell’s novels by his son, and I was left alone with Dr. Furness for some hours.

I never had a more enjoyable evening than one in October 1900, when the family went to Philadelphia to see the adaptation of one of Dr. Weir Mitchell’s novels by his son, and I was left alone with Dr. Furness for a few hours.

What a charming companion. What a fund of information and humour, what a courtly manner, what a contrast to the ruggedness of Ibsen, or the wild energy of Björnsen. Here was repose and strength. Not an originator, perhaps, but a learned disciple. How he loved Shakespeare, with what reverence he spoke of him. He scoffed at the mere[Pg 172] mention of Bacon’s name, and was glad, very glad, so little was known of the private life of Shakespeare.

What a delightful companion. Such a wealth of knowledge and humor, such a gracious demeanor—what a contrast to Ibsen's roughness or Björnsen's wild energy. Here was calm and strength. Not a creator, maybe, but a knowledgeable follower. He adored Shakespeare and spoke of him with great respect. He dismissed even the mention of Bacon's name and was very pleased that so little was known about Shakespeare's private life.

“He was too great to be mortal; I do not want to associate any of Nature’s frailties with such a mind. His work is the thing, for the man as a man I care nothing.” This was unlike Brandes, whose brilliant books on Shakespeare deal chiefly with the man.

“He was too great to be human; I don’t want to link any of Nature’s weaknesses with such a mind. His work is what matters, because I don’t care about the man as a person.” This was different from Brandes, whose brilliant books on Shakespeare focus mainly on the man.

There was something particularly delightful about Horace Furness and his home. Even the dinner-table appointments were his choice. The soup-plates were of the rarest Oriental porcelain, and the meat-plates were of silver with mottoes chosen by himself round the borders.

There was something especially charming about Horace Furness and his home. Even the dinner table settings were his preference. The soup plates were made of the finest Oriental porcelain, and the meat plates were silver engraved with mottoes he personally selected around the edges.

“I loved my china, but it got broken year by year, until in desperation I looked about for something that could not break—solid and plain, like myself, eh?” he chuckled. The mottoes were well chosen and the idea as original as everything else about Dr. Furness.

“I loved my china, but it got broken year by year, until in desperation I looked for something that couldn't break—sturdy and simple, like myself, right?” he chuckled. The sayings were well chosen, and the concept was as original as everything else about Dr. Furness.

It was Mrs. Kemble’s readings that first awakened his love for Shakespeare; but he was nearly forty years old when he gave up law and devoted himself to writing; much the same age as Dr. Samuel Smiles when he exchanged business for authorship.

It was Mrs. Kemble’s readings that first sparked his love for Shakespeare; but he was nearly forty years old when he quit law and dedicated himself to writing, about the same age as Dr. Samuel Smiles when he swapped business for writing.

Dr. Furness loves his Shakespeare and thoroughly enjoys his well-chosen library; but still an Englishwoman cannot help hoping that when he has done with them, he will bequeath his treasures to the Shakespeare Museum at Stratford-on-Avon.

Dr. Furness loves his Shakespeare and really enjoys his carefully selected library; but still, an Englishwoman can't help hoping that when he's done with them, he will leave his treasures to the Shakespeare Museum in Stratford-on-Avon.

[Pg 173]

CHAPTER IX

AN HISTORICAL FIRST NIGHT

An Intriguing Dinner—Peace in the Transvaal—Beerbohm Tree as a Visionary—How he coaxed Ellen Terry and Mrs. Kendal to Perform—Opening Night Attendees on Camp Stools—Different Styles of Mrs. Kendal and Miss Terry—The Humor of the Situation—Tributes to the Deceased—Falstaff’s Unease—Funny Moments—Anxiety Behind the Curtain—The Author’s Emotions.

THE scene was changed.

The scene changed.

It was the 1st of June. I remember the date because it was my birthday, and this particular June day is doubly engraven on my mind as the most important Sunday in 1902. It was a warm summer’s evening as I drove down Harley Street to dine with Sir Anderson and Lady Critchett, whose dinners are as famous as his own skill as an oculist.

It was June 1st. I remember the date because it was my birthday, and this specific June day is firmly etched in my mind as the most significant Sunday in 1902. It was a warm summer evening as I drove down Harley Street to have dinner with Sir Anderson and Lady Critchett, whose dinners are as renowned as his own expertise as an eye doctor.

Most of the company had assembled. Mr. and Mrs. Kendal were already there, Frank Wedderburn, K.C., Mr. Luke Fildes, R.A., who had just completed his portrait of the King, Mr. Orchardson, R.A., Mr. Lewis Coward, K.C., and their wives, Mr. and Mrs. Edward Sassoon, Mr. and Mrs. W. L. Courtney, when the Beerbohm Trees were announced. He bore a telegram in his hand.

Most of the company had gathered. Mr. and Mrs. Kendal were already there, along with Frank Wedderburn, K.C., Mr. Luke Fildes, R.A., who had just finished his portrait of the King, Mr. Orchardson, R.A., Mr. Lewis Coward, K.C., and their wives, Mr. and Mrs. Edward Sassoon, Mr. and Mrs. W. L. Courtney, when the Beerbohm Trees were announced. He was holding a telegram in his hand.

[Pg 174]

“Have you heard the news?” he asked.

“No,” every one replied, guessing by his face it was something of importance.

“No,” everyone replied, sensing from his expression that it was something significant.

“Peace has been officially signed,” was the reply.

“Peace has been officially signed,” was the response.

Great was the joy of all present. There had been a possibility felt all day that the good news from South Africa might be confirmed on that Sunday, although it was supposed it could not be known for certain until Monday. Sunday is more or less a dies non in London, but as the tape is always working at the theatre, Mr. Tree had instructed a clerk to sit and watch the precious instrument all day, so as to let him have the earliest information of so important an event. As he was dressing for dinner in Sloane Street, in rushed the clerk, breathless with excitement, bearing the news of the message of Peace that had sped across a quarter of the world.

Great was the joy of everyone there. There had been a feeling all day that the good news from South Africa might be confirmed that Sunday, even though it was thought it couldn't be known for sure until Monday. Sunday is pretty much a dies non in London, but since the tape is always running at the theatre, Mr. Tree had told a clerk to watch the precious instrument all day, so he could get the earliest word on such an important event. While he was getting dressed for dinner in Sloane Street, the clerk burst in, breathless with excitement, bringing the news of the message of Peace that had traveled across a quarter of the world.

This in itself made that dinner-party memorable, but it was memorable in more ways than one, as among the twenty people round that table sat four of the chief performers in The Merry Wives of Windsor, which was to electrify London as a Coronation performance ten days later.

This alone made that dinner party unforgettable, but it was memorable in even more ways, as among the twenty people at that table were four of the main actors in The Merry Wives of Windsor, which was set to thrill London as a Coronation performance ten days later.

Sir Anderson himself is connected with the drama, for his brother is Mr. R. C. Carton, the well-known dramatic author. Sir Anderson is also an indefatigable first-nighter, and being an excellent raconteur, knows many amusing stories of actors of the day. In his early years an exceptionally fine voice almost[Pg 175] tempted him on to the lyric stage, but he has had no cause to regret that his ultimate choice was ophthalmic surgery.

Sir Anderson himself is linked to the theater, as his brother is Mr. R. C. Carton, the famous playwright. Sir Anderson is also a dedicated first-nighter and, being an excellent raconteur, knows plenty of entertaining stories about contemporary actors. In his youth, an exceptionally good voice almost[Pg 175] led him to pursue a career on the lyrical stage, but he has no regrets about ultimately choosing ophthalmic surgery.

It was a stroke of genius, the genius of the seer, on the part of Beerbohm Tree, to invite the two leading actresses of England to perform at his theatre during Coronation season.

It was a brilliant idea, the insight of a visionary, on the part of Beerbohm Tree, to invite the two top actresses in England to perform at his theater during Coronation season.

It came about in this way. On looking round the Houses, Mr. Tree noticed that, although Shakespeare was to the fore in the provinces, filling two or three theatres, there happened to be no Shakespearian production—except an occasional matinée at the Lyceum—going on in London during the Coronation month. Of course London without Shakespeare is like Hamlet without the Dane to visitors from the Colonies and elsewhere. Something must be done. He decided what. A good all-round representation, played without any particular star part would suit the purpose, and a record cast would suit the stranger. Accordingly Mr. Tree jumped into a hansom and drove to Mrs. Kendal’s home in Portland Place, where he was announced, and exclaimed:

It happened like this. While looking around the theaters, Mr. Tree noticed that even though Shakespeare was popular in the provinces, filling two or three theaters, there wasn’t any Shakespearean play—except for the occasional matinée at the Lyceum—happening in London during the month of the Coronation. Obviously, London without Shakespeare is like Hamlet without the Prince to visitors from the Colonies and beyond. Something needed to be done. He figured out what. A solid performance, done without any specific star role, would fit the bill, and a standout cast would appeal to newcomers. So, Mr. Tree hopped into a hansom cab and drove to Mrs. Kendal’s house in Portland Place, where he was announced and exclaimed:

“I have come to ask you to act for me at His Majesty’s for the Coronation month. Your own tour will be finished by that time.”

“I’ve come to ask you to represent me at the King’s during the Coronation month. Your own tour will be done by then.”

For one hour they talked, Mrs. Kendal declaring she had not played under any management save her husband’s for so many years that the suggestion seemed well-nigh impossible.

For an hour, they talked, with Mrs. Kendal saying she hadn't played under any management except her husband's for so many years that the idea seemed almost impossible.

“Besides,” she added, “you should ask Ellen Terry, who is my senior, and stands ahead of[Pg 176] me in the profession. She has not yet appeared since she returned from America. There is your chance.”

“Besides,” she added, “you should ask Ellen Terry, who is older than me and is ahead of[Pg 176] me in the profession. She hasn’t shown up yet since coming back from America. There’s your chance.”

Whereupon there ensued further discussion, till finally Mrs. Kendal laughingly remarked:

Where a further discussion took place, until finally Mrs. Kendal joked:

“Well, if you can get Ellen Terry to act, I will play with you both with pleasure.”

“Well, if you can get Ellen Terry to perform, I would be happy to join you both.”

Off went Mr. Tree to the hansom, and directed the driver to take him at once to Miss Terry’s house, for he was determined not to let the grass grow under his feet. He brought his personal influence to bear on the famous actress for another hour, at the end of which time she had consented to play if Sir Henry Irving would allow her. This permission was quickly obtained, and two hours after leaving Portland Place Mr. Tree was back to claim Mrs. Kendal’s promise. It was sharp work; one morning overcame what at the outset seemed insurmountable obstacles, and thus was arranged one of the best and luckiest performances ever given. For weeks and weeks that wonderful cast played to overflowing houses. The month wore on, but the public taste did not wear out, July found all these stars still in the firmament, and even in August they remained shining in town.

Mr. Tree hopped into the cab and told the driver to take him straight to Miss Terry’s house because he was determined to move quickly. He used his personal influence on the famous actress for another hour, and by the end of that time, she agreed to perform **if** Sir Henry Irving would allow her. That permission was secured quickly, and just two hours after leaving Portland Place, Mr. Tree was back to claim Mrs. Kendal’s promise. It was a fast turnaround; one morning tackled what initially appeared to be impossible obstacles, leading to one of the best and luckiest performances ever staged. For weeks, that incredible cast played to packed houses. The month went on, but the public's enthusiasm didn’t fade; by July, all these stars were still shining bright, and even in August, they continued to light up the city.

Moral: the very best always receives recognition. The “best” lay in the acting, for as a play the Merry Wives is by no means one of Shakespeare’s best. It is said he wrote it in ten days by order of Queen Elizabeth. How delighted Bouncing Bess would have been if she could have seen the Coronation performance!

Moral: the very best always gets recognized. The “best” is in the acting, because as a play, the Merry Wives is definitely not one of Shakespeare’s best. It’s said he wrote it in ten days on the orders of Queen Elizabeth. How thrilled Bouncing Bess would have been if she could have seen the Coronation performance!

Photo by London Stereoscopic Co., Ltd., Cheapside, E.C.

MR. BEERBOHM TREE AS FALSTAFF.

Mr. Beerbohm Tree as Falstaff.

[Pg 177]

I passed down the Haymarket early in the morning preceding that famous first night. There, sitting on camp-stools, were people who had been waiting from 5 a.m. to get into the pit and gallery that evening. They had a long wait, over twelve hours some of them, but certainly they thought it worth while if they enjoyed themselves as much as I did. It was truly a record performance.

I walked through the Haymarket early in the morning before that famous first night. There were people sitting on camp stools who had been waiting since 5 a.m. to get into the pit and gallery that evening. They had a long wait, over twelve hours for some of them, but they definitely thought it was worth it if they enjoyed themselves as much as I did. It was truly a record performance.

The house was packed; in one box was the Lord Chief Justice of England, in the stalls below him Sir Edward Clarke, at one time Solicitor-General, and who has perhaps the largest practice at the Bar of any one in London. Then there was Mr. Kendal not far off, watching his wife. Mr. and Mrs. Beerbohm Tree’s daughter—showing a strong resemblance to both parents—was in a box; Princess Colonna was likewise there; together with some of the most celebrated doctors, such as Sir Felix Semon, learned in diseases of the throat, Sir Anderson Critchett, our host of a few nights before, while right in the front sat old Mrs. Beerbohm, watching her son with keen interest and enjoyment, and, a little behind, that actor’s clever brother, known on an important weekly as “Max,” a severe and caustic dramatic critic.

The house was full; in one box was the Lord Chief Justice of England, and below him sat Sir Edward Clarke, who had once been Solicitor-General and probably had the largest legal practice in London. Mr. Kendal was nearby, keeping an eye on his wife. Mr. and Mrs. Beerbohm Tree’s daughter—who looked a lot like both her parents—was in a box; Princess Colonna was also there, along with some of the most famous doctors like Sir Felix Semon, an expert in throat diseases, and Sir Anderson Critchett, our host from a few nights ago. Right in the front was old Mrs. Beerbohm, watching her son with keen interest and enjoyment, and a little behind her was the actor’s sharp and critical brother, known in a major weekly as “Max,” a tough and incisive drama critic.

The enthusiasm of the audience was extraordinary. When some one had called for the feminine “stars” at one of the rehearsals, Mrs. Kendal, with ready wit, seized Ellen Terry by the hand, exclaiming:

The energy of the audience was amazing. When someone called for the female "stars" at one of the rehearsals, Mrs. Kendal, quick on her feet, grabbed Ellen Terry's hand, exclaiming:

“Ancient Lights would be more appropriate, methinks[Pg 178]!”

“Ancient Lights would be more fitting, I think[Pg 178]!”

Below is the programme.

Here is the program.

TUESDAY, JUNE 10th, 1902, at 8.15
SHAKESPEARE’S COMEDY

Sir John Falstaff				Mr. Tree
Master Fenton				Mr. Gerald Lawrence
Justice Shallow				Mr. J. Fisher White
Master Slender		(Cousin to Shallow)		Mr. Charles Quartermain
Master Ford	Understood! Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.	Gentlemen dwelling at	I'm sorry, but there seems to be a mistake in your submission. Please provide the short phrases you would like me to modernize.	Mr. Oscar Asche
Master Page		Windsor		Mr. F. Percival Stevens
Sir Hugh Evans		(a Welsh Parson)		Mr. Courtice Pounds
Dr. Caius		(a French Physician)		Mr. Henry Kemble
Host of the “Garter” Inn				Mr. Lionel Brough
Bardolph				Mr. Allen Thomas
Nym		Followers of Falstaff		Mr. S. A. Cookson
Pistol				Mr. Julian L’Estrange
Robin		(Page to Falstaff)		Master Vivian Thomas
Simple		(Servant to Slender)		Mr. O.B. Clarence
Rugby		(Servant to Dr. Caius)		Mr. Frank Stanmore
Mistress Page				Miss Ellen Terry (By the Courtesy of Sir Henry Irving)
Mistress Anne Page		(Daughter to Mrs. Page)		Mrs. Tree
Mistress Quickly		(Servant to Dr. Caius)		Miss Zeffie Tilbury
Mistress Ford				Mrs. Kendal (Thanks to Mr. W. H. Kendal)

The Merry Wives of Windsor is a comedy, but it was played on the first night as a comedy of comedies, every one, including Lionel Brough as the Innkeeper, being delightfully jovial. Every one seemed in the highest spirits, and all those sedate actors and actresses thoroughly enjoyed a romp. When the two[Pg 179] ladies of the evening appeared on the scene hand in hand, convulsed with laughter, they were clapped so enthusiastically that it really seemed as if they would never be allowed to begin.

The Merry Wives of Windsor is a comedy, but on opening night it was played as a comedy of comedies, with everyone, including Lionel Brough as the Innkeeper, being wonderfully cheerful. Everyone seemed to be in great spirits, and all the serious actors and actresses enjoyed the fun. When the two [Pg 179] ladies of the evening came on stage arm in arm, laughing uncontrollably, they received such enthusiastic applause that it honestly felt like they would never be able to start.

What a contrast they were, in appearance and style. They had played together as children, but never after, till that night. During the forty years that had rolled over Ellen Terry’s head since those young days she has developed into a Shakespearian actress of the first rank. Her life has been spent in declaiming blank verse, wearing mediæval robes, and enacting tragedy and comedy of ancient days by turn, and added to her vast experience, she has a great and wonderful personality.

What a contrast they were, in looks and style. They had played together as kids, but not again until that night. Over the forty years that had passed since those youthful days, Ellen Terry evolved into a top-notch Shakespearean actress. She spent her life delivering blank verse, wearing medieval costumes, and performing both tragedy and comedy from ancient times, and along with her extensive experience, she has a remarkable and vibrant personality.

Mrs. Kendal, on the other hand, who stands at the head of the comedians of the day, and is also mistress of her art, has played chiefly modern parts and depicted more constantly the sentiment of the time; but has seldom attacked blank verse; therefore, the two leading actresses of England are distinctly dissimilar in training and style. No stronger contrast could have been imagined; and yet, although neither part actually suited either, the finished actress was evident in every gesture, every tone, every look of both, and it would be hard to say which achieved the greatest triumph, each was so perfect in her own particular way.

Mrs. Kendal, on the other hand, who is at the forefront of today's comedians and is also a master of her craft, has mainly played modern roles and consistently captured the spirit of the time; however, she rarely tackles blank verse. As a result, the two leading actresses in England are clearly different in their training and style. No stronger contrast could have been imagined; yet, even though neither role truly suited the other, the skill of each actress was evident in every gesture, tone, and expression, making it difficult to determine who achieved the greater success, as each was so exceptional in her own unique way.

Miss Ellen Terry did not know her words—she rarely does on a first night, and is even prone to forget her old parts. Appearing in a new character that she was obliged to learn for the occasion, she had not[Pg 180] been able to memorise it satisfactorily; but that did not matter in the least. She looked charming, she was charming, the prompter was ever ready, and if she did repeat a line a second time while waiting to be helped with the next, no one seemed to think that of any consequence. When she went up the stairs to hide while Mrs. Kendal (Mrs. Ford) made Tree (Falstaff) propose to her, Mrs. Kendal packed her off in great style, and then wickedly and with amusing emphasis remarked:

Miss Ellen Terry didn't know her lines—she usually doesn't on the first night and often forgets her old roles too. Taking on a new character that she had to learn for the occasion, she hadn't been able to memorize it well enough; but that really didn’t matter at all. She looked lovely, she was lovely, the prompter was always ready, and if she repeated a line while waiting for help with the next one, no one seemed to find it significant. When she went up the stairs to hide while Mrs. Kendal (Mrs. Ford) had Tree (Falstaff) propose to her, Mrs. Kendal sent her off with great flair, and then mischievously and with playful emphasis commented:

“Mistress Page, remember your cue,” which of course brought down the house.

“Mrs. Page, remember your cue,” which of course brought down the house.

Their great scene came in the third act, when they put Falstaff into the basket. Mr. Tree was excellent as the preposterously fat knight—a character verily all stuff and nonsense. He is a tall man, and in his mechanical body reaches enormous girth. Falstaff and the Merry Wives had a regular romp over the upset of the basket, and the audience entering into the fun of the thing laughed as heartily as they did. Oh dear, oh dear! how every one enjoyed it.

Their standout moment happened in the third act when they put Falstaff into the basket. Mr. Tree was fantastic as the ridiculously overweight knight—a character that's truly all nonsense. He's a tall guy, and with his bulky body, he has an enormous size. Falstaff and the Merry Wives had a great time with the mishap involving the basket, and the audience joined in on the fun, laughing just as hard. Oh dear, oh dear! Everyone loved it.

A few nights later during this same scene Mr. Tree was observed to grow gradually thinner. He seemed to be going into a “rapid decline,” for his belt began to slip about, and his portly form grew less and less. Ellen Terry noticed the change: it was too much for her feelings. With the light-hearted gaiety of a child she was convulsed with mirth. She pointed out the phenomenon to Mrs. Kendal, who at once saw the humour of it, as did the audience, but the chief actor could not fathom the cause of the immoderate[Pg 181] hilarity until his belt began to descend. Then he realised that “Little Mary”—which in his case was an air pillow—had lost her screw, and was rapidly fading away.

A few nights later, during the same scene, Mr. Tree was seen to get gradually thinner. He appeared to be going into a “rapid decline,” as his belt started to slip around, and his once-portly figure became less and less. Ellen Terry noticed the change; it was too much for her feelings. With the carefree joy of a child, she burst into laughter. She pointed out what was happening to Mrs. Kendal, who immediately saw the humor in it, just like the audience did, but the main actor couldn’t understand the reason for the excessive[Pg 181] laughter until his belt began to slide down. Then he realized that “Little Mary”—which for him was an air pillow—had lost its screw and was quickly deflating.

But to return to that memorable first night; as the curtain fell on the last act the audience clapped and clapped, and not content with having the curtain up four or five times, called and called until the entire company danced hand in hand across the stage in front of the curtain. Even that was not enough, although poor Mrs. Kendal lost her enormous horned head-dress during the dance. The curtain had to be rung up again and again, till Mr. Tree stepped forward and said he had no speech to make beyond thanking the two charming ladies for their assistance and support, whereupon these two executed pas seuls on either side of the portly Falstaff.

But to go back to that unforgettable first night; as the curtain fell on the last act, the audience clapped and clapped, and not satisfied with the curtain rising four or five times, they called and called until the entire cast danced hand in hand across the stage in front of the curtain. Even that wasn’t enough, even though poor Mrs. Kendal lost her huge horned headpiece during the dance. The curtain had to be raised again and again until Mr. Tree stepped forward and said he had no speech to make other than thanking the two lovely ladies for their help and support, at which point these two performed pas seuls on either side of the stout Falstaff.

It was a wonderful performance, and although the two women mentioned stood out pre-eminently, one must not forget Mrs. Tree, who appeared as “Sweet Anne Page.” She received quite an ovation when her husband brought her forward to bow her acknowledgments. Bows on such an occasion or in such a comedy are quite permissible; but was ever anything more disconcerting than to see an actor who has just died before us in writhing agony, spring forward to bow at the end of some tragedy—to rise from the dead to smile—to see a man who has just moved us to tears and evoked our sympathy, stand gaily before us, to laugh at our sentiment and cheerily mock at our enthusiasm? Could anything be more inartistic?[Pg 182] A “call” often spoils a tragedy, not only in the theatre but at the opera. Over zeal on the part of the audience, and over vanity on the side of the actor, drags away the veil of mystery which is our make-believe of reality, and shows glaringly the make-believe of the whole thing.

It was an amazing performance, and while the two standout women were incredible, we shouldn't overlook Mrs. Tree, who played “Sweet Anne Page.” She received a huge ovation when her husband brought her up to take a bow. Bows in this context or during such a comedy are totally fine; but is there anything more jarring than seeing an actor who has just died in front of us in intense agony suddenly spring up to bow at the end of a tragedy—to rise from the dead to smile—to see a man who just moved us to tears and drew our sympathy stand casually in front of us, laughing at our feelings and cheerfully mocking our enthusiasm? Can anything be more out of place? A “call” often ruins a tragedy, not just in the theater but at the opera as well. The audience's overenthusiasm and the actor's excessive pride strip away the veil of mystery that creates our illusion of reality, revealing the fake nature of the whole thing.[Pg 182]

Mr. Beerbohm Tree never hesitates to tell a story against himself, and he once related an amusing experience in connection with his original production of The Merry Wives of Windsor.

Mr. Beerbohm Tree never shies away from sharing a story about himself, and he once recounted a funny experience related to his first production of The Merry Wives of Windsor.

In the final scene at Herne’s oak, where Falstaff is pursued by fairy elves and sprites, the burly knight endeavours to escape from his tormentors by climbing the trunk of a huge tree. In order to render this possible the manager had ordered some pegs to be inserted in the bark, but on the night of the final dress rehearsal these necessary aids were absent. A carpenter was summoned, and Mr. Tree, pointing to his namesake, said in tones of the deepest reproach:

In the final scene at Herne’s oak, where Falstaff is chased by fairy elves and sprites, the hefty knight tries to escape from his tormentors by climbing the trunk of a massive tree. To make this possible, the stage manager had arranged for some pegs to be inserted in the bark, but on the night of the final dress rehearsal, these essential aids were missing. A carpenter was called in, and Mr. Tree, pointing to his namesake, said in tones of the deepest reproach:

“No pegs! No pegs!”

When the eventful first night came Falstaff found to his annoyance and amazement that he was still unable to compass the climb by which he hoped to create much amusement. On the fall of the curtain the delinquent was again called into the managerial presence and addressed in strong terms. He, however, quickly cut short the reproof by exclaiming:

When the exciting first night arrived, Falstaff was both annoyed and amazed to find that he still couldn't manage the climb he hoped would entertain everyone. When the curtain fell, he was once again summoned before the management and was confronted in no uncertain terms. However, he quickly interrupted the scolding by exclaiming:

“’Ere, I say, guvnor, ’old ’ard: what was your words last night at the re-’earsal? ’No pegs,’ you said—’no pegs’—well, there ain’t none,” and he gave[Pg 183] a knowing smack of the lips as if to insinuate another kind of peg would be acceptable.

“Hey, I’m telling you, boss, hold on tight: what did you say last night at the rehearsal? ‘No pegs,’ you said—‘no pegs’—well, there aren’t any,” and he gave[Pg 183] a sly smack of his lips as if to suggest that a different kind of peg would be alright.

Experience has shown Mr. Tree that he can give the necessary appearance of bloated inflation to the cheeks of the fat knight by the aid of a paint-brush alone; but then Mr. Tree mixes his paints with brains. When he first essayed the character of Falstaff he relied for his effect on cotton wool and wig-paste. Even now his nose is deftly manipulated with paste to increase its size and shape, and I once saw him give it a tweak after a performance with droll effect. A little lump of nose-paste remained in his hand, while his own white organ shone forth in the midst of a rubicund countenance.

Experience has shown Mr. Tree that he can create the needed look of bloated cheeks on the fat knight using just a paintbrush; but Mr. Tree also mixes his paints with a bit of ingenuity. When he first tried playing Falstaff, he relied on cotton wool and wig paste for his effect. Even now, he skillfully uses paste to enhance the size and shape of his nose, and I once saw him give it a playful tweak after a performance, which was quite amusing. A small lump of nose paste was left in his hand, while his own white nose stood out against his red-faced appearance.

On an early occasion at the Crystal Palace Mr. Tree was delighted at a burst of uproarious merriment on the part of the audience, and flattered himself that the scene was going exceptionally well. Happening to glance downwards, however, he saw that the padding had slipped from his right leg, leaving him with one lean shank while the other leg still assumed gigantic proportions. He looked down in horror. The audience were not laughing with him, but at him. He endeavoured to beat a hasty retreat, but found he could not stir, for one of his cheeks had fallen off when leaning forward, and in more senses than one he had “put his foot in it” and required extra cheek, not less, to compass an exit from the stage.

On an early occasion at the Crystal Palace, Mr. Tree was thrilled by a wave of loud laughter from the audience and felt proud that the scene was going really well. However, when he happened to look down, he noticed that the padding had slipped from his right leg, leaving him with one skinny leg while the other looked huge. He stared down in shock. The audience wasn't laughing with him, but at him. He tried to make a quick exit, but he couldn’t move because one of his cheeks had fallen off when he leaned forward, and in more ways than one, he had “put his foot in it” and needed extra cheek, not less, to find a way off the stage.

Such are the drolleries incumbent on a character like Falstaff.

Such are the amusing antics that come with a character like Falstaff.

[Pg 184]

Mr. Tree has his serious moments, however, and none are more serious than his present contemplation of his Dramatic School, which he believes “will appeal not only to the profession of actors, but to all interested in the English theatre, the English language, and English oratory, men whose talents are occupied in public life, in politics, in the pulpit, or at the Bar. Unless a dramatic school can be self-supporting it is not likely to survive. Acting cannot be taught—but many things can—such as voice-production, gesture and deportment, fencing and dancing.”

Mr. Tree has his serious moments, and none are more serious than his current thoughts about his Dramatic School, which he believes “will appeal not only to actors but to anyone interested in the English theatre, the English language, and English public speaking—people whose talents are focused in public life, politics, the clergy, or law. If a dramatic school isn't self-sustaining, it's unlikely to last. Acting can't be taught, but there are many things that can be—like voice production, gesture and posture, fencing, and dancing.”

Every one will wish his bold venture success; and if he teaches a few of our “well-known” actors and actresses to speak so that we can follow every word of what they say, which at present we often cannot do, he will confer a vast boon on English playgoers, and doubtless add largely to the receipts of the theatres. It is a brave effort on his part, and he deserves every encouragement.

Everyone will hope for the success of his bold venture; and if he teaches a few of our “well-known” actors and actresses to speak clearly so that we can understand every word they say, which we often cannot do now, he will provide a huge benefit to English theatergoers, and likely increase the earnings of the theaters significantly. It’s a courageous effort on his part, and he deserves all the support.

As this chapter began with a first-night performance, it shall end with first-night thoughts.

As this chapter started with a first-night performance, it will end with first-night reflections.

Are we not one and all hypercritical on such occasions?

Are we all not overly critical on occasions like this?

Photo by Window & Grove, Baker Street, W.

MISS ELLEN TERRY AS QUEEN KATHERINE.

We little realise the awful strain behind the scenes in the working of that vast machinery, the play. Not only is the author anxious, but the actors and actresses are worn out with rehearsals and nervousness: property men, wig-makers, scene-painters, and fly-men are all in a state of extreme tension. The front of the house little realises what a truly awful ordeal [Pg 185]a first night is for all concerned, and while it is kind to encourage by clapping, it is cruel to condemn by hissing or booing.

We hardly notice the immense pressure happening behind the scenes in the operation of that massive machinery, the play. Not only is the playwright anxious, but the actors and actresses are exhausted from rehearsals and nerves: stagehands, wig designers, set painters, and crew members are all under extreme stress. The audience has no idea what a truly intense experience a first night is for everyone involved, and while it’s nice to show support by clapping, it’s harsh to criticize by hissing or booing.

All behind the footlights do their best, or try so far as nervousness will let them, and surely we in the audience should not expect a perfect or a smooth representation, and should give encouragement whenever possible.

All the performers behind the stage do their best, or at least try as much as their nerves allow them, and we in the audience shouldn’t expect a flawless or effortless performance. We should offer encouragement whenever we can.

After all, however much the actors may suffer from nervousness and anxiety on a first night, their position is not really so trying as that of the author. If the actor is not a success, it may be “the part does not suit him,” or “it is a bad play,” there may be the excuse of “want of adequate support,” for he is only one of a number; but the poor author has to bear the brunt of everything. If his play fail the whole thing is a fiasco. He is blamed by every one. It costs more to put on another play than to change a single actor. The author stands alone to receive abuse or praise; he knows that, not only may failure prove ruin to him, but it may mean loss to actors, actresses, managers, and even the call boy. Therefore the more conscientious he is, the more torture he suffers in his anxiety to learn the public estimation of his work. The criticism may not be judicious, but if favourable it brings grist to the mill of all concerned.

After all, no matter how much the actors might feel nervous and anxious on opening night, their situation isn’t nearly as stressful as that of the author. If an actor doesn’t succeed, it can always be blamed on “the role not being right for him,” or “the play being bad,” or “not getting enough support,” since he’s just one among many. But the poor author has to take the full weight of all criticism. If his play fails, it’s an entire fiasco. Everyone points fingers at him. It’s more expensive to produce a new play than to replace a single actor. The author faces feedback—good or bad—by himself; he knows that not only can failure ruin him, but it can also affect the livelihoods of actors, actresses, managers, and even the stagehands. So, the more dedicated he is, the more torment he feels as he anxiously awaits the public’s judgment on his work. The critiques may not always be fair, but if they’re positive, it benefits everyone involved.

[Pg 186]

CHAPTER X

OPERA COMIC

How W. S. Gilbert loves a joke—A brilliant companion—Operas reproduced without a single change—Many professions—A lovely home—Sir Arthur Sullivan’s gift—A rehearsal of Pinafore—Breaking up crowds—Punctuality—Soldier or not—Iolanthe—Gilbert as an actor—Gilbert as an audience member—The Japanese anthem—Amusement.

FEW authors are so interesting as their work—they generally reserve their wit or trenchant sarcasm for their books. W. S. Gilbert is an exception to this rule, however; he is as amusing himself as his Bab Ballads, and as sarcastic as H.M.S. Pinafore. A sparkling librettist, he is likewise a brilliant talker. How he loves a joke, even against himself. How well he tells a funny story, even if he invent it on the spot as “perfectly true.”

FEW authors are as interesting as their work—they usually save their humor or sharp sarcasm for their books. W. S. Gilbert is an exception to this; he’s just as entertaining in person as his Bab Ballads, and as sarcastic as H.M.S. Pinafore. A witty librettist, he’s also a great storyteller. He loves a joke, even if it's at his own expense. He tells a funny story so well, even if he makes it up on the spot and claims it’s “perfectly true.”

His mind is so quick, he grasps the stage-setting of a dinner-party at once, and forthwith adapts his drama of the hour to exactly suit his audience.

His mind is so sharp, he instantly gets the vibe of a dinner party and quickly adapts his performance to perfectly fit his audience.

Like all amusing people, he has his quiet moments, of course; but when Mr. Gilbert is in good form he is inimitable. He talks like his plays, turns everything upside-down with wondrous rapidity, and propounds nonsensical theories in delightful language.[Pg 187] He is assuredly the greatest wit of his day, and to him we owe the origin of musical-comedy in its best form.

Like all entertaining people, he has his quiet times, of course; but when Mr. Gilbert is on a roll, he’s unmatched. He chats like he writes his plays, flips everything around with amazing speed, and presents ridiculous ideas in charming language.[Pg 187] He is definitely the greatest wit of his time, and we owe him the creation of musical comedy in its finest form.

With a congenial companion Mr. Gilbert is in his element. He is a fine-looking man with white hair and ponderous moustache, and owing to his youthful complexion appears younger than his years. He loves to have young people about him, and is never happier than when surrounded by friends.

With a friendly companion, Mr. Gilbert is in his element. He is a good-looking man with white hair and a thick mustache, and thanks to his youthful complexion, he looks younger than he is. He loves having young people around him and is never happier than when he's surrounded by friends.

In 1901, after an interval of nearly twenty years, his clever comic opera Iolanthe was revived at the Savoy with great success. Not one line, not one word of its original text had been altered, yet it took London by storm, just as did Pinafore when produced for the second time. How few authors’ work will stand so severe a test.

In 1901, after almost twenty years, his brilliant comic opera Iolanthe was brought back to the Savoy with tremendous success. Not a single line or word of its original text had been changed, yet it captivated London just like Pinafore did when it was performed again. How few authors’ work can withstand such a tough test.

The genesis of Iolanthe is referable, like many of Mr. Gilbert’s libretti, to one of the Bab Ballads. The “primordial atomic globule” from which it traces its descent is a poem called The Fairy Curate, in which a clergyman, the son of a fairy, gets into difficulties with his bishop, who catches him in the act of embracing an airily dressed young lady, whom the bishop supposes to be a member of the corps de ballet. The bishop, reasonably enough, declines to accept the clergyman’s explanation that the young lady is his mother, and difficulties ensue. In the opera, Strephon, who is the son of the fairy Iolanthe, is detected by his fiancée Phyllis in the act of embracing his mother; Phyllis takes the bishop’s view of the situation, and complications arise.

The origin of Iolanthe can be traced back, like many of Mr. Gilbert’s libretti, to one of the Bab Ballads. The “original atomic globule” that it derives from is a poem called The Fairy Curate, in which a clergyman, the son of a fairy, finds himself in trouble with his bishop, who catches him hugging a young woman dressed lightly, who the bishop believes is a member of the corps de ballet. The bishop, understandably, refuses to accept the clergyman’s explanation that the young woman is actually his mother, leading to complications. In the opera, Strephon, the son of the fairy Iolanthe, is caught by his fiancée Phyllis embracing his mother; Phyllis adopts the bishop’s perspective on the situation, resulting in further complications.

[Pg 188]

Mr. Gilbert has penned such well-known blank verse dramas as The Palace of Truth, Pygmalion and Galatea, The Wicked Worlds, Broken Hearts, besides many serious and humorous plays and comedies—namely, Dan’l Druce, Engaged, Sweethearts, Comedy and Tragedy, and some dozen light operas.

Mr. Gilbert has written popular blank verse dramas like The Palace of Truth, Pygmalion and Galatea, The Wicked Worlds, and Broken Hearts, along with many serious and humorous plays and comedies—specifically, Dan’l Druce, Engaged, Sweethearts, Comedy and Tragedy, and around a dozen light operas.

It is a well-known fact that almost every comedian wishes to be a tragedian, and vice versâ, and Mr. Gilbert is said to have had a great and mighty sorrow all his life. He always wanted to write serious dramas—long, five-act plays full of situations and thought. But no; fate ordained otherwise, when, having for a change started his little barque as a librettist, he had to persevere in penning what he calls “nonsense.” The public were right; they knew there was no other W. S. Gilbert; they wanted to be amused, so they continually clamoured for more; and if any one did not realise his genius at the first production, he can hardly fail to do so now, when the author’s plays are again presented after a lapse of years, without an altered line, and still make long runs. Some say the art of comedy-writing is dying out, and certainly no second Gilbert seems to be rising among the younger men of the present day, no humourist who can call tears or laughter at will, and send his audience away happy every night. The world owes a debt of gratitude to this gifted scribe, for he has never put an unclean line upon the stage, and yet provokes peals of laughter while shyly giving his little digs at existing evils. His style has justly created a name of its own.

It’s a well-known fact that almost every comedian wishes they could be a tragedian, and vice versa. Mr. Gilbert is said to have carried a deep sorrow throughout his life. He always wanted to write serious dramas—long, five-act plays filled with situations and thought. But fate had other plans; when he decided to try his hand as a librettist, he ended up writing what he referred to as “nonsense.” The public was right; they recognized there was no other W. S. Gilbert; they wanted to be entertained, so they continually asked for more. If anyone didn’t see his genius at the first performance, they can hardly miss it now, as his plays are being staged again after many years, unchanged, and continue to draw large crowds. Some say the art of comedy writing is fading, and it certainly seems like there’s no second Gilbert emerging among the young writers today—no humorist who can bring tears or laughter at will and send his audience home happy every night. The world owes a debt of gratitude to this talented writer, as he has never put an inappropriate line on stage, yet he still provokes fits of laughter while subtly critiquing existing issues. His style has rightfully earned its own reputation.

[Pg 189]

W. S. Gilbert has always had a deep-rooted objection to newspaper interviews, just as he refuses ever to see one of his own plays performed. He attends the last rehearsal, gives the minutest directions up to the final moment, and then usually spends the evening in the green-room or in the wings of the theatre. Very few authors accept fame or success more philosophically than he does. When Princess Ida was produced he was sitting in the green-room, where there was an excitable Frenchman, who had supplied the armour used in the piece. The play was going capitally, and the Frenchman exclaimed, in wild excitement, “Mais savez-vous que nous avons là un succès solide?” To which Mr. Gilbert quietly replied, “Yes, your armour seems to be shining brightly.”

W. S. Gilbert has always had a strong dislike for newspaper interviews, just as he never wants to see one of his own plays performed. He attends the final rehearsal, gives detailed instructions until the last moment, and then usually spends the evening in the green room or in the wings of the theater. Very few authors handle fame or success as calmly as he does. When Princess Ida premiered, he was in the green room with an excitable Frenchman who had provided the armor used in the show. The play was going exceptionally well, and the Frenchman exclaimed, in wild excitement, “But do you know that we have a solid success here?” To which Mr. Gilbert calmly replied, “Yes, your armor seems to be shining brightly.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the Frenchman, with a gesture of amazement, “mais vous êtes si calme!”

“Ah!” the Frenchman exclaimed, gesturing in amazement, “but you are so calm!”

And this would probably describe the outward appearance of the author on a first night; nevertheless nothing will induce him to go in front even with reproductions.

And this would likely describe the author's outward appearance on a first night; however, nothing will convince him to go in front, even with replicas.

Mr. Gilbert, who was born in 1836, proudly remarks that he has cheated the doctors and signed a new lease of life on the twenty-one years’ principle. During those sixty-eight years he has turned his hand to many trades. After a career at the London University, where he took his B.A. degree, he read for the Royal Artillery, but the Crimean war was coming to an end, and consequently, more officers not being required, he became a clerk in the Privy Council Office, and was subsequently called to the[Pg 190] Bar at the Inner Temple. He was also an enthusiastic militiaman, and at one time an occasional contributor to Punch, becoming thus an artist as well as a writer. His pictures are well known, for the two or three hundred illustrations in the Bab Ballads are all from his clever pencil. Neatly framed they now adorn the billiard-room of his charming country home, and, strange to relate, the originals are not much larger than the reproductions, the work being extremely fine. I have seen him make an excellent sketch in a few minutes at his home on Harrow Weald; but photography has latterly cast its fascinations about him, and he often disappears into some dark chamber for hours at a time, alone with his thoughts and his photographic pigments, for he develops and prints everything himself. The results are charming, more especially his scenic studies.

Mr. Gilbert, who was born in 1836, proudly states that he has outsmarted the doctors and signed a new lease on life based on the twenty-one years’ principle. Over the past sixty-eight years, he has tried his hand at many jobs. After attending London University, where he earned his B.A. degree, he studied for the Royal Artillery, but since the Crimean war was nearing its end and fewer officers were needed, he became a clerk in the Privy Council Office and was later called to the [Pg 190] Bar at the Inner Temple. He was also an enthusiastic militiaman and even occasionally contributed to Punch, becoming both an artist and a writer. His illustrations are well known, as the two or three hundred pictures in the Bab Ballads all come from his skilled hand. Neatly framed, they now decorate the billiard room of his lovely country home, and, oddly enough, the originals are not much larger than the reproductions, as the work is exquisitely detailed. I have seen him create an excellent sketch in just a few minutes at his home in Harrow Weald; however, lately, he has been captivated by photography and often disappears into a dark room for hours, alone with his thoughts and photographic materials, as he develops and prints everything himself. The results are delightful, especially his landscape studies.

What a lovely home his is, standing in a hundred and ten acres right on the top of Harrow Weald, with a glorious view over London, Middlesex, Berks, and Bucks. He farms the land himself, and talks of crops and live stock with a glib tongue, although the real enthusiast is his wife, who loves her prize chickens and her roses. Grim’s Dyke has an ideal garden, with white pigeons drinking out of shallow Italian bowls upon the lawn, with its wonderful Egyptian tent, its rose-walks and its monkey-house, its lake and its fish. The newly-made lake is so well arranged that it looks quite old with its bulrushes, water-lilies of pink, white, and yellow hue, and its blue forget-me-nots. The Californian trout have proved a[Pg 191] great success, and are a source of much sport. Everything is well planned and beautifully kept; no better lawns or neater walks, no more prolific glass houses or vegetable gardens could be found than those at Harrow Weald.

What a lovely home this is, sitting on a hundred and ten acres right at the top of Harrow Weald, with a stunning view over London, Middlesex, Berks, and Bucks. He farms the land himself and talks about crops and livestock with ease, although his wife is the real enthusiast — she adores her prize chickens and her roses. Grim’s Dyke has a perfect garden, with white pigeons drinking from shallow Italian bowls on the lawn, its amazing Egyptian tent, rose pathways, monkey house, lake, and fish. The newly created lake is so well designed that it looks quite old, with its bulrushes, pink, white, and yellow water-lilies, and blue forget-me-nots. The Californian trout have turned out to be a great success and provide plenty of fun. Everything is well-planned and beautifully maintained; you wouldn't find better lawns or neater pathways, nor more productive greenhouses or vegetable gardens than those at Harrow Weald.

The Gilberts give delightful week-end parties, and the brightest star is generally the host himself.

The Gilberts throw fun weekend parties, and the standout star is usually the host himself.

At one of these recent gatherings, for which Grim’s Dyke is famous, some beautiful silver cups and a claret jug were upon the table. They were left by will to Mr. Gilbert by his colleague of so many years, Sir Arthur Sullivan, and are a great pleasure to both the host and hostess of that well-organised country house. I have met many interesting and clever people at Harrow Weald, for the brilliancy of the host and the charm of his wife naturally attract much that is best in this great city. It is a good house for entertaining, the music-room—formerly the studio of F. Goodall, R.A.—being a spacious oak-panelled chamber with a minstrels’ gallery, and cathedral windows. Excellent singing is often heard within those walls. Mr. Gilbert declares he is not musical himself; but such is hardly the case, for he on one or two occasions suggested to Sir Arthur Sullivan the style best suited to his words. His ear for time and rhythm is impeccable, but he fully admits he has an imperfect sense of tune.

At one of the recent gatherings that Grim’s Dyke is known for, some beautiful silver cups and a claret jug were on the table. They were left to Mr. Gilbert by his longtime colleague, Sir Arthur Sullivan, and they bring great joy to both the host and hostess of that well-organized country house. I have met many interesting and smart people at Harrow Weald, as the brilliance of the host and the charm of his wife naturally attract the best from this great city. It’s a great place for entertaining, with the music room—once the studio of F. Goodall, R.A.—being a spacious chamber with oak panels, a minstrels’ gallery, and cathedral windows. Excellent singing is often heard within those walls. Mr. Gilbert claims he isn’t musical himself, but that’s hardly true, as on a few occasions he suggested to Sir Arthur Sullivan the best style for his lyrics. His sense of timing and rhythm is impeccable, but he fully admits he has a poor sense of tune.

The Squire of Harrow Weald is seen at his best at rehearsal.

The Squire of Harrow Weald shines during rehearsal.

H.M.S. Pinafore was first performed, I believe, in 1878, and about ten years afterwards it was revived[Pg 192] in London. Ten years later, that is to say 1899, it was again revived, and one Monday morning when I was leaving Grim’s Dyke, Mr. Gilbert, who was coming up to town to attend a rehearsal, asked me if I would care to see it.

H.M.S. Pinafore was first performed, I think, in 1878, and around ten years later it was revived[Pg 192] in London. Another ten years later, in 1899, it was revived again, and one Monday morning when I was leaving Grim’s Dyke, Mr. Gilbert, who was heading into town for a rehearsal, asked me if I wanted to see it.

“Nothing I should like better,” I replied, “for I have always understood that you and Mr. Pinero are the two most perfect stage managers in England.”

“Nothing I would like more,” I replied, “because I’ve always understood that you and Mr. Pinero are the two best stage managers in England.”

We drove to the stage door of the Savoy, whence down strange and dark stone stairs we made our way to the front of the auditorium itself. We crossed behind the footlights, passing through a small, unpretending iron door into the house, Mr. Gilbert leading the way, to a side box, which at the moment was shrouded in darkness; he soon, however, pushed aside the white calico dust-sheets that hung before it, and after placing chairs for his wife and myself, and hoping we should be comfortable, departed. What a spectre that theatre was! Hanging from gallery to pit were dust-sheets, the stalls all covered up with brown holland wrappers, and gloom and darkness on all things. Verily a peep behind the scenes which, more properly speaking, was before the scenes in this case, is like looking at a private house preparing for a spring cleaning.

We drove to the stage door of the Savoy, where we went down some strange, dark stone stairs to reach the front of the auditorium. We walked behind the footlights, passing through a small, unassuming iron door into the house, with Mr. Gilbert leading the way to a side box that was currently shrouded in darkness. However, he soon pushed aside the white calico dust sheets that hung before it and, after setting up chairs for his wife and me, wishing us comfort, he left. What a ghostly sight that theater was! Dust sheets hung from the gallery to the pit, the stalls were all covered with brown holland wraps, and everything was enveloped in gloom and darkness. Truly, a behind-the-scenes view, or rather a front-of-the-scenes view in this case, was like looking at a private home getting ready for a spring cleaning.

Photo by Langfier, 23a, Old Bond Street, London, W.

MR. W. S. GILBERT.

Mr. W.S. Gilbert.

Built out over what is ordinarily the orchestra, was a wooden platform large enough to contain a piano brilliantly played by a woman, beside whom sat the conductor of the orchestra, who was naturally the teacher of the chorus, and next to him the ordinary stage manager, with a chair for Mr. Gilbert placed [Pg 193]close by. The librettist, however, never sat on that chair. From 11.30 to 1.30—exactly two hours, he walked up and down in front of the stage, directing here, arranging there; one moment he was showing a man how to stand as a sailor, then how to clap his thighs in nautical style, and the next explaining to a woman how to curtsey, or telling a lover how to woo. Never have I seen anything more remarkable. In no sense a musician, Mr. Gilbert could hum any of the airs and show the company the minutest gesticulations at the same time. Be it understood they were already word and music perfect, and this was the second “stage rehearsal.” He never bullied or worried any one, he quietly went up to a person, and in the most insinuating manner said:

Built over what is usually the orchestra area was a wooden platform big enough to hold a piano that was played brilliantly by a woman. Next to her sat the conductor of the orchestra, who was also the teacher of the chorus, and next to him was the usual stage manager, with a chair for Mr. Gilbert placed [Pg 193] nearby. However, the librettist never sat in that chair. From 11:30 to 1:30—exactly two hours—he walked back and forth in front of the stage, directing here, arranging there; one moment he was showing a guy how to stand like a sailor, then how to clap his thighs in a nautical way, and the next explaining to a woman how to curtsy or telling a lover how to woo. I have never seen anything more impressive. Not a musician in any sense, Mr. Gilbert could hum any of the tunes and demonstrate the smallest gestures at the same time. It should be noted that they were already word and music perfect, and this was the second “stage rehearsal.” He never bullied or stressed anyone; he calmly approached a person and, in the most charming way, said:

“If I were you, I think I should do it like this.”

“If I were you, I think I’d do it this way.”

And “this” was always so much better than their own performance that each actor quickly grasped the idea and copied the master. He even danced when necessary, to show them how to get the right number of steps in so as to land them at a certain spot at a certain time, explaining carefully:

And “this” was always way better than their own performance, so each actor quickly understood the concept and imitated the master. He even danced when needed to demonstrate how to take the right number of steps to arrive at a specific spot at a specific time, explaining carefully:

“There are eight bars, and you must employ so many steps.”

“There are eight bars, and you need to take a certain number of steps.”

Mr. Gilbert knows every bar, every intonation, every gesture, the hang of every garment, and the tilt of every hat. He has his plans and his ideas, and never alters the situations or even the gestures he has once thought out.

Mr. Gilbert knows every bar, every intonation, every gesture, the way every garment hangs, and the angle of every hat. He has his plans and ideas, and never changes the situations or even the gestures he has already figured out.

He marched up and down the stage advising an alteration here, an intonation there, all in the kindest[Pg 194] way possible, but with so much strength of conviction that all his suggestions were adopted without a moment’s hesitation. He never loses his temper, always sees the weak points, and is an absolute master of stage craft. His tact on such occasions is wonderful.

He paced back and forth on the stage, recommending changes here and shifts in tone there, always in the kindest[Pg 194] way possible. His strong conviction meant that everyone accepted his suggestions without any hesitation. He never loses his cool, always spots the weaknesses, and is a total expert in stagecraft. His tact in those situations is remarkable.

The love and confidence of that company in Mr. Gilbert was really delightful, and I have no hesitation in saying he was the best actor in the whole company whichever part he might happen to undertake. If anything he did not like occurred in the grouping of the chorus he clapped his hands and everybody stopped, when he would call out:

The love and trust that the company had in Mr. Gilbert was truly wonderful, and I can confidently say he was the best actor in the entire company, no matter what role he took on. If anything he disliked happened during the chorus formation, he would clap his hands and everyone would stop, at which point he would shout:

“Gentlemen in threes, ladies in twos,” according to a style of his own.

“Men in groups of three, women in pairs,” following his own style.

Twenty-five years previously he had been so horrified at chorus and crowd standing round the stage in a ring, that he invented the idea of breaking them up, and thereafter, according to arrangement, when “twos” or “threes” were called out the performers were to group themselves and talk in little clusters, and certainly the effect was more natural.

Twenty-five years earlier, he had been so shocked by the chorus and crowd standing around the stage in a circle that he came up with the idea of breaking them up. From then on, when “twos” or “threes” were called out, the performers were supposed to gather in small groups and chat in little clusters, which definitely created a more natural effect.

Mr. Gilbert had no notes of any kind. He brought them with him, but never opened the volume, and yet he knew exactly how everything ought to be done. This was his first rehearsal with the company, who up till then had been in the stage manager’s hands and worked according to printed instructions. The scene was a very different affair after the mastermind had set the pawns in their right squares, and made the bishops and knights move according to his will. In two hours they had gone through the[Pg 195] first act of Pinafore, and he clapped his hands and called for luncheon.

Mr. Gilbert had no notes at all. He brought them with him but never opened the book, and yet he knew exactly how everything should be done. This was his first rehearsal with the company, which had previously been under the stage manager’s control and had been following printed instructions. The scene transformed completely once the mastermind placed the pieces in their correct positions and directed the bishops and knights to move as he wished. In two hours, they had gone through the[Pg 195] first act of Pinafore, and he clapped his hands and called for lunch.

“It is just half-past one,” he said; “I am hungry, and I daresay you are hungry, so we will halt for half an hour. I shall be back by five minutes past two—that is five minutes’ grace, when”—bowing kindly—“I shall hope to see you again, ladies and gentlemen.”

“It’s just one-thirty,” he said. “I’m hungry, and I bet you are too, so let’s take a break for half an hour. I’ll be back by 2:05—that gives us five extra minutes, when”—bowing kindly—“I hope to see you again, ladies and gentlemen.”

We three lunched at the Savoy next door, and a few minutes before two he rose from the table, ere he had finished his coffee, and said he must go.

We three had lunch at the Savoy next door, and a few minutes before two, he got up from the table before he finished his coffee and said he had to go.

“You are in a hurry,” I laughingly said.

“You're in a rush,” I said with a laugh.

“Yes,” he replied, “I have made it a rule never to be late. The company know I shall be there, so the company will be in their places.”

“Yes,” he replied, “I’ve made it a rule never to be late. The company knows I’ll be there, so everyone will be in their places.”

A friend once congratulated him on his punctuality.

A friend once praised him for being on time.

“Don’t,” he said; “I have lost more time by being punctual than by anything else.”

“Don’t,” he said, “I’ve wasted more time by being on time than by anything else.”

One thing in particular struck me as wonderful during the rehearsal. Half a dozen soldiers are supposed to come upon the stage, and at a certain point half a dozen untidily dressed men with guns in their hands marched in. Mr. Gilbert looked at them for a moment, and then he went up to one gallant warrior and said:

One thing that really stood out to me as amazing during the rehearsal was when half a dozen soldiers were supposed to come on stage. Instead, a group of six untidy-looking guys with guns walked in. Mr. Gilbert glanced at them for a moment, then approached one of these brave warriors and said:

“Is that the way you hold your gun?”

“Is that how you hold your gun?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sure thing.”

“Really! Well, I never saw a soldier with his thumbs down before—in fact, I don’t think you are a soldier at all.”

“Really! I’ve never seen a soldier give a thumbs down before—in fact, I don’t think you’re a soldier at all.”

“No, sir, I am a volunteer[Pg 196].”

“No, sir, I’m a volunteer.”

Mr. Gilbert turned to the stage manager hastily, and said:

Mr. Gilbert quickly turned to the stage manager and said:

“I told you I wanted soldiers.”

“But there is a sergeant,” he replied.

“But there is a sergeant,” he said.

“Sergeant,” called Mr. Gilbert, “step forward.” Which the sergeant did.

“Sergeant,” called Mr. Gilbert, “come forward.” The sergeant did so.

“You know your business,” the author remarked, watching the man’s movements, “but these fellows know nothing. Either bring me real soldiers, or else take these five men and drill them until at least they know how to stand properly before they come near me again.”

“You know your business,” the author said, observing the man’s movements, “but these guys have no clue. Either bring me actual soldiers, or take these five men and train them until they at least know how to stand correctly before they come near me again.”

Later in the proceedings a dozen sailors marched on: he went up to them, asked some questions about how they would man the yard-arm, and on hearing their reply said:

Later in the proceedings, a dozen sailors marched in: he approached them, asked some questions about how they would handle the yard-arm, and after hearing their response said:

“I see you know your business, you’ll do.”

"I can tell you know what you're doing; you'll be fine."

As it turned out, they were all Naval Reserve men, so no wonder they knew their business. Still, Mr. Gilbert’s universal knowledge of all sorts and conditions of men struck me as wonderful on this and many other occasions. No more perfect stage manager exists, and no one gets more out of his actors and actresses.

As it turned out, they were all Navy Reservists, so it’s no surprise they knew what they were doing. Still, Mr. Gilbert’s extensive knowledge about all kinds of people amazed me on this and many other occasions. There’s no better stage manager, and no one gets more out of his actors and actresses.

At one time Patience was being played in the United States by dozens of companies, but that was before the days of copyright, and poor Mr. Gilbert never received a penny from America excepting once when a kindly person sent him a cheque for £100. Had he received copyright fees from the United States his wealth would have been colossal.

At one point, Patience was performed all over the United States by numerous companies, but that was before copyright laws existed, and unfortunately, Mr. Gilbert never made a dime from America except for one occasion when a generous person sent him a check for £100. If he had received copyright payments from the United States, he would have been extremely wealthy.

[Pg 197]

When Iolanthe was revived in London in 1902 I again attended a “call.” An entirely new company began rehearsing exactly ten days before the first night—any one who knows anything of the stage will realise what this means, and that a master-mind was necessary to drill actors and chorus in so short a time—yet the production was a triumph. This was the first occasion on which Sir Arthur Sullivan did not conduct the dress rehearsal or the first night of one of their joint operas. He had died shortly before.

When Iolanthe was brought back to life in London in 1902, I went to a “call” again. A completely new cast started rehearsals just ten days before opening night—anyone familiar with the stage will understand what this entails, and that it took a brilliant mind to train the actors and chorus in such a short time—but the production was a success. This was the first time that Sir Arthur Sullivan didn’t conduct the dress rehearsal or the opening night of one of their joint operas. He had passed away shortly before.

Mr. Gilbert was delighted with the cast, and declared it was quite as good, and in some respects perhaps better, than the original had been. A few of the people had played principals in the provinces before; but he would not allow any of their own “business” and remarked quietly:

Mr. Gilbert was thrilled with the cast and said it was just as good, and in some ways maybe even better, than the original. A few of the people had played leads in the provinces before, but he wouldn’t let any of their own “business” in and commented calmly:

“In London my plays are produced as I wish them; in the provinces you can do as you like.”

"In London, my plays are produced the way I want them; in the provinces, you can do whatever you like."

And certainly they obeyed him so implicitly that if he had asked them all to stand on their heads in rows, I believe they would have done it smilingly.

And they definitely followed him so completely that if he had told them to stand on their heads in a line, I think they would have done it with smiles on their faces.

When Mr. Gilbert was about thirty-five years old, a matinée of Broken Hearts was arranged for a charity. The author arrived at the theatre about one o’clock, to find Kyrle Bellew, who was to play the chief part, had fallen through a trap and was badly hurt. There was no understudy—and only an hour intervened before the advertised time of representation.

When Mr. Gilbert was around thirty-five years old, a matinée of Broken Hearts was set up for a charity. The author got to the theater around one o'clock and found that Kyrle Bellew, who was supposed to play the lead role, had fallen through a trap and was seriously injured. There was no understudy—and only an hour left before the show was scheduled to start.

Good Heavens! what was to be done? The audience had paid their money, which the charity wanted badly, and without the hero the play was impossible.

Good heavens! What was to be done? The audience had paid their money, which the charity really needed, and without the hero, the play was impossible.

[Pg 198]

He good-naturedly and kind-heartedly decided to play the part himself rather than let the entertainment fall through, wired for wig and clothes, and an hour and a half later walked on to the stage as an actor. He knew every line of the play of course, not only the hero’s, but all the others’, and he had just coached every situation. The papers duly thanked him and considered him a great success. That was his only appearance upon the stage in public.

He cheerfully and kindly decided to take on the role himself instead of letting the show be canceled, getting ready with a wig and costume. An hour and a half later, he stepped onto the stage as an actor. He knew every line of the play—his character's and all the others'—and he had just rehearsed every scene. The newspapers thanked him and praised him as a huge success. That was his only public performance on stage.

For twenty-five years he never saw one of his own plays, not caring to sit in front; but once, at a watering-place in the Fatherland where The Mikado was being given, some friends persuaded him to see it in German.

For twenty-five years, he never watched any of his own plays, not interested in sitting in the audience; but once, at a spa in his homeland where The Mikado was being performed, some friends convinced him to see it in German.

“I know what rubbish these comic operas are, and I should feel ashamed to sit and hear them and know they were mine,” he modestly remarked.

“I know how silly these comic operas are, and I should be embarrassed to sit and listen to them and know they were my creations,” he modestly said.

Nevertheless he went, and was rather amused, feeling no responsibility on his shoulders, and afterwards saw The Mikado in England at a revival towards the end of the nineties. He once told me a rather amusing little story about The Mikado. A gentleman who had been many years in the English Legation at Yokohama, attended some of the rehearsals, and was most useful in giving hints as to positions and manners in Japan. Mr. Gilbert wanted some effective music for the entrance of the Mikado—nothing Mr. Arthur Sullivan suggested suited—so turning to the gentleman he said:

Nevertheless, he went and found it quite amusing, feeling no pressure on his shoulders. Later, he saw The Mikado in England during a revival towards the end of the nineties. He once shared a funny little story about The Mikado. A man who had spent many years in the English Legation in Yokohama attended some of the rehearsals and was really helpful in giving suggestions about positions and etiquette in Japan. Mr. Gilbert wanted some impactful music for the Mikado's entrance—none of the suggestions from Mr. Arthur Sullivan worked—so turning to the gentleman, he said:

“Can’t you hum the national Japanese anthem?”

“Can’t you hum the Japanese national anthem?”

“Oh yes,” he said cheerily. And he did.

“Oh yeah,” he said cheerfully. And he did.

[Pg 199]

“Capital—it’ll just do.”

"Capital—it'll just work."

Mr. Sullivan—for he was not then Sir Arthur—made notes, wrote it up, and the thing proved a great success. Some time afterwards a furious letter came from a Japanese, saying an insult had been offered the Mikado of Japan, the air to which that illustrious prince entered the scene instead of being royal was a music hall tune! Whether this is so or not remains a mystery, anyway it is a delightful melody, and most successful to this day.

Mr. Sullivan—who wasn’t Sir Arthur at the time—took notes, wrote it up, and the result was a huge success. Later, a furious letter arrived from a Japanese person, claiming an insult had been directed at the Mikado of Japan, saying that instead of a royal entrance, the iconic prince came in to a music hall tune! Whether that’s true or not remains a mystery; in any case, it’s a delightful melody and continues to be very successful to this day.

Mr. Gilbert has been a great traveller—for many years he wintered abroad in India, Japan, Burmah, Egypt, or Greece, and at one time he was the enthusiastic owner of a yacht; but this amusement he has given up because so few of his friends were good sailors, and so he has taken to motoring instead.

Mr. Gilbert has been quite the traveler—he spent many winters abroad in India, Japan, Burma, Egypt, or Greece, and at one point he was an excited yacht owner; however, he gave up that hobby since very few of his friends were skilled sailors, so now he has taken up motoring instead.

Croquet-playing and motoring are the chief amusements of this “retired humourist,” as a local cab-driver once described the Squire of Grim’s Dyke.

Croquet and driving cars are the main hobbies of this "retired humorist," as a local cab driver once referred to the Squire of Grim's Dyke.

[Pg 200]

CHAPTER XI

THE FIRST PANTOMIME REHEARSAL

Origin of Pantomime—Drury Lane in Darkness—One Thousand People—Rehearsing the Chorus—The Ballet—Dressing Rooms—Children on Stage—Size of “The Lane”—A Trapdoor—The Props Room—Made on the Premises—Wardrobe Woman—Dan Leno at Rehearsal—Herbert Campbell—Two Weeks Later—A Conversation with the Principal Girl—Miss Madge Lessing.

EXACTLY nine days before Christmas, 1902, the first rehearsal for the pantomime of Mother Goose took place at Drury Lane. It seemed almost incredible that afternoon that such a thing as a “first night,” with a crowded house packed full of critics, could witness a proper performance nine days later, one of which, being a Sunday, did not count.

EXACTLY nine days before Christmas, 1902, the first rehearsal for the pantomime of Mother Goose took place at Drury Lane. It seemed almost unbelievable that afternoon that a “first night,” with a packed house full of critics, could happen with a proper performance just nine days later, especially since one of those days, being a Sunday, didn’t count.

The pantomime is one of England’s institutions. It originally came from Italy, but as known to-day is essentially a British production, and little understood anywhere else in the world. For the last three years, however, the Drury Lane pantomime has been moved bodily to New York with considerable success.

The pantomime is one of England’s traditions. It originally came from Italy, but as it's known today, it's essentially a British production that is little understood anywhere else in the world. However, for the last three years, the Drury Lane pantomime has been completely brought to New York with significant success.

What would Christmas in London be without its Drury Lane? What would the holidays be without the clown and harlequin? Young and old enjoy the[Pg 201] exquisite absurdity of the nursery rhyme dished up as a Christmas pantomime.

What would Christmas in London be without Drury Lane? What would the holidays be without the clown and harlequin? Young and old alike enjoy the[Pg 201] delightful absurdity of the nursery rhyme served up as a Christmas pantomime.

The interior of that vast theatre, Drury Lane, was shrouded in dust-sheets and darkness, the front doors were locked, excepting at the booking office, where tickets were being sold for two and three months ahead, and a long queue of people were waiting to engage seats for family parties when the pantomime should be ready.

The inside of that huge theater, Drury Lane, was covered in dust sheets and dark, the main doors were locked except for the box office, where tickets were being sold for two and three months in advance, and a long line of people was waiting to book seats for family gatherings when the pantomime would be ready.

At the stage door all was bustle; children of all ages and sizes were pushing in and out; carpenters, shifters, supers, ballet girls, chorus, all were there, too busy to speak to any one as they rushed in from their cup of tea at the A.B.C., or stronger drink procured at the “pub” opposite. It was a cold, dreary day outside; but it was colder and drearier within. Those long flights of stone steps, those endless stone passages, struck chill and cheerless as a cellar, for verily the back of a theatre resembles a cellar or prison more than anything I know.

At the stage door, everything was lively; kids of all ages and sizes were rushing in and out; carpenters, stagehands, extras, ballet dancers, and the chorus were all there, too busy to stop and chat as they hurried back from their tea at the A.B.C. or a stronger drink picked up at the pub across the street. It was a cold, gloomy day outside, but it felt even colder and drearier inside. Those long flights of stone steps and those never-ending stone corridors felt as chilly and unwelcoming as a basement, because honestly, the back of a theater looks more like a basement or a prison than anything else I can think of.

Drury Lane contains a little world. It is reckoned that about one thousand people are paid “back and front” every Friday night. One thousand persons! That is the staff of the pantomime controlled by Mr. Arthur Collins. Fancy that vast organisation, those hundreds of people, endless scenery, and over two thousand dresses superintended by one man, and that a young one.

Drury Lane is like a small world. It's estimated that around one thousand people are paid "back and front" every Friday night. One thousand people! That's the crew of the pantomime run by Mr. Arthur Collins. Just think about that huge operation, those hundreds of people, the endless scenery, and over two thousand costumes managed by one man, and he’s a young one.

For many weeks scraps of Mother Goose had been rehearsed in drill-halls, schoolrooms, and elsewhere, but never till the day of which I write had the stage[Pg 202] been ready for rehearsal. They had worked hard, all those people; for thirteen-and-a-half hours on some days they had already been “at it.” Think what thirteen-and-a-half-hours mean. True, no one is wanted continuously, still all must be on the spot. Often there is nowhere to sit down, therefore during those weary hours the performers have to stand—only between-whiles singing or dancing their parts as the case may be.

For many weeks, bits of Mother Goose had been practiced in drill halls, classrooms, and other places, but it wasn't until the day I'm talking about that the stage[Pg 202] was ready for rehearsal. They had all worked hard; some days they had already been “at it” for thirteen-and-a-half hours. Just think about what thirteen-and-a-half hours means. Sure, no one is needed the entire time, but everyone has to be there. Often there’s nowhere to sit, so during those exhausting hours, the performers have to stand—only occasionally singing or dancing their parts as needed.

“I’m that dead tired,” exclaimed a girl, “I feel just fit to drop,” and she probably expressed the feelings of many of her companions.

“I’m so exhausted,” exclaimed a girl, “I feel like I could drop,” and she likely voiced the feelings of many of her friends.

The rehearsal of The Rose of the Riviera, was going on in the saloon, which a hundred years ago was the fashionable resort of all the fops of the town. Accordingly to the saloon I proceeded where Miss Madge Lessing, neatly dressed in black and looking tired, was singing her solos, and dancing her steps with the chorus.

The rehearsal of The Rose of the Riviera was happening in the lounge, which a hundred years ago was the trendy spot for all the stylish people in town. I made my way to the lounge where Miss Madge Lessing, dressed neatly in black and looking tired, was singing her solos and dancing her steps with the chorus.

“It is very hard work,” she said. “I have been through this song until I am almost voiceless; and yet I only hum it really, for if we sang out at rehearsal, we should soon be dead.”

“It’s really tough work,” she said. “I’ve gone through this song so much that I’m almost voiceless; and yet I’m just humming it, because if we sang out during rehearsal, we’d soon be exhausted.”

The saloon was the ordinary foyer, but on that occasion, instead of being crowded with idlers smoking and drinking during the entr’actes, it was filled with hard-worked ballet girls and small boys who were later to be transformed into dandies. They wore their own clothes. The women’s long skirts were held up with safety-pins, to keep them out of the way when dancing, their shirts and blouses were of every hue;[Pg 203] on their heads they wore men’s hats that did not fit them, as they lacked the wigs they would wear later, and each carried her own umbrella, many of which, when opened, seemed the worse for wear. At the end of the bar was a cottage piano, where the composer played his song for two-and-a-half hours, while it was rehearsed again and again—a small man with a shocking cold conducting the chorus. He is, I am told, quite a celebrity as a stage “producer,” and was engaged in that capacity by Mr. George Edwards at the New Gaiety Theatre. How I admired that small man. His energy and enthusiasm were catching, and before he finished he had made those girls do just what he wanted. But oh! how hard he worked, in spite of frequent resort to his pocket-handkerchief and constant fits of sneezing.

The saloon was the usual foyer, but that day, instead of being packed with people lounging around smoking and drinking during the entr’actes, it was filled with tired ballet dancers and little boys who would later turn into dapper young men. They were in their own clothes. The women’s long skirts were pinned up with safety pins to keep them out of the way while dancing, and their shirts and blouses came in every color;[Pg 203] they wore men’s hats that were too big, since they didn’t have the wigs they would use later, and each carried her own umbrella, many of which looked worn out when opened. At the end of the bar was a little piano, where the composer played his song for two-and-a-half hours while it was rehearsed over and over—a small man with a really bad cold conducted the chorus. I’ve heard he’s quite a well-known stage “producer” and was hired for that role by Mr. George Edwards at the New Gaiety Theatre. I admired that little man so much. His energy and enthusiasm were contagious, and before he was done, he had the girls doing exactly what he wanted. But wow! he really worked hard, despite constantly reaching for his handkerchief and having fits of sneezing.

“This way, ladies, please”—he repeated over and over, and then proceeded to show them how to step forward on “Would—you like a—flower?” and to take off their hats at the last word of the sentence. Again and again they went through their task; but each time they seemed out of line, or out of time, not quick enough or too quick, and back they had to go and begin the whole verse once more. Even then he was not satisfied.

“This way, ladies, please”—he kept repeating, and then went on to show them how to step forward on “Would—you like a—flower?” and to take off their hats at the last word of the sentence. They practiced repeatedly; but each time they seemed out of sync, or not in rhythm, either too slow or too fast, and they had to start over with the whole verse again. Even then he wasn't satisfied.

“Again, ladies, please,” he called, and again they all did the passage. This sort of thing had been going on since 11 o’clock, the hour of the “call,” and it was then 4 p.m.—but the rehearsal was likely to last well into the night and begin again next morning at 11 a.m. This was to continue all day, and pretty well all night[Pg 204] for nine days, when, instead of a holiday, the pantomime was really to commence with its two daily performances, and its twelve hours per diem attendance at the theatre for nearly four months. Yet there are people who think the stage is all fun and frolic! Little they know about the matter.

“Once more, ladies, please,” he called, and once again they all did the passage. This sort of thing had been happening since 11 a.m., the official start time, and it was now 4 p.m.—but the rehearsal was set to go well into the night and start again the next morning at 11 a.m. This would continue all day and almost all night[Pg 204] for nine days, leading up to the pantomime's real beginning, which would feature two performances a day and require twelve hours per diem at the theatre for nearly four months. Yet there are people who think the stage is all fun and games! They have no idea what it's really like.

Actors are not paid for rehearsals, as we have seen before, and many weeks of weary attendance for the pantomime have to be given gratis, just as they are for legitimate drama. Those beautiful golden fairies, all glitter and gorgeousness, envied by spectators in front, only receive £1 a week on an average for twelve hours’ occupation daily, and that merely for a few weeks, after which time many of them earn nothing more till the next pantomime season. It is practically impossible to give an exact idea of salaries: they vary so much. “Ballet girls,” when proficient, earn more than any ordinary “chorus” or “super,” with the exception of “show girls.” Those in the rank of “principals,” or “small-part ladies,” of course earn more.

Actors don’t get paid for rehearsals, as we've noted before, and they have to spend many weeks of tiring attendance for the pantomime without pay, just like they do for legitimate theater. Those beautiful golden fairies, all sparkly and stunning, envied by the audience, only make about £1 a week on average for twelve hours of work each day, and that’s just for a few weeks. After that, many of them don’t earn anything until the next pantomime season. It’s nearly impossible to provide an exact figure for salaries since they vary so much. “Ballet girls,” when skilled, earn more than regular “chorus” members or “supers,” except for “show girls.” Those categorized as “principals” or “small-part ladies” obviously make more.

Ballet girls begin their profession at eight years of age, and even in their prime can only earn on an average £2 a week.

Ballet girls start their careers at the age of eight, and even at their peak, they only make about £2 a week on average.

In the ballet-room an iron bar runs all round the sides of the wall, about four feet from the floor, as in a swimming bath. It is for practice. The girls hold on to the bar, and learn to kick and raise their legs by the hour; with its aid suppleness of movement, flexibility of hip and knee are acquired. Girls spend years of their life learning how to earn that[Pg 205] forty shillings a week, and how to keep it when they have earned it; for the ballet girl has to be continually practising, or her limbs would quickly stiffen and her professional career come to an end.

In the ballet studio, there's an iron bar running along the walls, about four feet off the ground, just like in a swimming pool. It's used for practice. The girls hold onto the bar and spend hours learning to kick and lift their legs; it helps them develop fluid movement and flexibility in their hips and knees. They dedicate years of their lives to figuring out how to earn that[Pg 205] forty shillings a week and how to maintain it once they do. A ballet dancer has to keep practicing constantly, or her limbs would quickly get stiff, leading to the end of her career.

No girl gets her real training at the Lane. All that is done in one of the dancing schools kept by Madame Katti Lanner, Madame Cavalazzi, John D’Auban, or John Tiller. When they are considered sufficiently proficient they get engagements, and are taught certain movements invented by their teachers to suit the particular production of the theatre itself.

No girl gets her real training at the Lane. All that happens in one of the dance schools run by Madame Katti Lanner, Madame Cavalazzi, John D’Auban, or John Tiller. When they are deemed skilled enough, they get gigs and learn specific movements created by their instructors to fit the unique production of the theatre itself.

The ballet is very grand in the estimation of the pantomime, for supers, male and female, earn considerably less salary than the ballet for about seventy-two hours’ attendance at the theatre. Out of their weekly money they have to provide travelling expenses to and from the theatre, which sometimes come heavy, as many of them live a long distance off; they have to pay rent also, and feed as well as clothe themselves, settle for washing, doctor, amusements—everything, in fact. Why, a domestic servant is a millionaire when compared with a chorus or ballet girl, and she is never harassed with constant anxiety as to how she can pay her board, rent, and washing bills. Yet how little the domestic servant realises the comforts—aye luxury—of her position.

The ballet is considered quite prestigious compared to the pantomime, as both male and female extras make significantly less money than the ballet for about seventy-two hours of work at the theater. From their weekly pay, they have to cover their travel costs to and from the theater, which can add up, especially since many live far away; they also need to pay rent and take care of their food and clothing, along with expenses for laundry, medical care, entertainment—basically everything. Honestly, a domestic worker seems like a millionaire compared to a chorus or ballet dancer, and she isn't constantly worried about how to pay her room, board, and laundry bills. Yet, how little the domestic worker appreciates the comforts—indeed, the luxury—of her situation.

The dressing-rooms are small and cheerless. Round the sides run double tables, the top one being used for make-up boxes, the lower for garments. In the middle of the floor is a wooden stand with a double row of pegs upon it, utilised for hanging up dresses.[Pg 206] Eight girls share a “dresser” (maid) between them. The atmosphere of the room may be imagined, with flaring gas jets, nine women, and barely room to turn round amid the dresses. The air becomes stifling at times, and there is literally no room to sit down even if the costumes would permit of such luxury, which generally they will not. In this tiny room performers have to wait for their “call,” when they rush downstairs, through icy cold passages, to the stage, whence they must return again in time to don the next costume required.

The dressing rooms are small and gloomy. Along the walls, there are double tables; the top one is used for makeup boxes, while the lower one holds clothes. In the center of the floor stands a wooden rack with a double row of pegs to hang up dresses.[Pg 206] Eight girls share a “dresser” (maid) among them. You can imagine the atmosphere: bright gas lights, nine women cramped together, barely enough space to turn around among the dresses. The air gets stuffy sometimes, and there’s hardly any space to sit, even if the costumes allowed for that luxury, which they usually don’t. In this tiny room, performers have to wait for their “call,” when they rush downstairs through freezing cold hallways to the stage, and then hurry back in time to change into the next costume needed.

Prior to the production, as we have seen, there are a number of rehearsals, followed for many weeks by two performances a day, consequently the children who are employed cannot go on with their education, and to avoid missing their examinations a school-board mistress has been appointed, who teaches them their lessons during the intervals. These children must be bright scholars, for they are the recipients at the end of the season of several special prizes for diligence, punctuality, and good conduct.

Before the production begins, as we’ve seen, there are several rehearsals, followed for many weeks by two performances each day. As a result, the children who are involved can’t continue their education. To prevent them from missing their exams, a school board teacher has been hired to teach them during their breaks. These kids must be really good students because at the end of the season, they receive various special awards for their hard work, punctuality, and good behavior.

An attempt was recently made to limit the age of children employed on the stage to fourteen, but the outcry raised was so great that it could not be done. For children under eleven a special licence is required.

An attempt was recently made to limit the age of children working on stage to fourteen, but the backlash was so intense that it couldn't be implemented. A special license is required for children under eleven.

Miss Ellen Terry said, on the subject of children on the stage: “I am an actress, but first I am a woman, and I love children,” and then proceeded to advocate the employment of juveniles upon the stage. She spoke from experience, for she acted as a child herself. “I can put my finger at once on the actors[Pg 207] and actresses who were not on the stage as children,” she continued. “With all their hard work they can never acquire afterwards that perfect unconsciousness which they learn then so easily. There is no school like the stage for giving equal chances to boys and girls alike.”

Miss Ellen Terry said about children on stage: “I’m an actress, but first I’m a woman, and I love kids,” and then went on to support the hiring of young performers. She spoke from personal experience, as she acted as a child herself. “I can easily point out the actors[Pg 207] and actresses who weren’t on stage as kids,” she added. “Despite all their hard work, they can never achieve that perfect naturalness they learn so effortlessly at that age. There’s no place like the stage for giving equal opportunities to both boys and girls.”

There seems little doubt about it, the ordinary stage child is the offspring of the very poor, his playground the gutter, his surroundings untidy and unclean, his food and clothing scanty, and such being the case he is better off in every way in a well-organised theatre, where he learns obedience, cleanliness, and punctuality. The sprites and fairies love their plays, and the greatest punishment they can have—indeed, the only one inflicted at Drury Lane—is to be kept off the stage a whole day for naughtiness.

There’s no denying that the typical child actor comes from a low-income background, spending their playtime in the streets, surrounded by mess and dirt, with limited food and clothing. Given this situation, they are much better off in a well-run theater, where they learn discipline, cleanliness, and punctuality. The young performers enjoy their roles, and the harshest punishment they face—indeed, the only one enforced at Drury Lane—is being barred from the stage for an entire day for misbehavior.

They appear to be much better off in the theatre than they would be at home, although morning school and two performances a day necessitate rather long hours for the small folk. They have a nice classroom, and are given buns and milk after school; but their dressing accommodation is limited. Many of the supers and children have to change as best they can under the stage, for there is not sufficient accommodation for every one in the rooms.

They seem to be a lot better off in the theater than they would be at home, even though morning school and two performances a day mean the kids have pretty long hours. They have a nice classroom and get buns and milk after school, but their changing area is cramped. Many of the extras and kids have to change as best as they can under the stage since there's not enough space for everyone in the dressing rooms.

The once famous “Green-room” of Drury Lane has been done away with. It is now a property-room, where geese’s heads line the shelves, or golden seats and monster champagne bottles litter the floor.

The once famous “Green-room” of Drury Lane has been replaced. It is now a prop room, where geese heads line the shelves, and golden seats and huge champagne bottles clutter the floor.

There have been many changes at Drury Lane. It[Pg 208] was rebuilt after the fire in 1809, and reopened in 1812, but vast alterations have been carried out since then. Woburn Place is now part of the stage. Steps formerly led from Russell Street to Vinegar Yard, but they have been swept away and the stage enlarged until it is the biggest in the world. Most ordinary theatres have an opening on the auditorium of about twenty-five feet; Drury Lane measures fifty-two feet from fly to fly, and is even deeper in proportion. The entire stage is a series of lifts, which may be utilised to move the floor up or down. Four tiers, or “flats,” can be arranged, and the floor moved laterally so as to form a hill or mound. All this is best seen from the mezzanine stage, namely, that under the real one, where the intricacies of lifts and ropes and rooms for electricians become most bewildering. Here, too, are the trap-doors. For many years they went out of fashion, as did also the ugly masks, but a Fury made his entrance by a trap on Boxing Day, 1902, and this may revive the custom again. The actor steps on a small wooden table in the mezzanine stage, and at a given sign the spring moves and he is shot to the floor above. How I loved and pondered as a child over these wonderful entrances of fairies and devils. And after all there was nothing supernatural about them, only a wooden table and a spring. How much of the glamour vanishes when we look below the surface, which remark applies not only to the stage, but to so many things in life.

There have been many changes at Drury Lane. It[Pg 208] was rebuilt after the fire in 1809 and reopened in 1812, but major modifications have been made since then. Woburn Place is now part of the stage. The steps that used to lead from Russell Street to Vinegar Yard have been removed, and the stage has been expanded to become the biggest in the world. Most regular theaters have an opening in the auditorium of about twenty-five feet; Drury Lane measures fifty-two feet from fly to fly, and it's even deeper proportionally. The entire stage consists of a series of lifts that can be used to move the floor up or down. Four tiers, or “flats,” can be arranged, and the floor can be moved laterally to create a hill or mound. All this is best observed from the mezzanine stage, which is below the main stage, where the complexity of lifts, ropes, and rooms for electricians can be quite overwhelming. Here, too, are the trap doors. For many years, these went out of style, as did the unattractive masks, but a Fury entered through a trap on Boxing Day, 1902, and that might bring the custom back. The actor stands on a small wooden table in the mezzanine stage, and at a given signal, the spring activates and he’s shot up to the floor above. How I loved and pondered as a child over these amazing entrances of fairies and devils. And in the end, there was nothing supernatural about them, just a wooden table and a spring. How much of the magic disappears when we look beneath the surface, which applies not only to the stage but to so many things in life.

Every good story seems to have been born a chestnut. Some one always looks as if he had heard[Pg 209] it before. At the risk of arousing that sarcastic smile I will relate the following anecdote, however.

Every good story seems to have originated from a well-worn idea. Someone always looks like they’ve heard[Pg 209] it before. Even at the risk of provoking that sarcastic smile, I’ll share this anecdote, though.

A certain somewhat stout Mephistopheles had to disappear through a trap-door amid red fire, but the trap was small and he was big and stuck halfway. The position was embarrassing, when a voice from the gallery called out:

A somewhat stout Mephistopheles had to vanish through a trapdoor surrounded by red fire, but the trap was small, and he was big and got stuck halfway. The situation was awkward when a voice from the gallery shouted:

“Cheer up, guv’nor. Hell’s full.”

"Cheer up, mate. Hell's full."

Electricity plays a great part in the production of a pantomime, not only as regards the lighting of the scenes, but also as a motive power for the lifts which are used for the stage. Many new inventions born during the course of a year are utilised when the Christmas festival is put on.

Electricity plays a huge role in the production of a pantomime, not just for lighting the scenes, but also as a power source for the lifts used on stage. Many new inventions created throughout the year are used during the Christmas festival.

The property-room presents a busy scene before a pantomime, and really it is wonderful what can be produced within its walls. Almost everything is made in papier mâché. Elaborate golden chairs and couches, chariots and candelabras, although framed in wood, are first moulded in clay, then covered with papier mâché. Two large fires burned in the room, which when I entered was crowded with workmen, and the heat was overpowering. Amid all that miscellaneous property, every one seemed interested in what he was doing, whether making wire frames for poke bonnets, or larger wire frames for geese, or the groundwork of champagne bottles to contain little boys. Each man had a charcoal drawing on brown paper to guide him, and very cleverly many of the drawings were executed. Some of the men were quite sculptors, so admirably did they model masks and figures in papier mâché.[Pg 210] The more elaborate pieces are prepared outside the theatre, but a great deal of the work for the production is done within old Drury Lane.

The property room is a bustling scene before a show, and it’s amazing what can be created within its walls. Almost everything is made from papier mâché. Elaborate golden chairs and couches, chariots, and candelabras, while framed in wood, are first shaped in clay, then covered with papier mâché. Two large fires were burning in the room, which was packed with workers when I walked in, and the heat was intense. In the midst of all that random stuff, everyone seemed focused on their tasks, whether making wire frames for bonnets, larger wire frames for geese, or the bases for champagne bottles to hold little boys. Each person had a charcoal drawing on brown paper to follow, and many of the drawings were done very skillfully. Some of the workers were practically sculptors, as they crafted masks and figures in papier mâché so well. [Pg 210] The more intricate pieces are prepared outside the theater, but a lot of the production work takes place in old Drury Lane.

What becomes of these extra property-men after the “festive season”? Practically the same staff appear each Christmas only to disappear from “The Lane” for almost another year. Of course there is a large permanent staff of property-men employed, but it is only at Christmas-time that so large an army is required for the gigantic pantomime changes with the transformation scenes.

What happens to these extra property workers after the holiday season? The same crew shows up each Christmas, only to vanish from “The Lane” for nearly another year. There is indeed a big permanent staff of property workers, but it's only during Christmas that such a large team is needed for the massive pantomime transformations and scene changes.

That nearly everything is made on the premises is in itself a marvel. Of course the grander dresses are obtained from outside; some come from Paris, while others are provided by tradesmen in London. The expense is very great; indeed, it may be roughly reckoned it costs about £20,000 to produce a Drury Lane Pantomime; but then, on the other hand, that sum is generally taken at the doors or by the libraries in advance-booking before the curtain rises on the first night.

That almost everything is made on-site is impressive by itself. Sure, the fancier dresses are sourced from elsewhere; some come from Paris, while others are supplied by merchants in London. The cost is very high; it's estimated to be around £20,000 to put on a Drury Lane Pantomime. However, that amount is usually collected at the doors or through advance bookings before the curtain goes up on opening night.

An important person at Drury Lane is the wardrobe-woman. She has entire control of thousands of dresses, and keeps a staff continually employed mending and altering, for after each performance something requires attention. She has a little room of her own, mostly table, so far as I could see, on which were piled dresses, poke bonnets, and artists’ designs, while round the walls hung more dresses brought in for her inspection. In other odd rooms and corners women sat busily sewing, some trimming headgear, other spangling[Pg 211] ribbon. Some were joining seams by machinery, others quilling lace; nothing seemed finished, and yet everything had to be ready in nine days, and that vast pile of chaos reduced to order. It seemed impossible; but the impossible was accomplished.

An important person at Drury Lane is the costume designer. She has complete control over thousands of outfits and keeps a team constantly busy repairing and adjusting them, because after each performance, something needs fixing. She has a small room of her own, mostly a worktable, from what I could see, piled high with dresses, poke bonnets, and sketches from artists, while more dresses hung around the walls waiting for her review. In other rooms and corners, women were hard at work sewing—some were trimming hats, others were adding sparkle to ribbons. Some were using machines to sew seams, and others were making lace edges; nothing looked finished, yet everything needed to be ready in nine days, and that huge mess had to be organized. It seemed impossible, but the impossible was done.

“Why this hurry?” some one may ask.

“Why the rush?” someone might ask.

“Because the autumn drama was late in finishing, the entire theatre had to be cleared, and although everything was fairly ready outside, nothing could be brought into Drury Lane till a fortnight before Boxing Day. Hence the confusion and hurry.”

“Because the autumn play ran late, the entire theater had to be cleared. Even though everything was pretty much ready outside, nothing could be brought into Drury Lane until two weeks before Boxing Day. That’s why there was so much confusion and rush.”

Large wooden cases of armour, swords and spears, from abroad, were waiting to be unpacked, fitted to each girl, and numbered so that the wearer might know her own.

Large wooden boxes of armor, swords, and spears from overseas were waiting to be unpacked, sized for each girl, and labeled so that each wearer would know her own.

Among the properties were some articles that looked like round red life-belts, or window sand-bags sewn into rings. These were the belts from which fairies would be suspended. They had leather straps and iron hooks attached, with the aid of which these lovely beings—as seen from the front—disport themselves. What a disillusion! Children think they are real fairies flying through air, and after all they are only ordinary women hanging to red sand-bags, made up like life-belts, and suspended by wire rope. Even those wonderful wings are only worn for a moment. They are slipped into a hole in the bodice of every fairy’s back just as she goes upon the stage, and taken out again for safety when the good lady leaves the wings in the double sense. The wands and other larger properties are treated in the same way.

Among the props were some items that looked like round red life jackets or sandbags stitched into rings. These were the belts from which fairies would be suspended. They had leather straps and iron hooks attached, which allowed these beautiful beings—as seen from the front—to show off. What a letdown! Kids believe they are real fairies flying through the air, but in reality, they are just regular women hanging from red sandbags, dressed up like life jackets, and suspended by wire ropes. Even those amazing wings are only worn for a moment. They are slid into a hole in the back of each fairy's bodice just before she goes on stage and taken out again for safety when the lady takes off the wings in both senses. The wands and other larger props are handled in the same way.

[Pg 212]

Now for the stage and the rehearsal. We could hear voices singing, accompanied by a piano with many whizzing notes.

Now for the stage and the rehearsal. We could hear voices singing, accompanied by a piano with a flurry of notes.

The place was dimly lighted. Scene-shifters were busy rehearsing their “sets” at the sides, the electrician was experimenting with illuminations from above; but the actors, heeding none of these matters, went on with their own parts. The orchestra was empty and not boarded over; so that the cottage piano had to stand at one side of the stage, and near it I was given a seat. A T-piece of gas had been fixed above the footlights, so as to enable the prompter to follow his book, and—gently be it spoken—allow some of the actors to read their parts. The star was not there—I looked about for the mirth-provoking Dan Leno, but failed to see him. Naturally he was the one person I particularly wanted to watch rehearse, for I anticipated much amusement from this wonderful comedian, with his inspiring gift of humour. Where was he?

The place was dimly lit. Scene shifters were busy rehearsing their “sets” on the sides, the electrician was testing lights from above; but the actors, ignoring all of this, continued with their own lines. The orchestra was empty and not covered up; so the cottage piano had to stand off to one side of the stage, and I was given a seat nearby. A gas T-piece had been set up above the footlights, allowing the prompter to follow his script and—gently put—enabling some of the actors to read their parts. The star was missing—I looked around for the hilarious Dan Leno, but didn’t spot him. Naturally, he was the one person I really wanted to see rehearse because I expected a lot of laughs from this amazing comedian with his incredible sense of humor. Where was he?

A sad, unhappy-looking little man, with his MS. in a brown paper cover, was to be seen wandering about the back of the stage. He appeared miserable. One wondered at such a person being there at all, he looked so out of place. He did not seem to know a word of his “book,” or, in fact, to belong in any way to the pantomime.

A sad, unhappy-looking little man, with his manuscript in a brown paper cover, was seen wandering around the back of the stage. He looked miserable. One couldn’t help but wonder why he was there at all; he seemed so out of place. He didn’t appear to know any lines from his “book,” or, in fact, to belong in any way to the pantomime.

It seemed incredible that this could be one of the performers. He wore a thick top coat with the collar turned up to keep off the draughts, a thick muffler and a billycock hat; really one felt sorry[Pg 213] for him, he looked so cold and wretched. I pondered for some time why this sad little gentleman should be on the stage at all.

It seemed unbelievable that this could be one of the performers. He wore a heavy overcoat with the collar turned up to block the drafts, a thick scarf, and a bowler hat; you really couldn’t help but feel sorry[Pg 213] for him, he looked so cold and miserable. I thought for a while about why this sad little man was even on stage.

“Dan, Dan, where are you?” some one called.

“Dan, Dan, where are you?” someone called.

“Me? Oh, I’m here,” replied the disconsolate-looking person, to my amazement.

“Me? Oh, I’m here,” replied the person who looked really sad, to my surprise.

“It’s your cue.”

“It's your turn.”

“Oh, is it? Which cue?” asked the mufflered individual who was about to impersonate mirth.

“Oh, really? Which cue?” asked the person wrapped in a scarf who was about to pretend to be happy.

“Why, so and so——”

"Why, so-and-so——"

“What page is that?”

"What page is that on?"

“Twenty-three.”

“23.”

Whereupon the great Dan—for it was really Dan himself—proceeded to find number twenty-three, and immediately began reading a lecture to the goose in mock solemn vein, when some one cried:

Whereupon the great Dan—for it was really Dan himself—went ahead to find number twenty-three and immediately started giving a lecture to the goose in a jokingly serious manner when someone shouted:

“No, no, man, that’s not it, you are reading page thirteen; we’ve done that.”

“No, no, man, that’s not it, you’re looking at page thirteen; we’ve already covered that.”

“Oh, have we? Thank you. Ah yes, here it is.”

“Oh, have we? Thanks. Ah yes, here it is.”

“That’s my part,” exclaimed Herbert Campbell. “Your cue is——”

“That’s my part,” shouted Herbert Campbell. “Your cue is——”

“Oh, is it?” and poor bewildered, unhappy-looking Dan made another and happier attempt.

“Oh, really?” and poor confused, unhappy-looking Dan made another, more hopeful attempt.

It had often previously occurred to me that Dan Leno gagged his own part to suit himself every night—and really after this rehearsal the supposition seemed founded on fact, for apparently he did not know one word of anything nine days before the production of Mother Goose, in which he afterwards made such a brilliant hit.

It often crossed my mind that Dan Leno improvised his own material every night—and honestly, after this rehearsal, that thought felt like a reality, because it seemed like he didn't know anything just nine days before the show of Mother Goose, in which he later had such a great success.

“Do I say that?” he would inquire, or, “Are you talking to me[Pg 214]?”

“Do I say that?” he would ask, or, “Are you talking to me[Pg 214]?”

After such a funny exhibition it seemed really wonderful to consider how excellent and full of humour he always is on the stage; but what a strain it must be, what mental agony, to feel you are utterly unprepared to meet your audience, that you do not know your words, and that only by making a herculean effort can the feat be accomplished.

After such a funny performance, it felt amazing to think about how excellent and full of humor he always is on stage. But what a strain it must be, what mental agony, to feel completely unprepared to face your audience, to not know your lines, and to realize that only through a massive effort can the task be accomplished.

Herbert Campbell differs from Dan Leno not only in appearance but method. He was almost letter-perfect at that rehearsal, he had studied his “book,” and was splendidly funny even while only murmuring his part. He evidently knew exactly what he was going to do, and although he did not trouble to do it, showed by a wave of his hand or a step where he meant business when the time came.

Herbert Campbell is different from Dan Leno not just in looks but in approach. He was nearly flawless during that rehearsal; he had gone over his lines thoroughly and was hilarious even while softly delivering his part. He clearly knew exactly what he planned to do, and although he didn’t bother to fully execute it, he indicated with a hand gesture or a step when he was ready to get serious when the moment arrived.

Herbert Campbell’s face, like the milkmaid’s, is his fortune. That wonderful under lip is full of fun. He has only to protrude it, and open his eyes, and there is the comedian personified. Comedians are born, not made, and the funny part of it is most of them are so truly tragic at heart and sad in themselves.

Herbert Campbell’s face, much like the milkmaid’s, is his ticket to success. That amazing lower lip is full of playfulness. All he has to do is stick it out and widen his eyes, and he becomes the very essence of comedy. Comedians are born, not created, and the ironic part is that most of them carry a deep sadness within themselves.

There is a story I often heard my grandfather, James Muspratt, tell of Liston, the comic actor.

There’s a story I often heard my grandfather, James Muspratt, tell about Liston, the comedic actor.

Liston was in Dublin early in the nineteenth century, and nightly his performance provoked roars of laughter. One day a man walked into the consulting-room of a then famous doctor.

Liston was in Dublin in the early 1800s, and every night his performance had the audience roaring with laughter. One day, a man walked into the consulting room of a well-known doctor at the time.

“I am very ill,” said the patient. “I am suffering from depression.”

“I feel really sick,” said the patient. “I’m dealing with depression.”

“Tut, tut,” returned the physician, “you must[Pg 215] pull yourself together, you must do something to divert your thoughts. You must be cheerful and laugh.”

“Come on,” said the doctor, “you need to pull yourself together, you have to do something to take your mind off things. You should try to be positive and laugh.”

“Good Heavens! I would give a hundred pounds to enjoy a real, honest laugh again, doctor.”

“Good heavens! I’d pay a hundred pounds for a good, real laugh again, doctor.”

“Well, you can easily do that for a few shillings, and I’ll tell you how. Go and see Liston to-night, he will make you laugh, I am sure.”

“Well, you can easily do that for a few bucks, and I’ll tell you how. Go see Liston tonight; he’ll make you laugh, I’m sure.”

“Not he.”

“Not him.”

“Why not?”

"Why not?"

“Because I am Liston.”

“Because I'm Liston.”

Collapse of the doctor.

Doctor's collapse.

This shows the tragedy of the life of a comic actor. How often we see the amusing, delightful man or woman in society, and little dream how different they are at home. Most of us have two sides to our natures, and most of us are better actors than we realise ourselves, or than our friends give us credit for.

This highlights the tragedy of a comic actor's life. How often do we see the funny, charming person in public, completely unaware of how different they are at home? Most of us have two sides to our personalities, and most of us are better actors than we think or than our friends acknowledge.

But to return to Drury Lane. Peering backwards across the empty orchestra I saw by the dim light that in the stalls sat, or leaned, women and children. Mr. Collins, who was in the front of the stage, personally attending to every detail, slipped forward.

But to go back to Drury Lane. Looking back across the empty orchestra, I noticed in the dim light that women and children were sitting or leaning in the stalls. Mr. Collins, who was at the front of the stage, was personally managing every detail and moved forward.

“Huntsmen and gamekeepers,” he cried. Immediately there was a flutter, and in a few minutes these good women—for women were to play the rôles—were upon the back of the stage.

“Huntsmen and gamekeepers,” he shouted. Right away, there was a commotion, and in a few minutes, these good women—for women were to play the roles—were on the back of the stage.

“Dogs,” he called again. With more noise than the female huntsmen had made, boys got up and began to run about the stage on all fours as “dogs[Pg 216].”

“Dogs,” he called again. With more noise than the female hunters had made, the boys got up and started to run around the stage on all fours like “dogs[Pg 216].”

They surrounded Dan Leno.

They gathered around Dan Leno.

“I shall hit you if you come near me,” he cried, pretending to do so with his doubled-up gloves.

“I'll hit you if you get too close,” he yelled, pretending to do it with his clenched fists.

The lads laughed.

The guys laughed.

“Growl,” said Mr. Collins—so they turned their laugh into a growl, followed round the stage by Dan, and the performance went on.

“Growl,” said Mr. Collins—so they turned their laugh into a growl, followed around the stage by Dan, and the performance continued.

It was all very funny—funny, not because of any humour, for that was entirely lacking, but because of the simplicity and hopelessness of every one. Talk about a rehearsal at private theatricals—why, it is no more disturbing than an early stage rehearsal; but the seasoned actor knows how to pull himself out of the tangle, whereas the amateur does not.

It was all pretty funny—funny, not because there was any humor, because there definitely wasn’t, but because of how straightforward and hopeless everyone was. Talking about a rehearsal for private performances—well, it’s no more chaotic than a first rehearsal; but the experienced actor knows how to get himself out of the mess, while the amateur doesn’t.

About a fortnight after the pantomime began I chanced one afternoon to be at Drury Lane again, and while stopping for a moment in the wings, the great Dan Leno came and stood beside me, waiting for his cue. He was dressed as Mother Goose, and leant against the endless ropes that seemed to frame every stage entrance; some one spoke to him, but he barely answered, he appeared preoccupied. All at once his turn came. On he went, hugging a goose beneath which walked a small boy. Roars of applause greeted his entrance, he said his lines, and a few moments later came out amid laughter and clapping. “This will have cheered him up,” thought I—but no. There I left him waiting for his next cue, but I had not gone far before renewed roars of applause from the house told me Dan Leno was again on the stage. What a power to be able to amuse thousands of people[Pg 217] every week, to be able to bring mirth and joy into many a heart, to take people out of themselves and make the saddest merry—and Dan can do all this.

About two weeks after the show started, I happened to be at Drury Lane again one afternoon. While I was hanging out in the wings for a moment, the great Dan Leno came over and stood next to me, waiting for his cue. He was dressed as Mother Goose and leaned against the endless ropes that seemed to frame every stage entrance. Someone spoke to him, but he hardly replied; he seemed lost in thought. Suddenly, it was his turn. He walked on, hugging a goose while a small boy walked beside him. The audience erupted in applause as he entered; he delivered his lines, and a few moments later, he came back out to laughter and clapping. “This will have cheered him up,” I thought—but no. I left him waiting for his next cue, but I hadn’t gone far before thunderous applause from the audience told me Dan Leno was back on stage. What a gift it is to entertain thousands of people every week, to bring laughter and happiness into many hearts, to lift people out of their troubles, and to make the saddest ones smile—and Dan can do all this.

The object of my second visit was to have a little chat with Miss Madge Lessing, the “principal girl,” who exclaimed as I entered her dressing-room:

The purpose of my second visit was to have a quick chat with Miss Madge Lessing, the “principal girl,” who exclaimed as I walked into her dressing room:

“I spend eleven hours in the theatre every day during the run of the pantomime.”

“I spend eleven hours in the theater every day while the pantomime is running.”

After that who can say a pantomime part is a sinecure? Eleven hours every day dressing, singing, dancing, acting, or—more wearisome of all—waiting. No one unaccustomed to the stage can realise the strain of such work, for it is only those who live at such high pressure, who always have to be on the alert for the “call-boy,” who know what it is to be kept at constant tension for so many consecutive hours.

After that, who can say that a pantomime role is an easy gig? Eleven hours a day spent dressing, singing, dancing, acting, or—worst of all—waiting. No one who isn't used to being on stage can understand the pressure of such work, because only those who function under this constant stress and always have to be ready for the “call-boy” know what it feels like to be kept in constant tension for so many hours in a row.

Matinée days are bad enough in ordinary theatres, but the pantomime is a long series of matinée days extending over three months or more. Of course it is not compulsory to stay in the theatre between the performances; but it is more tiring, for the leading-lady, to dress and go out for a meal than to stay in and have it brought to the dressing-room.

Matinée days are tough enough in regular theaters, but the pantomime turns into a long stretch of matinée days that lasts for three months or more. Sure, it’s not required to stay in the theater between shows; but for the leading lady, it's more exhausting to get dressed and go out for a meal than to just stay in and have it delivered to her dressing room.

Miss Lessing was particularly fortunate in her room; the best I have ever seen in any theatre. Formerly it was Sir Augustus Harris’s office. It was large and lofty, and so near the stage—on a level with which it actually stood—that one could hear what was going on in front. This was convenient in many ways, although it had its drawbacks. Many of our leading[Pg 218] theatrical lights have to traverse long flights of stairs between every act; while Miss Lessing was so close to the stage she need not leave her room until it was actually time to step upon the boards.

Miss Lessing was really lucky with her room; it was the best I've ever seen in any theater. It used to be Sir Augustus Harris’s office. It was big and tall, and so close to the stage—level with it, in fact—that you could hear everything happening in front. This was handy in many ways, even though it had its downsides. A lot of our top theatrical stars have to go up and down long flights of stairs between acts; meanwhile, Miss Lessing was so close to the stage that she didn't have to leave her room until it was time to step onto the stage.

It was a matinée when the pantomime was in full swing that I bearded the lion in her den, and a pretty, dainty little lion I found her. It was a perilous journey to reach her room, but I bravely followed the “dresser” from the stage door. We passed a lilliputian pony about the size of a St. Bernard dog, we bobbed under the heads and tails of horses so closely packed together there was barely room for us to get between. The huntsmen were already mounted, for they were just going on, and I marvelled at the good behaviour of those steeds; they must have known they could not move without doing harm to some one, and so considerately remained still. We squeezed past fairies, our faces tickled by their wings, our dresses caught by their spangles, so closely packed was humanity “behind.” There were about two hundred scene-shifters incessantly at work moving “cloths,” and “flies,” and “drops,” and properties of all kinds. Miss Lessing was just coming off the stage, dressed becomingly in white muslin, with a blue Red Riding Hood cape and poppy-trimmed straw hat.

It was a matinée when the show was in full swing that I confronted the lion in her lair, and a charming, delicate little lion I found her to be. It was a risky journey to reach her room, but I confidently trailed the “dresser” from the stage door. We passed a tiny pony about the size of a St. Bernard dog, ducked under the heads and tails of horses so tightly packed together there was hardly any room for us to squeeze through. The huntsmen were already mounted, getting ready to go on, and I was amazed by how well-behaved those horses were; they must have known they couldn’t move without hurting someone, so they thoughtfully stayed put. We threaded our way past fairies, our faces brushed by their wings, our dresses snagged by their sparkles, so packed was the crowd “behind.” There were about two hundred scene-shifters constantly at work moving “cloths,” “flies,” “drops,” and props of all sorts. Miss Lessing was just coming off the stage, dressed elegantly in white muslin, with a blue Red Riding Hood cape and a straw hat trimmed with poppies.

“Come along,” she said, “this is my room, and it is fairly quiet here.” The first things that strike a stranger are Miss Lessing’s wonderful grey Irish eyes and her American accent.

“Come on,” she said, “this is my room, and it's pretty quiet here.” The first things that catch a stranger’s attention are Miss Lessing’s amazing grey Irish eyes and her American accent.

“Both are correct,” she laughed. “I’m Irish by extraction, although born in London, and I’ve lived[Pg 219] in America since I was fourteen; so you see there is ground for both your surmises.”

“Both are right,” she laughed. “I’m Irish by heritage, although I was born in London, and I’ve lived[Pg 219] in America since I was fourteen; so you see there’s reason for both your guesses.”

Miss Lessing is a Roman Catholic, and was educated at the Convent of the Sacred Heart at Battersea.

Miss Lessing is a Roman Catholic and was educated at the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Battersea.

“I always wanted to go on the stage as long as ever I can remember,” she told me, “and I positively ran away from home and went over to America, where I had a fairly hard time of it. By good luck I managed to get an engagement in a chorus, and it chanced that two weeks later one of the better parts fell vacant owing to a girl’s illness, and I got it—and was fortunate enough to keep it, as she was unable to return, and the management were satisfied with me. I had to work very hard, had to take anything and everything offered to me for years. Had to do my work at night and improve my singing and dancing by day; but nothing is accomplished without hard work, is it? And I am glad I went through the grind because it has brought me a certain amount of reward.”

“I’ve always wanted to be on stage for as long as I can remember,” she told me. “So, I actually ran away from home and went to America, where it was pretty tough for me. Luckily, I managed to land a gig in a chorus, and then, two weeks later, one of the better roles opened up because a girl got sick, and I got it—and I was lucky enough to keep it since she couldn’t come back, and the management was happy with me. I had to work really hard, taking any job offered to me for years. I would work at night and improve my singing and dancing during the day; but nothing gets accomplished without hard work, right? And I’m glad I went through the struggle because it has brought me some rewards.”

One had only to look at Miss Lessing to know she is not easily daunted; those merry eyes and dimpled cheeks do not detract from the firmness of the mouth and the expression of determination round the laughing lips. There was something particularly dainty about the “principal girl” at Drury Lane, and a sense of refinement and grace one does not always associate with pantomime.

One only had to look at Miss Lessing to see she is not easily intimidated; those cheerful eyes and dimpled cheeks don’t take away from the strength of her mouth and the determined look around her smiling lips. There was something especially delicate about the “principal girl” at Drury Lane, along with a sense of sophistication and elegance that isn’t always linked to pantomime.

“Why, yes,” she afterwards added, “I played all over the States, and after nine years was engaged by Mr. Arthur Collins to return to London and appear[Pg 220] in the pantomime of The Sleeping Beauty. Of course, I felt quite at home in London, although I must own I nearly died of fright the first time I played before an English audience. It seemed like beginning the whole thing over again. Londoners are more exacting than their American cousins; but I must confess, when they like a piece, or an artist, they are most lavish in their applause and approbation.”

“Sure,” she later added, “I performed all over the States, and after nine years, Mr. Arthur Collins hired me to go back to London and appear[Pg 220] in the pantomime of The Sleeping Beauty. Of course, I felt pretty comfortable in London, although I have to admit I was really nervous the first time I performed in front of an English audience. It felt like starting all over again. Londoners are more demanding than their American counterparts; but I have to confess, when they enjoy a show or an artist, they are incredibly generous with their applause and praise.”

It was cold, and Miss Lessing pulled a warm shawl over her shoulders and poked the fire. It can be cold even in such a comfortable dressing-room, with the luxury of a fire, for the draughts outside, either on the stage or round it, in such a large theatre are incredible to an ordinary mind. Frequenters of the stalls know the chilly blast that blows upon them when the curtain rises, so they may form some slight idea of what it is like behind the scenes on a cold night.

It was cold, and Miss Lessing wrapped a warm shawl around her shoulders and poked the fire. It can be chilly even in such a cozy dressing room, with the luxury of a fire, because the drafts outside, whether on stage or around it, are unbelievable to an average person. Regulars in the stalls are familiar with the cold gust that hits them when the curtain rises, so they might have a vague idea of what it's like backstage on a cold night.

“After the performance I take off my make-up and have my dinner,” laughed Miss Lessing. “I don’t think I should enjoy my food if all this mess were left on; at all events I find it a relief to cold-cream it off. One gets a little tired of dinners on a tray for weeks at a time when one is not an invalid; but by the time I’ve eaten mine, and had a little rest, it is the hour to begin again, for the evening performance is at hand.”

“After the show, I take off my makeup and have dinner,” laughed Miss Lessing. “I wouldn’t enjoy my food if I left all this mess on; anyway, I find it a relief to wipe it off with cold cream. You get a bit tired of tray dinners for weeks on end when you're not sick; but by the time I finish mine and have a little rest, it's time to get ready again since the evening performance is coming up.”

“At all events, though, you can read and write between whiles,” I remarked.

“At any rate, you can read and write now and then,” I said.

“That is exactly what one cannot do. I no sooner settle down to a book or letters than some one wants me. It is the constant disturbance, the everlasting[Pg 221] interruption, that make two performances a day so trying; but I love the life, even if it be hard, and thoroughly enjoy my pantomime season.”

“That is exactly what you can’t do. No sooner do I settle down with a book or letters than someone wants my attention. It’s the constant interruptions, the never-ending[Pg 221] disruptions, that make doing two performances a day so challenging; but I love this life, even if it’s tough, and I thoroughly enjoy my pantomime season.”

“Have you had many strange adventures in your theatrical life, Miss Lessing?”

“Have you experienced a lot of unusual adventures in your acting career, Miss Lessing?”

“None: mine has been a placid existence on the whole, for,” she added, laughing, “I have not even lost diamonds or husbands!”

“None: my life has been pretty calm overall, because,” she added with a laugh, “I haven’t even lost any diamonds or husbands!”

[Pg 222]

CHAPTER XII

SIR HENRY IRVING AND STAGE LIGHTING

Sir Henry Irving’s Role—Miss Geneviève Ward’s Outfit—Changes in Lighting—The Most Expensive Play Ever Made—Strong Individuality—Character Roles—Irving Supported Himself at Thirteen—Actors and Audience Appreciation—A Touching Story—No Shakespeare Customs—Imitating Isn’t Acting—Irving’s Appearance—His Kindness—Opening Night of Dante—Opening Night of Faust—Two Stories About Terriss—Sir Charles Wyndham.

HENRY IRVING is a name which ought to be revered for ever in stageland. He has done more for the drama than any other actor in any other country. He has tactfully and gracefully made speeches that have commanded respect. He has ennobled his profession in many ways.

HENRY IRVING is a name that should be celebrated forever in the theater world. He has contributed more to the drama than any other actor in any other country. He has skillfully and gracefully delivered speeches that have earned respect. He has elevated his profession in many ways.

As Sir Squire Bancroft was the pioneer of “small decorations,” so Sir Henry Irving has been the pioneer of “large details.” Artistic effect and magnificent stage pictures have been his cult; but nothing is too insignificant for his notice.

As Sir Squire Bancroft was the pioneer of “small decorations,” Sir Henry Irving has been the pioneer of “large details.” He has been dedicated to artistic effect and stunning stage visuals, but no detail is too minor for his attention.

Miss Geneviève Ward told me that in the play of Becket a superb costume was ordered for her. It cost fifty or sixty guineas, but when she tried it on she felt the result was disappointing. A little unhappy about the matter she descended to the stage.

Miss Geneviève Ward told me that in the play of Becket, a fabulous costume was ordered for her. It cost fifty or sixty guineas, but when she tried it on, she felt the result was disappointing. A bit unhappy about it, she went down to the stage.

[Pg 223]

“Great Heavens, Miss Ward! what have you got on?” exclaimed the actor manager.

“Goodness, Miss Ward! What are you wearing?” exclaimed the actor-manager.

“My new dress, sire, may it please you well,” was the meek reply, accompanied by a mock curtsey.

"My new dress, sir, I hope you like it," was the humble response, along with a playful curtsey.

“You look a cross between a Newhaven fish-wife and a balloon,” he laughed; “that will never do. It is most unbecoming. As we cannot make you thinner to suit the dress, we must try and make the dress thinner to suit you.”

“You look like a mix between a Newhaven fishwife and a balloon,” he laughed; “that won’t work. It’s really unflattering. Since we can’t make you thinner to fit the dress, we’ll have to make the dress thinner to fit you.”

They chaffed and laughed; but finally it was decided alterations would spoil the costume—which in its way was faultless—so without any hesitation Henry Irving relegated it to a “small-part lady,” and ordered a new dress for Miss Ward.

They joked and laughed; but in the end, it was decided that changes would ruin the costume—which was perfect as it was—so without any hesitation, Henry Irving assigned it to a “small-part lady” and ordered a new dress for Miss Ward.

Perhaps the greatest reform this actor ever effected was in the matter of stage lighting. No one previously paid any particular attention to this subject, a red glass or a blue one achieved all that was thought necessary, until he realised the wonderful effects that might be produced by properly thrown lights, and made a study of the subject.

Perhaps the biggest change this actor ever made was in stage lighting. Before him, no one really paid much attention to this topic; a red glass or a blue one was all that was considered necessary, until he recognized the amazing effects that could be created by using lights properly and took the time to study the subject.

It was Henry Irving who first started the idea of changing the scenes in darkness, a custom now so general, not only in Britain but abroad. He first employed varied coloured lights, and laid stress on illumination generally. It was he who first plunged the auditorium into darkness to heighten the stage effects.

It was Henry Irving who first came up with the idea of changing scenes in the dark, a practice that is now common not just in Britain but around the world. He was the first to use different colored lights and emphasized the importance of lighting overall. He also pioneered the technique of plunging the auditorium into darkness to enhance the effects on stage.

“Stage lighting and grouping,” said Irving on one occasion, “are of more consequence than the scenery.[Pg 224] Without descending to minute realism, the nearer one approaches to the truth the better. The most elaborate scenery I ever had was for Romeo and Juliet, but as I was not the man to play Romeo the scenery could not make it a success. It never does—it only helps the actor. The whole secret of successful stage management is thoroughness and attention to detail.”

“Stage lighting and how actors are grouped,” Irving remarked once, “matter more than the set design.[Pg 224] Without getting too caught up in minute realism, the closer you get to the truth, the better. The most elaborate set I ever had was for Romeo and Juliet, but since I wasn't the one playing Romeo, the set couldn’t ensure its success. It never does—it just supports the actor. The key to successful stage management is thoroughness and attention to detail.”

To Sir Henry Irving is also due the honour of first employing high-class artists to design dresses, eminent musicians to compose music which he lavishly introduced. It is said that his production of Henry VIII., a sumptuous play, cost £16,000 to mount, but all his great costume plays have cost from £3,000 to £10,000 each.

To Sir Henry Irving goes the credit for being the first to hire top-tier artists to design costumes and renowned musicians to create music, which he generously featured. It's said that his production of Henry VIII., an extravagant play, cost £16,000 to stage, but all his major costume plays have ranged from £3,000 to £10,000 each.

Sir Henry Irving is famous for his speeches. Few persons know he reads every word of them. Carefully thought out—for he wisely never speaks at random—and type-written, his MS. lies open before him, and being quite accustomed to address an audience, he quietly, calmly, deliberately reads it off with dramatic declamation. His voice has been a subject of comment by many. That characteristic intonation so well known upon the stage is never heard in private life, and even in reading a speech is little noticeable.

Sir Henry Irving is known for his speeches. Not many people realize he reads every word of them. Carefully planned—he wisely never speaks off the cuff—and typed, his manuscript is laid out in front of him. Since he’s used to speaking in front of an audience, he reads it out quietly, calmly, and deliberately with dramatic flair. Many have commented on his voice. The distinctive tone everyone recognizes from the stage is absent in private life, and even when he reads a speech, it's not very noticeable.

Photo by Window & Grove, Baker Street, W.

SIR HENRY IRVING.

Sir Henry Irving.

If there ever was a case of striking individuality on the stage it is surely to be found in Henry Irving. People often ask if it is a good thing for the exponents of the dramatic profession to possess a strong personality. It is often voiced that it is bad for a part to have the prominent characteristics of the actor noticeable, [Pg 225]and yet at the same time there is no doubt about it, it is the men and women of marked character who are successful upon the stage. They may possess great capability for “make-up,” they may entirely alter their appearance, they may throw themselves into the part they are playing; but tricks of manner, intonations of voice, and peculiarities of gesture appear again and again, and very often it is this particular personality that the public likes best.

If there’s ever been an example of striking individuality on stage, it’s definitely Henry Irving. People often wonder if it’s a good thing for actors in the dramatic profession to have a strong personality. Some say that it's detrimental for an actor's notable traits to overshadow a character, [Pg 225] but the truth is that it’s the actors with strong personalities who tend to succeed in theater. They might be great at “make-up,” they could completely change their look, and they might fully immerse themselves in the role; however, their mannerisms, voice intonations, and unique gestures keep coming through, and often it’s this specific personality that the audience loves the most.

In olden days it was the fashion—if we may judge from last century books—to speak clearly and to “rant” when excited; in modern days it is the fashion to speak indistinctly, and play with “reserved force.” The drama has its fancies and its fashions like our dresses or our hats.

In the past, it was common—if we can tell from books of the last century—to speak clearly and to "rant" when excited; nowadays, it’s trendy to speak unclearly and to hold back your energy. Drama has its own trends and styles just like our clothing or hats.

No man upon the stage has gone through a more severe mill than Sir Henry Irving. Forty-six years ago he was working in the provinces at a trifling salary on which he had to live. Board, lodging, washing, clothes, even some of his stage costumes, had to come out of that guinea a week. The success he has attained has been arrived at—in addition to his genius and ability—by sheer hard work and conscientious attempts to do his best, consequently at the age of sixty-five he was able to fill a vast theatre like Drury Lane when playing in such a trying part as Dante.

No man on stage has faced a tougher journey than Sir Henry Irving. Forty-six years ago, he was working in provincial theaters for a barely livable salary. He had to pay for board, lodging, laundry, clothes, and even some of his stage costumes from that single guinea a week. The success he has achieved, alongside his talent and skill, comes from hard work and a dedicated effort to do his best. As a result, at the age of sixty-five, he was able to fill a huge theater like Drury Lane while performing in a challenging role like Dante.

The first years of the actor’s life were spent at an office desk. He began to earn his own living as a clerk at thirteen; but during that time he memorised and studied various plays. He learnt fencing, and at[Pg 226] the age of nineteen, when he first took to the stage, he was well equipped for his new profession.

The actor spent his early years working at a desk. He started earning his own money as a clerk at thirteen, but during that time he memorized and studied different plays. He learned fencing, and at[Pg 226] the age of nineteen, when he first stepped onto the stage, he was well-prepared for his new career.

For ten years he made little headway, however, and first came into notice as a comedian. In his early days every one thought Irving ought to play “character parts.”

For ten years, he made little progress, but he first gained attention as a comedian. In his early days, everyone thought Irving should play "character roles."

“What that phrase means,” he remarked later, “I never could understand, for I have a prejudice in the belief that every part should be a character. I always wanted to play the higher drama. Even in my boyhood my desire had been in that direction. When at the Vaudeville Theatre, I recited Eugene Aram, simply to get an idea as to whether I could impress an audience with a tragic theme. In my youth I was associated in the public mind with all sorts of bad characters, housebreakers, blacklegs, thieves, and assassins.”

“What that phrase means,” he said later, “I’ve never really understood, because I believe that every part should be a character. I’ve always wanted to perform in serious drama. Even as a kid, my ambition leaned that way. When I was at the Vaudeville Theatre, I recited Eugene Aram, just to see if I could make an impression on an audience with a tragic story. In my younger years, people associated me with all kinds of bad characters: burglars, con artists, thieves, and killers.”

And this was the man who was to popularise Shakespeare on the modern English stage—the man to show the world that Shakespeare spelt Fame and Success.

And this was the guy who was going to make Shakespeare popular on the modern English stage—the guy to show the world that Shakespeare meant Fame and Success.

That acting is a fatiguing art Irving denies. He once played Hamlet over two hundred nights in succession, and yet the Dane takes more out of him than any of his characters. Hamlet is the one he loves best, however, just as Ellen Terry’s favourite part is Portia.

That acting is a tiring art, Irving disagrees. He once performed Hamlet over two hundred nights in a row, yet the Dane drains him more than any of his other characters. Still, Hamlet is the one he loves the most, just like Ellen Terry's favorite role is Portia.

In Percy Fitzgerald’s delightful Life of Henry Irving we find the following interesting and characteristic little story:

In Percy Fitzgerald’s delightful Life of Henry Irving, we come across this interesting and characteristic little story:

“Perhaps the most remarkable Christmas dinner at[Pg 227] which I have ever been present, was one at which we dined upon underclothing. Do you remember Joe Robins—a nice, genial fellow who played small parts in the provinces? Ah, no! that was before your time. Joe Robins was once in the gentleman’s furnishing business in London city. I think he had a wholesale trade, and was doing well. However, he belonged to one of the semi-Bohemian clubs; associated a great deal with actors and journalists, and when an amateur performance was organised for some charitable object, he was cast for the clown in a burlesque called Guy Fawkes.

“Maybe the most memorable Christmas dinner I’ve ever attended was one where we had underclothing for dinner. Do you remember Joe Robins—a nice, friendly guy who played minor roles in regional theater? Oh, no! That was before your time. Joe Robins used to be in the men's clothing business in London. I think he had a wholesale operation and was doing pretty well. However, he belonged to one of those semi-Bohemian clubs; he spent a lot of time with actors and journalists, and when an amateur show was organized for a charitable cause, he got cast as the clown in a burlesque called Guy Fawkes.

“Perhaps he played the part capitally; perhaps his friends were making game of him when they loaded him with praise; perhaps the papers for which his Bohemian associates wrote went rather too far when they asserted that he was the artistic descendant and successor of Grimaldi. At any rate Joe believed all that was said to and written about him, and when some wit discovered that Grimaldi’s name was also Joe, the fate of Joe Robins was sealed. He determined to go upon the stage professionally and become a great actor. Fortunately Joe was able to dispose of his stock and goodwill for a few hundreds, which he invested, so as to give him an income sufficient to prevent the wolf from getting inside his door, in case he did not eclipse Garrick, Kean, and Kemble. He also packed up for himself a liberal supply of his wares, and started in his profession with enough shirts, collars, handkerchiefs, and underclothing to equip him for several years.

“Maybe he acted the part really well; maybe his friends were just making fun of him when they showered him with praise; maybe the newspapers that his Bohemian friends wrote for went a bit overboard when they claimed he was the artistic descendant and successor of Grimaldi. Regardless, Joe believed everything said and written about him, and when someone pointed out that Grimaldi’s name was also Joe, his fate was sealed. He decided to pursue acting professionally and become a great actor. Luckily, Joe managed to sell his stock and goodwill for a few hundred bucks, which he invested to ensure he had a steady income to keep the wolf from the door, just in case he didn’t surpass Garrick, Kean, and Kemble. He also packed a good supply of his belongings and started his career with enough shirts, collars, handkerchiefs, and underwear to last him for several years.”

[Pg 228]

“The amateur success of poor Joe was never repeated on the regular stage. He did not make an absolute failure; no manager would trust him with big enough parts for him to fail in; but he drifted down to “general utility,” and then out of London, and when I met him he was engaged in a very small way, on a very small salary, at a Manchester theatre.

“The amateur success of poor Joe was never matched on the professional stage. He didn’t completely fail; no manager would take a chance on him with significant roles where he could fail; instead, he ended up in “general utility,” and then left London. When I ran into him, he was working in a very minor role, for a very low salary, at a theater in Manchester.”

“His income eked out his salary; Joe, however, was a generous, great-hearted fellow, who liked everybody, and whom everybody liked, and when he had money, he was always glad to spend it upon a friend or give it away to somebody more needy than himself. So piece by piece, as necessity demanded, his princely supply of haberdashery diminished, and at last only a few shirts and underclothes remained to him.

“His income barely supplemented his salary; Joe, though, was a generous, kind-hearted guy who got along with everyone, and everyone liked him. Whenever he had money, he was always happy to spend it on a friend or give it to someone in greater need than himself. So, little by little, as necessity required, his impressive collection of clothing dwindled, and in the end, only a few shirts and underwear were left to him.”

“Christmas came in very bitter weather. Joe had a part in the Christmas pantomime. He dressed with other poor actors, and he saw how thinly some of them were clad when they stripped before him to put on their stage costumes. For one poor fellow in especial his heart ached. In the depth of a very cold winter he was shivering in a suit of very light summer underclothing, and whenever Joe looked at him, the warm flannel under-garments snugly packed away in an extra trunk weighed heavily on his mind. Joe thought the matter over, and determined to give the actors who dressed with him a Christmas dinner. It was literally a dinner upon underclothing, for most of the shirts and drawers which Joe had cherished[Pg 229] so long went to the pawnbrokers, or the slop-shop to provide the money for the meal. The guests assembled promptly, for nobody else is ever so hungry as a hungry actor. The dinner was to be served at Joe’s lodgings, and before it was placed on the table, Joe beckoned his friend with the gauze underclothing into a bedroom, and pointing to a chair, silently withdrew. On that chair hung a suit of underwear, which had been Joe’s pride. It was of a comfortable scarlet colour; it was thick, warm, and heavy; it fitted the poor actor as if it had been manufactured especially to his measure. He put it on, and as the flaming flannels encased his limbs, he felt his heart glowing within him with gratitude to dear Joe Robins.

“Christmas arrived with extremely harsh weather. Joe was part of the Christmas pantomime. He got dressed alongside other struggling actors and noticed how lightly some of them were dressed when they changed into their stage costumes. One poor guy, in particular, tugged at his heart. In the middle of a freezing winter, he was shivering in a very thin summer outfit, and every time Joe glanced at him, the warm flannel undergarments neatly packed away in an extra trunk weighed heavily on his mind. After thinking it over, Joe decided to treat his fellow actors to a Christmas dinner. It was literally a dinner made possible by his underclothes, as most of the shirts and underwear he had cherished[Pg 229] for so long were sold to the pawnbrokers or the second-hand shop to fund the meal. The guests arrived promptly; hungry actors are always the most eager. The dinner was to be held at Joe’s place, and before it was served, he invited his friend in the gauzy underclothing into a bedroom, silently pointing to a chair before stepping away. On that chair hung a set of underwear that Joe had taken pride in. It was a cozy scarlet color; thick, warm, and heavy; it fit the poor actor as if it had been custom-made for him. He put it on, and as the bright flannels wrapped around him, he felt a warm glow of gratitude toward dear Joe Robins.”

“That actor never knew—or, if he knew, could never remember—what he had for dinner on that Christmas afternoon. He revelled in the luxury of warm garments. The roast beef was nothing to him in comparison with the comfort of his under-vest: he appreciated the drawers more than the plum-pudding. Proud, happy, warm, and comfortable, he felt little inclination to eat; but sat quietly, and thanked Providence and Joe Robins with all his heart.

“That actor never knew—or if he did, he could never remember—what he had for dinner on that Christmas afternoon. He indulged in the luxury of warm clothes. The roast beef meant nothing to him compared to the comfort of his undershirt: he valued the long johns more than the plum pudding. Proud, happy, warm, and comfortable, he had little desire to eat; instead, he sat quietly and thanked Providence and Joe Robins with all his heart.”

“‘You seem to enter into that poor actor’s feelings very sympathetically.’

“‘You seem to empathize with that poor actor’s feelings really well.’”

“‘I have good reason to do so,’ replied Mr. Irving, with his sunshiny smile, ‘for I was that poor actor!’”

“‘I have a good reason for that,’ replied Mr. Irving, with his bright smile, ‘because I was that struggling actor!’”

Irving, like most theatrical folk, has a weakness for applause. It is not surprising that hand-clapping[Pg 230] should have an exhilarating effect, or that the volley of air vibrations should set the actor’s blood a-tingling. Applause is the breath in the nostrils of every “mummer.” On one occasion the great Kean finding his audience apathetic, stopped in the middle of his lines and said:

Irving, like most people in theater, has a weakness for applause. It’s not surprising that hand-clapping[Pg 230] can have such an exciting effect, or that the rush of sound should make an actor feel invigorated. Applause is essential to every performer. Once, when the great Kean found his audience uninterested, he paused in the middle of his lines and said:

“Gentlemen, I can’t act if you can’t applaud.”

“Guys, I can’t perform if you don’t clap.”

There is no doubt about it, a sympathetic audience gets far more out of the actor than a half-hearted apathetic one.

There’s no doubt about it, a supportive audience gains much more from the actor than a disinterested, indifferent one.

“The true value of art,” once said Henry Irving, “as applied to the drama can only be determined by public appreciation. It is in this spirit that I have invariably made it my study to present every piece in such a way that the public can rely on getting as full a return for their outlay as it is possible to give. I have great faith in the justice of public discrimination, just as I regard the pit audience of a London theatre as the most critical part of the house.

“The true value of art,” once said Henry Irving, “when it comes to drama, can only be measured by how much the public appreciates it. With this in mind, I’ve always tried to present every performance in a way that ensures the audience gets the best possible experience for their money. I have a lot of confidence in the fairness of public judgment, and I see the audience in the pit of a London theater as the most discerning part of the house.

“Art must advance with the time, and with the advance of other arts there must necessarily be advance in art as applied to the stage. I believe everything that heightens and assists the imagination in a play is good. One should always give the best one can. I have lived long enough to find how short is life and how long is art,” he once pithily remarked.

“Art needs to evolve with the times, and as other forms of art progress, so should the art that’s applied to the stage. I believe that anything that enhances and supports the imagination in a play is valuable. One should always strive to give their best effort. I’ve lived long enough to realize how brief life is and how enduring art can be,” he once succinctly stated.

“Have you been guided by tradition in mounting Shakespearian plays?”

“Have you followed tradition in staging Shakespearean plays?”

“There is no tradition, nor is there anything written down as to the proper way of acting Shakespeare,[Pg 231]” the great actor replied, and further added: “Imitation is not acting—there is no true acting where individuality does not exist. Actors should act for themselves. I dislike playing a part I have seen acted by any one else, for fear of losing something of my own reading of the character. We all have our own mannerisms; I never yet saw any human being worth considering without them.”

“There’s no tradition, and nothing written about the right way to perform Shakespeare,[Pg 231],” the great actor responded, adding, “Imitating isn’t acting—true acting can’t exist without individuality. Actors should perform for themselves. I dislike playing a role I’ve seen done by someone else, afraid I might lose my unique interpretation of the character. We all have our own quirks; I’ve never met anyone worth thinking about who didn't have them.”

There is no doubt that Irving’s personality is strong and his appearance striking. He is a tall man—for I suppose he is about six feet high—thin and well knit, with curiously dark and penetrating eyes which are kindly, and have a merry twinkle when amused. The eyebrows are shaggy and protruding, and, oddly enough, remained black after his hair turned grey. He almost always wears eyeglasses, which somehow suit him as they rest comfortably on his aquiline nose. His features are clear-cut and clean-shaven, and the heavy jaw and slightly underhanging chin give strength to his face, which is always pale; the lips are thin and strangely pallid in colouring. Irving, though nearing seventy, has a wonderfully erect carriage, his shoulders are well thrust back and his chest forward, and somehow his movements always denote a man of strength and character. The very dark hair gradually turned grey and is now almost white; it was fine hair, and has always been worn long and thrown well back behind the ears.

There’s no doubt that Irving has a strong personality and a striking appearance. He’s a tall guy—I'd say he’s about six feet tall—lean and well-built, with dark, intense eyes that are kind and have a playful sparkle when he's amused. His eyebrows are thick and prominent, and interestingly, they stayed black even after his hair turned gray. He almost always wears glasses, which somehow suit him as they sit comfortably on his sharp nose. His features are well-defined and clean-shaven, and his strong jaw and slightly jutting chin give his face a sense of strength, which is always pale; his lips are thin and oddly colorless. Although he’s approaching seventy, Irving carries himself with remarkable posture, with his shoulders back and chest out, and his movements reflect a man of strength and character. His very dark hair has gradually turned gray and is now almost white; it used to be fine hair, and he has always worn it long and swept back behind his ears.

There is something about the man which immediately arrests attention; not only his face and his carriage, but[Pg 232] his manner and conversation are different from the ordinary. He is the kind of man that any one meeting for the first time would wish to know more about, the kind of man of whom every one would inquire, “Who is he?” if his face were not so well known in the illustrated papers. He could not pass unnoticed anywhere. But after all it is not this personality entirely that has made his fame, for there are people who dislike it as much as others admire it; but as he himself says, any success he has attained is due to the capacity for taking pains.

There’s something about this man that instantly grabs your attention; not just his looks and posture, but[Pg 232] also his demeanor and the way he talks are different from the norm. He’s the type of guy that anyone meeting him for the first time would want to learn more about, the kind that makes people ask, “Who is he?” if his face weren’t so familiar in the tabloids. He couldn’t go unnoticed anywhere. However, it’s not just his personality that has earned him fame, because there are those who dislike it as much as others admire it; but as he himself says, any success he’s achieved is due to his willingness to put in the effort.

That Irving’s success has been great no one can deny. His reign at the Lyceum was remarkable in every way. He acted Shakespeare’s plays until he made them the fashion. He employed great artists, musicians, and a host of smaller fry to give him of their best. He produced wondrous stage pictures—he engaged a good company, and one and all must own he was the greatest actor-manager of the last quarter of the last century. Not only England but the world at large owes him a debt of gratitude. With him mere money-making has been a secondary consideration, and this, coupled with his unfailing generosity, has always kept him comparatively a poor man. No one in distress has ever appealed to him in vain. He has not only given money, but time and sympathy, to those less fortunate than himself, and Henry Irving’s list of charitable deeds is endless. But for this he would never have had to leave the Lyceum, a theatre with which his name was associated for so many years.

That Irving's success has been undeniable. His time at the Lyceum was exceptional in every way. He performed Shakespeare's plays until they became the trend. He brought in top artists, musicians, and many others to give their best. He created stunning stage visuals—he assembled a great company, and everyone agrees he was the greatest actor-manager of the last quarter of the last century. Not just England, but the whole world owes him a debt of gratitude. For him, making money has always been a secondary concern, and this, along with his constant generosity, has meant he always remained relatively poor. No one in need has ever approached him in vain. He has not only donated money but also time and support to those less fortunate, and Henry Irving’s list of charitable acts is endless. Without this, he would never have had to leave the Lyceum, a theater that was closely tied to his name for so many years.

[Pg 233]

When Irving opened Drury Lane at Easter, 1903, with Dante he had an ovation such as probably no man has ever received from an audience before. It was a pouring wet night; the rain descended in torrents, but the faithful pittites were there to welcome the popular favourite on his return from America. It so chanced that the audience were entering the Opera House next door at the same moment, and this, combined with the rain, which did not allow people to descend from their carriages before they reached the theatre doors, made the traffic chaotic. I only managed to reach my stall a second before the house was plunged in darkness and the curtain rose.

When Irving opened Drury Lane at Easter, 1903, with Dante, he received a welcome that probably no one else has ever experienced from an audience before. It was a pouring wet night; the rain fell heavily, but the devoted fans were there to greet the popular favorite upon his return from America. At the same time, the audience was entering the Opera House next door, and this, combined with the rain that kept people from getting out of their carriages until they reached the theater doors, created a chaotic scene. I only managed to make it to my seat a second before the house went dark and the curtain rose.

And here let me say how much more agreeable it is to watch the play from a darkened auditorium such as Irving originally instituted than to sit in the glaring illumination still prevalent abroad. When the lights went down, the doors were closed, and half the carriage folk were shut out for the entire first act, thus missing that wondrous ovation. The great actor looked the very impersonation of Dante, and as he bowed, and bowed, and bowed again he grew more and more nervous, to judge by the tremble of his lips and the twitching of his hands. It was indeed a stirring moment and a proud one for the recipient. As the play proceeded the audience found all his old art was there and the magnificent mise-en-scène combined to keep up the traditions of the old Lyceum. That vast audience at Drury Lane rose en masse to greet him, and literally thundered their applause at the end of the play. The programme is on the following page.

And let me say how much nicer it is to watch a play from a darkened auditorium like the one Irving originally created than to sit in the harsh light that’s still common elsewhere. When the lights dimmed, the doors were shut, and half the audience was locked out for the entire first act, missing that amazing ovation. The great actor looked just like Dante, and as he bowed, and bowed, and bowed again, he seemed more and more nervous, judging by the way his lips trembled and his hands twitched. It was truly a powerful and proud moment for him. As the play went on, the audience noticed that all his old talent was there, and the magnificent mise-en-scène helped maintain the traditions of the old Lyceum. That huge crowd at Drury Lane rose en masse to greet him and literally erupted in applause at the end of the play. The program is on the following page.

[Pg 234]

APRIL 30th, 1903.

Managing Director			ARTHUR COLLINS.
Business Manager			SIDNEY SMITH.

HENRY IRVING’S SEASON.
Every Evening, at 8.15.
Matinée Every Saturday, at 2.30.

BY
MM. SARDOU & MOREAU.
Rendered into English by LAURENCE IRVING.

Characters in the Play:
Dante				Henry Irving
Cardinal Colonna	Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.	Papal Legate, Resident	}	Mr. William Mollison
Cardinal Colonna	Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.	at Avignon.	}	Mr. William Mollison
Nello della Pietra		(Husband to Pia)		Mr. Norman McKinnel
Bernardino	{	Brother to Francesca da Rimini,	}	Mr. Gerald Lawrence
Bernardino	{	betrothed to Gemma	}	Mr. Gerald Lawrence
Giotto		Friends to Dante		Mr. H.B. Stanford
Casella				Mr. James Hearn
Forese				Mr. Vincent Sternroyd
Bellacqua				Mr. G. Englethorpe
Malatesta		(Husband to Francesca)		Mr. Jerold Robertshaw
Corso		(Nephew to Cardinal Colonna)		Mr. Charles Dodson
Ostasio		(A Familiar of the Inquisition)		Mr. Frank Tyars
Ruggieri		(Archbishop of Pisa)		Mr. William Lugg
The Grand Inquisitor				Mr. William Farren, Junr.
Paolo		(Brother to Malatesta)		Mr. L. Race Dunrobin
Ugolino				Mr. Mark Paton
Lippo	}	Swashbucklers	{	Mr. John Archer
Conrad	}	Swashbucklers	{	Mr. W. L. Ablett
Enzio		(Brother to Helen of Swabia)		Mr. F. D. Davis [Pg 235]
Fadrico				Mr. H. Porter
Merchant				Mr. R.P. Tabb
Merchant				Mr. H. Gaston
Townsman				Mr. T. Reynolds
Townsman				Mr. A. Fisher
A Servant				M. J. Ireland
Pia dei Tolomei		(Wife to Nello della Pietra)	Your request seems to be incomplete or lacking context. Please provide the short phrases you want modernized, and I'll be happy to assist!	Miss Lena Ashwell
Gemma		(Her Daughter)		Miss Lena Ashwell
The Abbess of the Convent of Saint Claire				Miss Wallis
Francesca da Rimini				Miss Lilian Aldee
Helen of Swabia	The text appears to be incomplete. Please provide a short phrase or text for me to modernize.	Daughter-in-law	}	Miss Laura Burt
Helen of Swabia		to Ugolino	}	Miss Laura Burt
Sandra		(Servant to Pia)		Miss Ada Mellon
Picarda				Miss E. Burnand
Tessa				Miss Hilda Austin
Marozia		Florentine		Miss Mab Paul
Cilia		Ladies		Miss Ada Potter
Lucrezia				Miss E. Lockett
Julia				Miss Mary Foster
Fidelia				Miss Dorothy Rowe
Maria				Miss May Holland
Nun				Miss Emmeline Carder
Nun				Miss E.F. Davis
Custodian of the Convent of Saint Claire				Miss Grace Hampton
A Townswoman				Miss Mabel Rees
Nobles, Guests of the Legate, Pages, Jesters, Nuns, Townsfolk, Artisans, Street Urchins, Catalans, Barbantines, Servants, etc.
Drinks:
The Spirit of Beatrice				Miss Nora Lancaster
Virgil				Mr. Walter Reynolds
Cain				Mr. F. Murray
Charon				Mr. Leslie Palmer
Cardinal Boccasini				Mr. F. Faydene
Cardinal Orsini				Mr. W.J. Yeldham
Jacques Molay		(Commander of the Templars)		Mr. J. Middleton
Souls in the Inferno.

Sir Henry Irving certainly has great magnetic gifts which attract and compel the sympathy of his audience. He always looks picturesque, he avoids stage conventionalities, and acts his part according to his[Pg 236] own scholarly instincts. Passion with him is subservient to intellect.

Sir Henry Irving definitely has a strong magnetic charm that draws in and wins over his audience's sympathy. He always appears visually striking, avoids theatrical clichés, and performs his role based on his[Pg 236] own scholarly instincts. For him, passion comes secondary to intellect.

One American critic in summing him up said:

One American critic summed him up by saying:

“I do not consider Irving a great actor; but he is the greatest dramatic artist I ever saw.”

“I don’t think of Irving as a great actor, but he is the greatest dramatic artist I have ever seen.”

The version of Faust by the late W. G. Wills which modern playgoers know so well was one of the most elaborate and successful productions of the Lyceum days, and amongst the beautiful scenic effects some exquisite visions which appeared in the Prologue at the summons of Mephistopheles will always be remembered. On the first night of the production I am told—for I don’t remember the occasion myself—owing to a temporary break down in the lime-lights, these visions declined to put in an appearance at the bidding of the Fiend. The great actor waved his arm and stamped his foot with no result. Again and again he tried to rouse them from their lethargy, but all to no avail. The visions came not. As soon as the curtain fell Irving strode angrily to the wing, even his stride foreboded ill to all concerned, and the officials trembled at the outburst of righteous wrath which they expected would break forth. The first exclamations of the irate manager had hardly left his lips before they were interrupted by a diminutive “call boy,” who rushed forward with uplifted hand, and exclaimed in a high treble key to the great actor-manager fresh from his newest triumph:

The version of Faust by the late W. G. Wills that modern audiences are familiar with was one of the most elaborate and successful productions of the Lyceum era. Among the stunning scenic effects, the beautiful visions that appeared in the Prologue at Mephistopheles's summons will always stand out. On opening night, I’ve heard—since I don’t recall the event myself—that due to a temporary breakdown in the lime lights, these visions failed to appear at the Fiend's request. The renowned actor waved his arm and stamped his foot, but nothing happened. He tried again and again to rouse them from their inactivity, but it was all in vain. The visions did not come. As soon as the curtain fell, Irving walked angrily to the side of the stage; even his stride suggested trouble for everyone involved, and the staff braced themselves for the expected outburst of righteous anger. The first words of the furious manager had barely left his lips when a tiny “call boy” rushed in with his hand raised and shouted in a high-pitched voice to the great actor-manager, fresh from his latest triumph:

“Bear it, bear it bravely! I will explain all to-morrow!”

“Hang in there, stay strong! I will explain everything tomorrow!”

The situation was so ridiculous that there was a general[Pg 237] peal of laughter, in which Irving was irresistibly compelled to join.

The situation was so absurd that there was a collective[Pg 237] burst of laughter, and Irving couldn't help but join in.

The last part played at the Lyceum by the veteran actor Tom Mead was that of the old witch who vainly strove to gain the summit of the Brocken, and was always pushed downwards when just reaching the goal. In despair the wretched hag exclaims, “I’ve been a toiler for ten thousand years, but never, never reached the top.” On the first night of Faust, the worthy old man was chaffed unmercifully at supper by some of his histrionic friends who insisted that the words he used were, “I’ve been an actor for ten thousand years, but never, never reached the top.”

The last role performed at the Lyceum by the veteran actor Tom Mead was that of the old witch who desperately tried to reach the summit of the Brocken, only to be pushed back down whenever she was close. In despair, the miserable hag cries out, “I’ve been working for ten thousand years, but never, never reached the top.” On the opening night of Faust, the kind old man was teased mercilessly at dinner by some of his acting friends who insisted that the words he used were, “I’ve been an actor for ten thousand years, but never, never reached the top.”

Those who saw the wonderful production of The Corsican Brothers at the Lyceum will remember the exciting duel in the snow by moonlight, between Irving and Terriss. At the last dress rehearsal, which at the Lyceum was almost as important a function as a first night, Terriss noticed that as the combatants moved hither and thither during the fight he seemed to be usually in shadow, while the face of the great actor-manager was brilliantly illuminated. Looking up into the flies, he thus addressed the lime-light man:

Those who saw the amazing performance of The Corsican Brothers at the Lyceum will remember the thrilling duel in the snow by moonlight, between Irving and Terriss. At the final dress rehearsal, which at the Lyceum was almost as significant as opening night, Terriss observed that as the fighters moved around during the scene, he often found himself mostly in shadow, while the face of the renowned actor-manager was perfectly lit. Looking up into the rafters, he called out to the spotlight operator:

“On me also shine forth, thou beauteous moon—there should be no partiality in thy glorious beams.”

“Shine on me too, beautiful moon—your glorious light shouldn’t show favoritism.”

A friend relates another curious little incident which occurred during the run of Ravenswood at the Lyceum. In the last act there was another duel between William Terriss and Henry Irving. For the play Terriss wore a heavy moustache which was cleverly contrived in two[Pg 238] pieces. Somehow, in the midst of the scuffle, one side of the moustache got caught and came off. This was an awkward predicament at a tragic moment, but Terriss had the presence of mind to swerve round before the audience had time to realise the absurdity, and finished the scene with his hair-covered lips on show. When they arrived in the wings Irving was greatly perturbed.

A friend shares another strange little incident that happened during the run of Ravenswood at the Lyceum. In the last act, there was another duel between William Terriss and Henry Irving. For the role, Terriss wore a heavy mustache that was cleverly designed in two[Pg 238] pieces. Somehow, in the middle of the scuffle, one side of the mustache got snagged and came off. This was an awkward situation at a serious moment, but Terriss had the quick thinking to turn around before the audience could notice the absurdity, and he finished the scene with his hair-covered lips exposed. When they got backstage, Irving was quite upset.

“What on earth do you mean spoiling the act by jumping round like that?” he demanded. “You put me out horribly: it altered the whole scene.”

“What do you mean by ruining the performance by jumping around like that?” he demanded. “You threw me off completely; it changed the entire scene.”

Terriss was convulsed with laughter and could hardly answer; and it was only when Irving had spent his indignation that he discovered his friend was minus half his moustache. This shows how intensely interested actors become in their parts, when one can go through a long scene and never notice his colleague had lost so important an adjunct.

Terriss was laughing so hard he could barely respond, and it wasn't until Irving had finished venting his anger that he noticed his friend was missing half of his mustache. This illustrates how deeply actors can get into their roles, to the point where they can perform an entire scene without realizing their partner has lost such an important feature.

Sir Charles Wyndham is one of the most popular actor-managers upon the stage. He is a flourishing evergreen. Though born in 1841 he never seems to grow any older, and is just as full of dry humour, just as able to deliver a dramatic sermon, just as quick and smart as ever he was.

Sir Charles Wyndham is one of the most popular actor-managers on stage. He is a thriving evergreen. Even though he was born in 1841, he never seems to age, and is still just as full of dry humor, just as capable of delivering a dramatic sermon, and just as quick and sharp as he ever was.

He began at the very beginning, did Sir Charles, and he is ending at the very end. Though originally intended for the medical profession, he commenced his career as a stock actor in a provincial company, is now a knight, and manager and promoter of several theatres. What more could theatrical heart desire? And he has the distinction of having acted in Berlin in the German tongue.

He started from the very beginning, Sir Charles did, and he's finishing at the very end. Although he initially aimed for a career in medicine, he kicked off his journey as a stock actor in a regional company, and now he’s a knight, as well as the manager and promoter of several theaters. What more could a theater lover want? Plus, he has the unique honor of having performed in Berlin in German.

[Pg 239]

Wyndham gives an amusing description, it is said, of one of his first appearances on the American stage, when he had determined to transfer his affections from Galen to Thespis. He was naturally extremely nervous, and on his first entrance should have exclaimed:

Wyndham gives a funny account, or so it's said, of one of his earliest performances on the American stage, when he decided to shift his loyalties from Galen to Thespis. He was understandably very nervous, and on his first entrance, he should have shouted:

“I am drunk with ecstasy and success.”

“I’m overwhelmed with joy and achievement.”

With emphasis he said the first three words of the sentence, and then, owing to uncontrollable stage fright, his memory forsook him. After a painful pause he again exclaimed:

With emphasis, he said the first three words of the sentence, and then, due to overwhelming stage fright, he forgot what he was supposed to say. After an awkward pause, he shouted again:

“I am drunk.” Even then, however, he could not recall the context. He looked hurriedly around, panic seemed to overpower him as he once more repeated:

“I am drunk.” Even then, though, he couldn’t remember why. He anxiously scanned his surroundings, panic washed over him as he repeated:

“I am drunk—”; and, amid a burst of merriment from the audience, he rushed from the stage.

“I’m drunk—”; and, in the middle of a wave of laughter from the audience, he dashed off the stage.

[Pg 240]

CHAPTER XIII

WHY A NOVELIST BECOMES A DRAMATIST

Novels and Plays—Little Lord Fauntleroy and Its Origins—Mr. Hall Caine—Preference for Books Over Plays—John Oliver Hobbes—J. M. Barrie’s Shyness—Anthony Hope—A London Bachelor—A Beautiful Wedding—A Neat Author—Opening Night—Theater Critics—How Reviews Are Written—Critics Critiqued—Distribution of Programs—“Stalls Full”—Black Monday—Do Royals Pay for Their Seats?—Frantic Search for the Owner of the Royal Box—The Queen at the Opera.

IT is a surprise to the public that so many novelists are becoming dramatists.

It surprises the public that so many novelists are turning into playwrights.

The reason is simple enough: it is the natural evolution of romance. In the good old days of three-volume novels, works of fiction brought considerable grist to the mill of both author and publisher; after all it only cost a fraction more to print and bind a three-volume work which sold at thirty-one shillings and sixpence than it does to-day to produce a book of almost as many words at six shillings.

The reason is pretty straightforward: it's the natural evolution of romance. In the good old days of three-volume novels, fiction provided a significant boost for both authors and publishers; after all, it only cost a little bit more to print and bind a three-volume work that sold for thirty-one shillings and sixpence than it does today to produce a book with almost as many words for six shillings.

Then again, half, even a quarter of, a century ago there were not anything like so many novelists, and those who wrote had naturally less competition; but all this is changed.

Then again, half, even a quarter of a century ago, there weren’t nearly as many novelists, and those who wrote naturally faced less competition; but all this has changed.

Novels pour forth on every side to-day, and money does not always pour in, in proportion. One of the[Pg 241] first novelists to make a large sum by a play was Mrs. Hodgson Burnett. She wrote Little Lord Fauntleroy about 1885, it proved successful, and the book contained the element of an actable play. She dramatised the story, and she has probably made as many thousands of pounds by the play as hundreds by the book, in spite of its enormous circulation. I believe I am right in saying that Little Lord Fauntleroy has brought more money to its originator than any other combined novel and play, and the next most lucrative has probably been J. M. Barrie’s Little Minister.

Novels are being published everywhere today, but that doesn't always mean the money is following suit. One of the[Pg 241] first novelists to earn a significant amount from a play was Mrs. Hodgson Burnett. She wrote Little Lord Fauntleroy around 1885, and it became quite successful, incorporating elements that made it suitable for stage adaptation. She turned the story into a play and likely earned just as much, if not more, from the play than from the book, despite the book's huge sales. I believe it's safe to say that Little Lord Fauntleroy has generated more income for its creator than any other combination of novel and play, with J. M. Barrie's Little Minister probably being the second most profitable.

Herein lies a moral lesson. Both are simple as books and plays, and both owe their success to that very simplicity and charm. They contain no problem, no sex question, nothing but a little story of human life and interest, and they have succeeded in English-speaking lands, and had almost a wider influence than the more elaborate physiological work and ideas of Ibsen, Maeterlinck, Sudermann, or Pinero.

Here’s a moral lesson. Both are as straightforward as books and plays, and their success comes from that simplicity and appeal. They don’t deal with complex issues, sexual questions, or anything like that—just a simple story about human life and interest. They have thrived in English-speaking countries and have had an even greater impact than the more intricate works and ideas of Ibsen, Maeterlinck, Sudermann, or Pinero.

For twenty years Little Lord Fauntleroy has stirred all hearts, both on the stage and off, in England and America, adored by children and loved by grown-ups.

For twenty years Little Lord Fauntleroy has touched the hearts of everyone, both on stage and off, in England and America, cherished by children and appreciated by adults.

Being anxious to know how the idea of the play came about, I wrote to Mrs. Burnett, and below is her reply in a most characteristically modest letter:

Being eager to find out how the idea for the play originated, I wrote to Mrs. Burnett, and below is her reply in a very typically humble letter:

“New York,
“November 26th, 1902.

“New York,
“November 26, 1902.

“Dear Mrs. Alec-Tweedie,

“I hope it is as agreeable as it sounds to be ’a-roaming in Spain.’ It gives one dreams of[Pg 242] finding one’s lost castles there. Concerning the play of Fauntleroy; after the publication of the book it struck me one day that if a real child could be found who could play naturally and ingenuously the leading part, a very unique little drama might be made of the story. I have since found that almost any child can play Fauntleroy, the reason being, I suppose, that only child emotions are concerned in the representation of the character. At that time, however, I did not realise what small persons could do, and by way of proving to myself that it could—or could not—be done with sufficient simplicity and convincingness, I asked my own little boy to pretend for me that he was Fauntleroy making his speech of thanks to the tenants on his birthday. The little boy in question was the one whose ingenuous characteristics had suggested to me the writing of the story, so I thought if it could be done he could do it. He had, of course, not been allowed to suspect that he himself had any personal connection with the character of Cedric. He was greatly interested in saying the speech for me, and he did it with such delightful warm-hearted naturalness that he removed my doubts as to whether a child-actor could say the lines without any air of sophistication—which was of course the point.

“I hope it’s as nice as it sounds to be 'roaming in Spain.' It makes you dream of[Pg 242] finding your lost castles there. About the play Fauntleroy; after the book was published, one day it hit me that if I could find a real child who could play the lead role naturally and honestly, a very unique little drama could come from the story. I’ve since discovered that almost any child can play Fauntleroy, probably because only childlike emotions are involved in portraying the character. However, at that time, I didn’t realize what young kids could do. To prove to myself whether it could—or couldn’t—be portrayed simply and convincingly, I asked my own little boy to pretend he was Fauntleroy giving his thanks to the tenants on his birthday. This little boy was the one whose innocent traits inspired me to write the story, so I thought if it could be done, he could do it. Of course, he had no idea he had any personal connection to the character of Cedric. He was really excited to say the speech for me, and he performed it with such delightful, genuine naturalness that he erased my doubts about whether a child actor could deliver the lines without any hint of sophistication—which was, of course, the goal.

Shortly afterwards we went to Italy, and in Florence I began the dramatisation. I had, I think, about completed the first act when I received news from England that a Mr. Seebohm had made a dramatisation and was producing it. I travelled to London at once and consulted my lawyer, Mr. Guadella, who[Pg 243] began a suit for me. I felt very strongly on the subject, not only because I was unfairly treated, but because it had been the custom to treat all writers in like manner, and it seemed a good idea to endeavour to find a defence. I was frightened because I could not have afforded to lose and pay costs—but I felt rather fierce, and made up my mind to face the risk. Fortunately Mr. Guadella won the case for me. Mr. Seebohm’s version was withdrawn and mine produced with success both in England and America—and, in fact, in various other countries. I never know dates, but I think it was produced in London in ’88. It has been played ever since, and is played for short engagements on both sides of the Atlantic every year. I have not the least idea how many times it has been given. It is a queer little dear, that story—‘plays may come and books may go, but little Fauntleroy stays on for ever.’ I am glad I wrote it—I always loved it. I should have loved it if it had not brought me a penny. I am afraid I am not very satisfactory as a recorder of detail of a business nature. I never remember dates or figures. If we were talking together I should doubtless begin to recall incidents. It is the stimulating meanderings of conversation which stir the pools of memory.”

Shortly after, we went to Italy, and in Florence, I started the dramatization. I had nearly finished the first act when I got news from England that a Mr. Seebohm had created a dramatization and was producing it. I immediately traveled to London and consulted my lawyer, Mr. Guadella, who[Pg 243] started a lawsuit for me. I felt very strongly about this, not just because I was treated unfairly, but because it was common practice to treat all writers this way, and it seemed wise to try to find a defense. I was scared because I couldn't afford to lose and pay the costs—but I felt pretty fierce and decided to face the risk. Luckily, Mr. Guadella won the case for me. Mr. Seebohm’s version was pulled, and mine was successfully produced in both England and America—and indeed, in various other countries. I never remember dates, but I think it was produced in London in '88. It's been performed ever since, with short engagements on both sides of the Atlantic every year. I have no idea how many times it’s been done. That story is a quirky little treasure—‘plays may come and books may go, but little Fauntleroy stays on forever.’ I’m glad I wrote it—I’ve always loved it. I would have loved it even if it hadn’t earned me a penny. I’m afraid I’m not very good at remembering business details. I never recall dates or numbers. If we were chatting, I’d likely start to remember incidents. It’s the engaging flow of conversation that stirs the depths of memory.

Mrs. Hodgson Burnett may indeed be proud of her success, although she writes of it in such a simple, unaffected manner. ’Twas well for her she faced the lawsuit, for ruin scowled on one side while fortune smiled on the other.

Mrs. Hodgson Burnett can definitely take pride in her success, even though she talks about it in such a straightforward, genuine way. It was good for her that she confronted the lawsuit, because disaster loomed on one side while success smiled on the other.

[Pg 244]

No novelist’s works have sold more freely than those of Hall Caine and Miss Marie Corelli. Both are highly dramatic in style, but Miss Corelli has not taken to play-writing, preferring the novel as a means of expression.

No novelist’s works have sold more than those of Hall Caine and Miss Marie Corelli. Both have a very dramatic style, but Miss Corelli hasn’t dabbled in playwriting, choosing the novel as her preferred way to express herself.

Hall Caine, on the other hand, has been tempted by the allurements of the stage. When I asked him why he took up literature as a profession, he replied:

Hall Caine, on the other hand, has been drawn in by the attractions of the stage. When I asked him why he chose literature as a career, he replied:

“I write a novel because I love the motive, or the story, or the characters, or the scene, or all four, and I dramatise it because I like to see my subject on the stage. If more material considerations sometimes influence me, more spiritual ones are, I trust, not always absent. I don’t think the time occupied in writing a book or a play has ever entered into my calculations, nor do I quite know which gives me most trouble.”

“I write a novel because I love the idea, the story, the characters, the setting, or all four, and I bring it to life because I enjoy seeing my work on stage. While practical concerns sometimes play a role, I hope more meaningful ones are also present. I don’t think the time spent writing a book or a play has ever factored into my thinking, nor do I really know which one causes me the most difficulty.”

Continuing the subject, I ventured to ask him whether he thought drama or fiction the higher art.

Continuing the topic, I took the chance to ask him whether he believed drama or fiction was the greater art.

“I like both the narrative and the dramatic forms of art, but perhaps I think the art of fiction is a higher and better art than the art of a drama, inasmuch as it is more natural, more free, and more various, and yet capable of equal unity. On the other hand, I think the art of the drama is in some respects more difficult, because it is more artificial and more limited, and always hampered by material conditions which concern the stage, the scenery, the actors, and even the audience. I think,” he continued, “the novel and the drama have their separate joys for the[Pg 245] novelist and dramatist, and also their separate pains and penalties.

“I enjoy both storytelling and dramatic art, but I believe that fiction is a higher and better form of art than drama because it feels more natural, more liberating, and more diverse, while still maintaining a sense of unity. On the flip side, I think drama can be more challenging in some ways because it’s more constructed and limited, often constrained by practical factors like the stage, set design, actors, and even the audience. I think,” he continued, “novels and plays each have their unique pleasures for the[Pg 245] novelist and playwright, as well as their distinct struggles and consequences.”

“On the whole, I find it difficult to compare things so different, and all I can say for myself is that, notwithstanding my great love of the theatre, I find it so trying in various ways—owing, perhaps, to my limitations—that I do not grudge any one the success he achieves as a dramatist, and I deeply sympathise with the man who fails in that character.”

“Overall, I find it hard to compare such different things, and all I can say is that, despite my deep love for the theater, it can be quite challenging for me in various ways—probably due to my own limitations—so I don't begrudge anyone their success as a playwright, and I truly empathize with anyone who fails in that role.”

How true that is! By far the most lenient critics are the workers. It is the man who never wrote a book who criticises most severely, the man who never painted a picture who is the hardest to please.

How true that is! By far the most understanding critics are the workers. It's the person who has never written a book who criticizes the most harshly, and the person who has never painted a picture who is the hardest to satisfy.

Speaking about the dramatic element of the modern novel, Mr. Caine continued:

“But then the novel, since the days of Scott, has so encroached upon the domain of the drama, and become so dramatic in form that the author who has ‘the sense of the theatre’ may express himself fairly well without tempting his fate in that most fascinating but often most fatal little world.”

“But then the novel, since the days of Scott, has taken over so much of the drama's territory and become so dramatic in style that an author with ‘an eye for the theater’ can express himself quite well without risking his luck in that captivating yet often dangerous little world.”

Such was Mr. Caine’s opinion on the novelist as dramatist.

Such was Mr. Caine's view on the novelist as a playwright.

Hall Caine’s personality is too well known to need describing; but his handwriting is a marvel. He gets more into a page than any one I know, unless it be Whistler, Sydney Lee, or Zangwill. Mr. Caine’s calligraphy at a little distance looks like Chinese, it is beautifully neat and tidy—but most difficult to read. Like Frankfort Moore, Richard Le Gallienne, and a host of others, he scribbles with a small pad in his[Pg 246] hand, or on his knee. Some people prefer writing in queer positions, cramped for room—others, on the contrary, require huge tables and vast space.

Hall Caine’s personality is so well known that it doesn't need describing; however, his handwriting is something incredible. He packs more content into a page than anyone I know, except maybe Whistler, Sydney Lee, or Zangwill. From a distance, Mr. Caine’s handwriting resembles Chinese—it’s beautifully neat and tidy, but very hard to read. Like Frankfort Moore, Richard Le Gallienne, and many others, he writes with a small pad in his[Pg 246] hand or on his knee. Some people prefer writing in awkward positions, crammed for space—while others need large tables and plenty of room.

“John Oliver Hobbes” is the uneuphonious pseudonym chosen by Pearl Teresa Craigie, another of our novel-dramatists. She has hardly been as successful with her plays as with her brilliant books, and therefore it seems unlikely that she will discard the latter for the former. The world has smiled on Mrs. Craigie, for she was born of rich parents. Although an American she lives in London (Lancaster Gate), and has a charming house in the Isle of Wight. She has only one son, so is more or less independent, can travel about and do as she likes, therefore her thoughtful work and industry are all the more praiseworthy. Ability will out.

“John Oliver Hobbes” is the awkward pseudonym chosen by Pearl Teresa Craigie, another one of our novel-dramatists. She hasn't achieved the same success with her plays as she has with her outstanding books, so it seems unlikely that she will give up the latter for the former. The world has favored Mrs. Craigie, as she comes from a wealthy family. Although she's American, she lives in London (Lancaster Gate) and has a lovely house on the Isle of Wight. She has only one son, so she is fairly independent, can travel, and do as she pleases, which makes her thoughtful work and dedication all the more commendable. Talent will always shine through.

Mrs. Craigie is an extremely good-looking woman. She is petite, with chestnut hair and eyes; is always dressed in the latest gowns from Paris; has a charming voice; is musical and devoted to chess.

Mrs. Craigie is a very attractive woman. She is petite, with chestnut hair and eyes; always wears the latest dresses from Paris; has a lovely voice; is musical and passionate about chess.

J. M. Barrie, one of the most successful of our novel dramatists, is most reticent about his work. He is a shy, retiring little man with a big brain and a charitable heart; but he dislikes publicity in every form. He seems almost ashamed to own that he writes, and he cannot bear his plays to be discussed—so when he says, “Please excuse me. I have such a distaste for saying or writing anything about my books or plays for publication; if it were not so I should do as you suggest with pleasure,” one’s hand is tied, and Mr. Barrie’s valuable opinion on the novel and the drama is lost.

J. M. Barrie, one of the most successful playwrights, is quite reserved about his work. He's a shy, humble man with a sharp mind and a kind heart, but he avoids publicity in all its forms. He seems almost embarrassed to acknowledge that he writes, and he really doesn't like his plays to be discussed—so when he says, “Please excuse me. I have such a distaste for saying or writing anything about my books or plays for publication; if it weren't so, I would do as you suggest with pleasure,” it leaves us at a loss, and Mr. Barrie’s valuable thoughts on novels and drama are missed.

[Pg 247]

It was a difficult problem to decide. Naturally the public expect much mention of J. M. Barrie among the playwrights of the day, for had he not four pieces running at London theatres at the same moment? But to make mention means to offend Mr. Barrie and lose a friend.

It was a tough decision to make. Naturally, the public expects a lot of talk about J. M. Barrie among the playwrights of the time, since he had four plays showing in London theaters simultaneously. But bringing it up could upset Mr. Barrie and cost a friendship.

This famous author creates and writes, but no one must write about him. Whether his simple childhood, passed in a quaint little Scotch village, is the source of this reticence, or whether it is caused by the oppression of the fortune he has accumulated by his plays, no one discourses upon Mr. Barrie except at the risk of earning his grave displeasure. He is probably the most fantastic writer of the day, and most of the accounts of him have been as fantastic as his work. Thus the curtain cannot be lifted, while he smokes and dreams delicately pitiless sentiment behind the scenes so far as this volume is concerned.

This well-known author creates and writes, but no one should write about him. Whether his simple childhood in a charming little Scottish village is the reason for this discretion, or if it's due to the weight of the fortune he has made from his plays, no one talks about Mr. Barrie without risking his serious disapproval. He is likely the most imaginative writer of our time, and most stories about him are just as imaginative as his work. So, the curtain cannot be raised, while he smokes and dreams delicately cruel sentiment behind the scenes as far as this book is concerned.

“Anthony Hope” is another dramatic novelist. He began his career as a barrister, tried for Parliamentary honours, and failed; took to writing novels and succeeded, and now seems likely to end his days in the forefront of British dramatists.

“Anthony Hope” is another dramatic novelist. He started his career as a barrister, attempted to achieve Parliamentary honors, and failed; he then turned to writing novels and found success, and now he seems poised to end his days among the leading British dramatists.

He was educated at Marlborough, became a scholar of Balliol College, Oxford, where he gained first-class Mods. and first-class Lit. Hum., so he has gone through the educational mill with distinction, and is now inclined to turn aside from novels of pure romance to more psychological studies. This is particularly noticeable in Quisanté and Tristram of Blent.

He was educated at Marlborough and became a scholar at Balliol College, Oxford, where he earned top marks in Mod and Lit. Hum. He has successfully navigated the educational system with distinction and is now leaning towards more psychological studies rather than purely romantic novels. This shift is especially evident in Quisanté and Tristram of Blent.

[Pg 248]

The author of The Prisoner of Zenda is one of the best-known men in London society. He loves our great city. Mr. Hope is most sociable by nature; not only does he dine out incessantly, but as a bachelor was one of those delightful men who took the trouble to entertain his lady friends. Charming little dinners and luncheons were given by this man of letters, and as he had chambers near one of our largest hotels, he generally took the guests over to his flat after the meal for coffee and cigars. Many can vouch what pleasant evenings those were; the geniality of the host, the frequent beauty of his guests, and the generally brilliant conversation made those bachelor entertainments things to be remembered. His charming sister-in-law often played the rôle of hostess for him; she is a Norwegian by birth, and an intimate friend of the Scandinavian writer Björnstjerne-Björnson, whose personality impressed me more than that of any other author I ever met.

The author of The Prisoner of Zenda is one of the most well-known figures in London society. He has a deep affection for our great city. Mr. Hope is naturally sociable; not only does he constantly dine out, but as a bachelor, he was one of those wonderful men who took the time to entertain his female friends. This man of letters hosted charming small dinners and luncheons, and since he had a place near one of our largest hotels, he usually invited guests back to his flat after the meal for coffee and cigars. Many can attest to how enjoyable those evenings were; the warmth of the host, the frequent beauty of his guests, and the generally brilliant conversations made those bachelor gatherings truly memorable. His lovely sister-in-law often stepped in as hostess for him; she’s Norwegian by birth and a close friend of the Scandinavian writer Björnstjerne-Björnson, whose personality left a bigger impression on me than any other author I've met.

The bachelor life has come to an end.

The single life has come to an end.

From a painting by Hugh de T. Glazebrook.

MR. ANTHONY HOPE.

Mr. Anthony Hope.

Nearly twenty years ago Anthony Hope began to write novels with red-haired heroines—The Prisoner of Zenda is perhaps the best-known of the series. No one could doubt that he admired warm-coloured hair, for auburns and reds appeared in all his books. One fine day an auburn-haired goddess crossed his path. She was young and beautiful, and just the living girl he had described so often in fiction. Anthony Hope, the well-known bachelor of London, was conquered by the American maid. A very short engagement was followed by a beautiful wedding in the [Pg 249]summer of 1903, at that quaint old city church, St. Bride’s, where his father has been Rector so long. It was a lovely hot day as we drove along the Embankment, through a labyrinth of printing offices and early newspaper carts, to the door of the church. All the bustle and heat of the city outside was forgotten in the cool shade of the handsome old building, decorated for the occasion with stately palms. Never was there a prettier wedding or a more lovely bride, and all the most beautiful women in London seemed to be present.

Nearly twenty years ago, Anthony Hope started writing novels featuring red-haired heroines—The Prisoner of Zenda is probably the most famous of the series. It's clear that he had a fondness for warm-colored hair, as auburns and reds appeared in all his books. One day, a stunning auburn-haired goddess entered his life. She was young, beautiful, and just the kind of girl he had often described in his stories. Anthony Hope, the well-known bachelor of London, was captivated by the American woman. A very brief engagement was followed by a beautiful wedding in the [Pg 249]summer of 1903, at the charming old city church, St. Bride’s, where his father had been Rector for so long. It was a lovely hot day as we drove along the Embankment, through a maze of printing offices and early newspaper carts, to the church's door. All the hustle and heat of the city outside faded away in the cool shade of the beautiful old building, adorned for the occasion with elegant palms. There has never been a prettier wedding or a more beautiful bride, and all the most stunning women in London seemed to be there.

The bridegroom, who was wearing a red rosebud which blossomed somewhat alarmingly during the ceremony, looked very proud and happy as he led the realisation of twenty years’ romance down the aisle.

The groom, who was sporting a red rosebud that surprisingly bloomed during the ceremony, looked very proud and happy as he walked the culmination of twenty years of romance down the aisle.

“Anthony Hope” is not his real name, and yet it is, which may appear paradoxical. He was born a Hawkins, being the second son of the Rev. E. C. Hawkins, and nephew of Mr. Justice Hawkins, now known as Baron Brampton. The child was christened Anthony Hope, and when he took to literature to fill in the gaps in his legal income, he apparently thought it better for the struggling barrister not to be identified with the budding journalist, and consequently dropped the latter part of his name. Thus it was he won his spurs as Anthony Hope, and many people know him by no other title, although he always signs himself Hawkins, and calls himself by that nomenclature in private life. Rather amusing incidents have been the result. People when first[Pg 250] introduced seldom realise the connection, and discuss “Lady Ursula,” or other books, very frankly with their new acquaintance. Their consequent embarrassment or amusement may be better imagined than described! Aliases often lead to awkward moments.

“Anthony Hope” isn’t his real name, but in a way, it is, which might seem contradictory. He was born a Hawkins, the second son of Rev. E. C. Hawkins, and the nephew of Mr. Justice Hawkins, now known as Baron Brampton. The child was named Anthony Hope, and when he turned to writing to supplement his income from law, he figured it would be better for a struggling barrister not to be associated with an emerging journalist, so he dropped the last part of his name. That’s how he became known as Anthony Hope, and many people know him only by that name, though he always signs his name as Hawkins and uses that name in his private life. This has led to some funny situations. When people are first introduced, they often don’t realize the connection and openly discuss “Lady Ursula” or other books with him. Their resulting embarrassment or amusement is often better imagined than described! Aliases can lead to awkward moments.

Literary men are not, as a rule, famed for “speechifying,” but Mr. Hawkins is an exception. He went to America a few years ago an indifferent orator, and returned a good one. This was the result of a lecturing tour—one of those expeditions of many thousand miles of travel and daily discourse in different towns. Literary men are not generally more orderly at their writing-tables than they are good at delivering a speech, but here again Anthony Hope is an exception. His desk is so neat and precise it reminds one irresistibly of a punctilious old maid (I trust he will forgive the simile?), so methodical are his arrangements. He writes everything with his own hand, and replies to letters almost by return of post, although he is a busy man, for he not only writes for four or five hours a day, but attends endless charity meetings, and takes an energetic part among other things in the working of the Society of Authors, of which he is chairman. He does nothing by halves; everything he undertakes he is sure to see through, being most conscientious in all his work. In many ways Anthony Hope often reminds one of the late Sir Walter Besant, both alike ever ready to help a colleague in distress, ever willing to aid by council or advice those in need, and untiring so far as[Pg 251] literary work for themselves, or helping others, is concerned.

Literary people aren't usually known for their public speaking skills, but Mr. Hawkins is an exception. He went to America a few years ago as a mediocre speaker and returned as a good one. This change came from a lecture tour—one of those journeys involving thousands of miles and daily talks in different towns. Generally, literary figures aren't more organized at their writing desks than they are skilled at giving speeches, but Anthony Hope stands out again. His desk is so neat and orderly that it irresistibly reminds one of a meticulous old maid (I hope he doesn't mind the comparison?), so systematic are his arrangements. He writes everything by hand and responds to letters almost instantly, even though he's a busy man, writing for four to five hours a day, attending countless charity meetings, and actively participating in the Society of Authors, where he is the chairman. He commits fully to everything he does, making sure to follow through, as he is very conscientious in all his work. In many ways, Anthony Hope often reminds one of the late Sir Walter Besant, as both are always ready to help a colleague in need, willing to assist with advice or support, and tireless when it comes to literary work for themselves or helping others.

Mr. Hawkins is generally calm and collected, but I remember an occasion when he was quite the reverse. It was the first performance of one of his plays, and he stood behind me in a box, well screened from public gaze by the curtain. First he rested on one foot, then on the other, always to the accompaniment of rattling coins. Oh, how he turned those pennies over and over in his pockets, until at last I entreated to be allowed to “hold the bank” until the fall of the curtain.

Mr. Hawkins is usually calm and composed, but I remember a time when he was anything but. It was the opening night of one of his plays, and he stood behind me in a box, well hidden from the audience by the curtain. First, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, always accompanied by the sound of rattling coins. He kept fiddling with those pennies in his pockets until I finally asked if I could "hold the bank" until the curtain fell.

First nights affect playwrights differently, but although they generally disown it, they seem to suffer tortures, poor creatures.

First nights impact playwrights in various ways, but even though they usually deny it, they appear to endure intense struggles, poor souls.

For an important production there are as many as two or three thousand applications for seats on a “first night,” but to a great extent each theatre has its own audience. The critics are of course the most important element. As matters stand they know nothing of what they are going to see, they have not studied or even read the play beforehand, and yet are expected to sum up the whole drama and criticise the acting an hour or two later. The idea is preposterous. If serious dramas are to be considered seriously, time must be given for the purpose, and the premiers must begin a couple of hours earlier, or a dress rehearsal for the critics arranged the night before, just as a “press view” is organised at a picture gallery. As it is, all the critics go in the first night.

For a major production, there can be two or three thousand applications for seats on opening night, but each theater largely has its own audience. The critics are, of course, the most important factor. As it stands, they have no idea what they’re going to see; they haven’t studied or even read the play beforehand, yet they’re expected to review the entire drama and critique the performances just an hour or two later. It’s ridiculous. If we want serious dramas to be taken seriously, we need to allow time for that, and the premieres should start a couple of hours earlier, or we should schedule a dress rehearsal for the critics the night before, just like a press preview at an art gallery. As it is, all the critics attend on opening night.

[Pg 252]

That is why the bulk of those in the stalls are men. Some take notes throughout the acts, others jot down pungent lines during the dialogue; but all are working at high pressure, and however clear the slate of their mind may be on entering the theatre, it is well covered with impressions when they leave. From that jumble of ideas they have to unravel the play, criticise the dramatist’s work, and make a study of the suitability of the actors to their parts. This unreflecting impression must be quickly put together, for a critic has no time for leisurely philosophic judgments.

That’s why most of the people in the audience are men. Some take notes during the performances, while others write down memorable lines from the dialogue; but they’re all under a lot of pressure, and no matter how clear their minds are when they enter the theater, they leave with a lot of impressions. From that mix of thoughts, they have to make sense of the play, critique the playwright’s work, and evaluate how well the actors fit their roles. This immediate impression has to be pieced together quickly, because a critic doesn’t have time for slow, philosophical reflections.

The critics, or, rather, “the representatives of the papers,” are given their seats; but the rest of the house pays. Only people of eminence, or personal friends of the management, are permitted the honour of a seat. Their names are on the “first-night list,” and if they apply they receive, the outside public rarely getting a chance.

The critics, or, more accurately, “the representatives of the newspapers,” are given their seats; but the rest of the audience pays. Only prominent individuals or personal friends of the management are allowed the privilege of a seat. Their names are on the “first-night list,” and if they request one, they receive it, while the general public hardly ever gets a chance.

The entrance to a theatre on a first night is an interesting scene. Many of the best-known men and women of London are chatting to friends in the hall; but they never forget their manners, and are always in their places in good time. Between the acts those who are near the end of a row get up and move about; in any case the critics leave their seats, and many of them begin their “copy” during the entr’acte. Other men not professionally engaged wander round the boxes and talk to their friends, and a general air of happy expectation pervades the auditorium.

The entrance to a theater on opening night is quite a scene. Many of London's most prominent men and women are chatting with friends in the lobby; they always maintain good manners and arrive on time. During the breaks between acts, those seated at the end of a row get up and move around; in any case, the critics leave their seats, and many start writing their reviews during the entr'acte. Others not involved in the production stroll around the boxes and catch up with friends, creating a general atmosphere of excitement in the auditorium.

[Pg 253]

“Stuffed with obesity or anæmia,” exclaimed a well-known dramatist when describing the dramatic critics. However that may be the dramatic critic is an important person, and his post no sinecure. It is all very well when first night representations are given on Saturday, because then only the handful of Sunday paper writers have to scramble through their work—but when Wednesday or Thursday is chosen, as sometimes happens, dozens of poor unfortunate men and women have to work far into the night over their column—they have no time to consider the comedy or tragedy from any standpoint beyond the first impression. No doubt a play should make an impression at once, and that is why the drama cannot be criticised in the same way as books. The playwright must make an immediate effect, or he will not make one at all; while the poet or novelist can be contemplated with serenity and commented on at leisure.

“Stuffed with obesity or anemia,” exclaimed a famous playwright when describing the theater critics. Regardless, the theater critic is an important figure, and their job is far from easy. It's manageable when opening night shows are on Saturday since then only a few Sunday paper writers have to rush through their work—but when a Wednesday or Thursday is picked, as sometimes happens, dozens of unfortunate men and women have to work late into the night on their columns—they don't have time to think about the play in any way beyond their first impression. No doubt a play should make an impact right away, which is why drama can't be critiqued the same way as books. A playwright has to create an immediate effect, or they won’t make one at all; meanwhile, a poet or novelist can be appreciated calmly and discussed at leisure.

There are so many problem plays nowadays, however, that it is often difficult for the critic to make his decision between the close of the theatre at midnight and his arrival at the nearest telegraph office (if he be on a provincial paper), or at the London newspaper office, a quarter of an hour later, when that impression has to be reduced to paper and ink. Only those who have written at this nervous pressure know its terrors. To have a “devil” (the printer’s boy) standing at one’s elbow waiting for “copy” is horrible—the ink is not dry on the paper as sheet after sheet goes off to the compositor waiting its arrival. By the time the writer reaches his last sentences the first pages are[Pg 254] all in type waiting his corrections. At 2 a.m. the notice must be out of his hands for good or ill, because the final “make-up” of the paper necessitates his “copy” filling the exact space allotted to him by the editor, and two hours later that selfsame newspaper, printed and machined, is on its way to the provinces by the “newspaper trains,” and on sale in Liverpool, Birmingham, or Sheffield, a few hours only after the latest theatrical criticism has been added to its columns.

There are so many problem plays these days that it’s often tough for critics to decide between the end of the theater at midnight and getting to the nearest telegraph office (if they’re working for a local paper) or the London newspaper office a quarter of an hour later when they have to turn that impression into print. Only those who have written under this kind of pressure understand its challenges. Having a “devil” (the printer’s boy) standing right next to you waiting for “copy” is stressful—the ink isn't even dry on the pages as sheet after sheet heads off to the typesetter. By the time the writer finishes their last sentences, the first pages are[Pg 254] already typeset and waiting for corrections. At 2 a.m., the notice has to be out of their hands, for better or worse, because the final layout of the paper requires their “copy” to fill the exact space assigned by the editor. Just two hours later, that same newspaper, printed and processed, is on its way to the provinces via the “newspaper trains,” and for sale in Liverpool, Birmingham, or Sheffield, only a few hours after the latest theater review has been added to its pages.

The stage is necessarily intimately connected with the press, and a free hand is imperative if the well-reasoned essay, and not merely a reporter’s account, is to be of value.

The stage is closely linked to the press, and it’s essential to have a free hand if the thoughtful essay, rather than just a reporter’s summary, is to have any real value.

Wise critics refuse to know personally the objects of their criticism, and so avoid many troubles, for many actors are hyper-sensitive by nature. The press is naturally a great factor, but it cannot make or mar a play any more than it can make or mar a book; it can fan the flame, but it cannot make the blaze.

Wise critics choose not to personally know the subjects of their criticism, which helps them avoid a lot of issues, as many actors are naturally very sensitive. The press plays an important role, but it can't create or destroy a play any more than it can with a book; it can ignite interest but can't start the fire.

At the O.P. Club Alfred Robbins recently delivered an address on “Dramatic Critics: Are they any use?” He pertinently remarked:

At the O.P. Club, Alfred Robbins recently gave a talk titled “Dramatic Critics: Are they any use?” He made a relevant point:

“A play is like a cigar—if it is bad no amount of puffing will make it draw; but if good then every one wants a box.” He held that the great danger was that the critic should lack pluck to protest against a revolting play on a well-advertised stage, and follow the lead of the applause of programme-sellers in a fashionable house; while making up for it by hunting for faults with a microscope in the case of a young author or manager. The critic should[Pg 255] tell not so much how the play affected him as how it affected the audience. Critics were always useful when they were interesting, but not when they tried to instruct.

“A play is like a cigar—if it’s bad, no amount of puffing will make it enjoyable; but if it’s good, then everyone wants a box.” He believed that the real danger was when a critic didn’t have the courage to speak out against a terrible play on a well-promoted stage and instead followed the crowd cheering for the program-sellers in a trendy venue; while over-analyzing faults in the work of a young writer or director. The critic should[Pg 255] focus not just on how the play impacted him personally but on how it affected the audience. Critics were always valuable when they were engaging, but not when they tried to teach.

E. F. Spence, as a critic himself, pointed out that some critics had no words that were not red and yellow, while others wrote entirely in grey. When one man said a play was “not half bad,” and another described it as an “unparalleled masterpiece,” they meant often the same thing. And the readers of each, accustomed to their tone and style, knew what to expect from their words.

E. F. Spence, also a critic, noted that some critics only used bright and bold language, while others wrote in very dull tones. When one person said a play was “not half bad” and another called it an “unparalleled masterpiece,” they often meant the same thing. The readers of each, familiar with their style and tone, knew what to expect from their comments.

Mrs. Kendal thought “criticism would be better after three weeks, when the actor had learnt to know his points.” All agreed that the critics of to-day are scrupulously conscientious.

Mrs. Kendal thought “criticism would be better after three weeks, when the actor had learned to know his strengths.” Everyone agreed that today’s critics are very careful and thorough.

G. Bernard Shaw wrote: “A dramatic criticism is a work of literary art, useful only to the people who enjoy reading dramatic criticisms, and generally more or less hurtful to everybody else concerned.”

G. Bernard Shaw wrote: “A dramatic criticism is a piece of literary art, useful only to those who enjoy reading dramatic critiques, and usually more or less harmful to everyone else involved.”

Clement Shorter’s opinion was: “I do not in the least believe in the utility of dramatic critics. The whole sincerity of the game has been spoilt. The hand of the dramatic critic is stayed because the dramatist and the important actor have a wide influence with the proprietors of newspapers.”

Clement Shorter’s opinion was: “I really don’t believe in the usefulness of dramatic critics at all. The whole honesty of the process has been ruined. The dramatic critic’s voice is silenced because the playwright and the leading actor have a significant sway over the owners of newspapers.”

An anonymous manager wrote: “The few independent critics are of great use, but the critic who turns his attention to play-writing should not be allowed to criticise, for he is never fair to any author’s work except his own. It has paid managers[Pg 256] to accept plays from critics even if they don’t produce them.”

An anonymous manager wrote: “The few independent critics are really helpful, but a critic who focuses on playwriting shouldn’t be allowed to critique, because they’re never fair to anyone’s work except their own. It has benefited managers[Pg 256] to accept plays from critics even if they don’t actually produce them.”

Apart from criticism the theatre is in daily touch with the papers, for one of the greatest expenses in connection with a theatre is the “Press Bill.” From four to six thousand pounds a year is paid regularly for newspaper advertising, just for those advertisements that appear “under the clock,” and in those columns announcing plays, players, and hours.

Apart from criticism, the theater stays in constant contact with the press, as one of its biggest expenses is the “Press Bill.” Annually, four to six thousand pounds is spent on newspaper advertising, specifically for those ads that appear “under the clock,” as well as in the sections announcing plays, actors, and showtimes.

The distribution of “paper” is a curious custom, some managers prefer to fill their houses by such means, others disdain the practice, especially the Kendals, who are as adverse to “free passes” as they are to dress rehearsals, and who always insist on paying for their own tickets to see their friends act. An empty house is nevertheless dispiriting—dispiriting to the audience and dispiriting to the performers—so a little paper judiciously used may often bolster up a play in momentary danger of collapse.

The distribution of “paper” is an interesting practice; some managers like to fill their venues this way, while others look down on it, especially the Kendals, who are just as opposed to “free passes” as they are to dress rehearsals and always insist on buying their own tickets to watch their friends perform. Still, an empty house is disheartening—both for the audience and the performers—so a bit of paper used wisely can often help a play that’s at risk of failing.

“Stalls full.” “Dress Circle full.” “House full.” Such notices are often put outside the playhouse during a performance, and in London they generally mean what they say. In the provinces, however, a gentleman arrived at an hotel, and after dinner went off to the theatre as he had no club. He saw the placards, but boldly marched up to the box office in the hope that perchance he might obtain an odd seat somewhere.

“Stalls full.” “Dress Circle full.” “House full.” These notices are often posted outside the theater during a performance, and in London, they usually mean what they say. However, in the provinces, a man arrived at a hotel, and after dinner headed to the theater since he didn’t belong to a club. He saw the signs, but confidently walked up to the box office hoping he might snag an odd seat somewhere.

“A stall, please.”

“Can I have a stall?”

“Yes, sir, which row?” When he got inside he[Pg 257] found the place half empty, in spite of the legend before the doors.

“Yes, sir, which row?” When he got inside he[Pg 257] found the place half empty, even though there was a sign in front of the doors.

A well-known singer wired for a box in London one night—it being an understood thing that professional people may have seats free if they are not already sold. She prepaid the answer to the telegram as usual. It ran:

A famous singer reserved a box in London one night, as it was understood that professionals could have seats for free if they weren’t sold yet. She prepaid the reply to the telegram as usual. It read:

“So sorry, no boxes left to-night.”

“So sorry, no boxes left tonight.”

The next day she met a friend at luncheon who had been to that particular theatre the night before. He remarked:

The next day, she met a friend for lunch who went to that theater the night before. He said:

“It was a most depressing performance: the house was half empty, and the actors dull in consequence.”

“It was a really depressing show: the audience was half empty, and the actors were boring as a result.”

Then the singer told her story, and both had a good laugh over the telegram.

Then the singer shared her story, and they both had a good laugh about the telegram.

There are certain bad weeks which appear with strict regularity in the theatrical world. Bank-holiday time means empty houses in the West End. Just before Easter or Christmas are always “off” nights. Royal mourning reduces the takings, and one night’s London fog half empties the house. Lent does not make anything like so great a difference as formerly; indeed, in some theatres its advent is hardly noticed at all. Saturday always yields the biggest house. Whether this is because Sunday being a day of rest people need not get up so early, or because Saturday is pay day, or because it is either a half or whole holiday, no one knows; but it always produces the largest takings of the week, just as Monday is invariably the fattest booking-day. This may possibly be due to Sunday callers discussing the best performances, and recommending[Pg 258] their friends to go to this or that piece. The good booking of Monday is more often than not followed by a bad house on Monday night, which is the “off” day of the week. A play will run successfully for weeks, suddenly Black Monday arrives, and at once down, down, down goes the sale, until the play is taken off; no one can tell why it declines any more than they can predict the success or failure of a play until after its first two or three performances.

There are certain rough weeks that come around with regularity in the theater world. Bank holidays mean empty seats in the West End. The nights right before Easter or Christmas are always quiet. Royal mourning hurts ticket sales, and one night of London fog can leave the theater half empty. Lent doesn’t make as big of a difference as it used to; in fact, in some theaters, you hardly even notice it anymore. Saturdays usually draw the biggest crowds. Whether that’s because Sunday is a day of rest so people don’t have to get up early, or because Saturday is payday, or because it’s either a half or full holiday, no one knows; but it always brings in the most revenue of the week, just as Mondays are consistently the busiest booking days. This might be because Sunday patrons discuss the best performances and recommend[Pg 258] shows to their friends. A good Monday booking is often followed by a poor turnout on Monday night, which is considered the “off” day of the week. A play can run successfully for weeks, but then Black Monday hits, and immediately ticket sales plummet until the play is taken off; no one can explain why it drops any more than they can predict whether a play will succeed or fail until after its first two or three shows.

It seems to be generally imagined that Royalty do not pay for their seats; but this is a mistake. One fine day a message comes from one of the ticket agents to the theatres to say that the King and Queen, or Prince and Princess of Wales, will go to that theatre on a certain night. Generally a couple of days’ notice is given. Consternation often ensues, for it sometimes happens the Royal box has been sold. The purchaser has to be called upon to explain that by Royal command his box is required for the night in question, and will he graciously take it some other evening instead? or he is offered other seats. People are generally charming about the matter and ready to meet the manager at once—but sometimes there are difficulties. Wild pursuit of the owner of the box occasionally occurs; indeed, he sometimes has not been traceable at all, and has even arrived at the theatre, only to be told the situation.

It’s commonly thought that royalty don’t pay for their seats, but that’s a misconception. One day, a message comes from the ticket agents to the theaters saying that the King and Queen, or the Prince and Princess of Wales, will be attending a specific performance. Usually, there’s a couple of days’ notice. This often leads to panic, as the royal box may already have been sold. The person who bought it is then asked to explain that, by royal order, his box is needed for that night and whether he could kindly take another evening instead, or he may be offered different seats. People generally handle the situation graciously and are willing to accommodate the manager right away—but sometimes there are complications. There’s a frantic search for the box owner at times; in fact, there are occasions when he can’t be found at all, and he might even show up at the theater only to be informed of the situation.

The box is duly paid for by the library; Royalty never accept their seats, and are most punctilious about paying for them.

The library has paid for the box; royalty never accept their seats and are very strict about paying for them.

[Pg 259]

At the back of the Royal box there is generally a retiring-room, where the gentlemen smoke, and sometimes coffee is served. The King, who is so noted for his cordiality, usually sends for the leading actor and actress during an entr’acte, and chats with them for a few minutes in the ante-room; but the Queen rarely leaves her seat. After the death of Queen Victoria it was a long time, a year in fact, before the King went to the theatre at all. After that he visited most of the chief houses in quick succession, but he did not send for the players for at least six months, not, in fact, till the Royal mourning was at an end. His Majesty is probably the warmest and most frequent supporter of the drama in Britain, as the Queen is of the opera.

At the back of the Royal box, there’s usually a lounge where the gentlemen smoke, and sometimes coffee is served. The King, who is well-known for his friendliness, often asks for the leading actor and actress during an entr’acte to chat with them for a few minutes in the ante-room; however, the Queen seldom leaves her seat. After Queen Victoria passed away, it took a long time—about a year—before the King attended the theatre again. After that, he quickly visited most of the major venues, but he didn’t invite the performers for at least six months, not until the Royal mourning period was over. His Majesty is likely the most enthusiastic and regular supporter of theatre in Britain, just as the Queen is for opera.

In olden days Royal visits were treated with much ceremony. Cyril Maude in his excellent book on the Haymarket Theatre tells how old Buckstone was a great favourite with Queen Victoria. The Royal entrance in those days was through the door of “Bucky’s” house which adjoined the back of the theatre in Suffolk Street. At the street door the manager waited whenever the Royal box had been commanded. In either hand he carried a massive silver candlestick, and, walking backwards, escorted the Royal party with monstrous pomp to their seats. As soon as he had shown them to their box, however, the amiable comedian had to hurry off to take his place upon the stage.

In the past, royal visits were treated with a lot of fanfare. Cyril Maude, in his great book about the Haymarket Theatre, explains how the old Buckstone was a favorite of Queen Victoria. Back then, the royal entrance was through the door of "Bucky's" house, which was next to the back of the theater on Suffolk Street. At the street door, the manager waited whenever the royal box was requested. He held a large silver candlestick in each hand and, walking backward, escorted the royal party with great ceremony to their seats. However, as soon as he showed them to their box, the friendly comedian had to rush off to take his place on stage.

Nothing of that kind is done nowadays, although the manager generally goes to meet them; but if the[Pg 260] manager be the chief actor too, he sends his stage manager just to see that everything is in order—Royal folk like to come and go as unostentatiously as possible.

Nothing like that happens today, although the manager usually goes to meet them; but if the[Pg 260] manager is also the main performer, he sends his stage manager just to make sure everything is organized—royalty prefers to arrive and leave as discreetly as possible.

Many theatres have a private door for Royalty to enter by. As a rule they are punctual, and if not the curtain gives them a few minutes’ grace before rising. If they are not in their seats within ten minutes, the play begins, and they just slip quietly into their places.

Many theaters have a private entrance for royalty. Usually, they are on time, and if not, the curtain waits a few minutes before going up. If they’re not in their seats within ten minutes, the show starts, and they just quietly take their seats.

At the Opera on gala nights it is different—the play waits. When they enter, the band strikes up “God Save the King,” and every one stands up. It is a very interesting sight to see the huge mass of humanity at Covent Garden rise together, and see them all stand during the first verse in respect to Royalty. The Queen on ordinary occasions occupies the Royal box on the right facing the stage on the grand tier, and three back from the stage itself, so there are tiers of boxes above and one below; the Queen sits in the corner the farthest from the stage; the King often joins her during the performance, otherwise he sits in the omnibus box below with his men friends. So devoted is Her Majesty to music she sometimes spends three evenings a week at the Opera. She often has a book of the score before her, and follows the music with the greatest interest.

At the opera on gala nights, it’s a different experience—the show pauses. When they come in, the band plays “God Save the King,” and everyone stands up. It’s quite a sight to see the huge crowd at Covent Garden rise together, all standing for the first verse out of respect for the royalty. The Queen usually sits in the royal box on the right, facing the stage on the grand tier, three boxes back from the stage itself, with more boxes above and one below; she takes the corner that’s farthest from the stage. The King often joins her during the performance, but if not, he sits in the omnibus box below with his male friends. Her Majesty loves music so much that she often spends three evenings a week at the opera. She frequently has a scorebook in front of her and follows the music with great interest.

On ordinary operatic nights the Queen dresses very quietly; generally her bodice is cut square back and front with elbow-sleeves, and not off the shoulders as it is at Court. More often than not she wears[Pg 261] black with a bunch of pink malmaisons—of course the usual heavy collar composed of many rows of pearls is worn, and generally some hanging chains of pearls. No tiara, but diamond wings or hair combs of that description. In fact, at the Opera our Queen is one of the least conspicuously dressed among the many duchesses and millionairesses who don tiaras and gorgeous gowns. No Opera-house in the world contains so many beautiful women and jewels as may nightly be seen in London.

On regular opera nights, the Queen dresses quite simply; she usually wears a square-cut bodice both front and back, with elbow-length sleeves, rather than off-the-shoulder styles like at Court. More often than not, she wears[Pg 261]black along with a bunch of pink malmaisons—of course, she wears the usual heavy collar made of multiple rows of pearls, and often some dangling pearl chains. No tiara, but she has diamond wings or hair combs like that. In fact, at the opera, our Queen is one of the least ostentatiously dressed among the many duchesses and wealthy women who sport tiaras and stunning gowns. No opera house in the world has as many beautiful women and jewels as can be seen nightly in London.

In front is a number above each box, and at the back of the box is the duplicate number with the name of the person to whom it belongs. They are hired for a season, and cost seven and a half to eight guineas a night on the grand tier. These boxes hold four people, and are usually let for ten or twelve weeks: generally for two nights a weeks to each set of people. Thus the total cost of one of the best boxes for the season is, roughly speaking, from one hundred and fifty, to one hundred and eighty guineas for two nights a week.

In front of each box is a number, and at the back of the box is the same number along with the name of the person it’s assigned to. They’re rented for a season and cost between seven and a half to eight guineas per night on the grand tier. These boxes accommodate four people and are typically rented for ten to twelve weeks, usually for two nights a week for each group. So, the total cost for one of the best boxes for the season is roughly between one hundred and fifty to one hundred and eighty guineas for two nights a week.

At the theatre Queen Alexandra dresses even more simply than at the opera. In winter her gown is often filled in with lace to the neck. She is always a quiet, but a perfect dresser. Never in the fashion, yet always of the fashion, she avoids all exaggerations, moderates her skirts and her sleeves, and yet has just enough of the dernier cri about them to make them up to date. She probably never wore a big picture hat in her life, and prefers a small bonnet with strings, to a toque.

At the theater, Queen Alexandra dresses even more simply than at the opera. In winter, her dress often features lace up to the neck. She is always quiet but perfectly put together. Never exactly in fashion, yet always fashionable, she steers clear of all exaggerations, keeps her skirts and sleeves moderate, but still incorporates just enough of the latest trend to stay current. She probably has never worn a large picture hat in her life and prefers a small bonnet with strings over a toque.

[Pg 262]

Royalty thoroughly enjoy themselves at the play. They laugh and chat between the acts, and no one applauds more enthusiastically than King Edward VII. and his beautiful Queen. They use their opera-glasses freely, nod to their friends, and thoroughly enter into the spirit of the evening’s entertainment.

Royalty really enjoys themselves at the show. They laugh and chat between the acts, and no one claps more enthusiastically than King Edward VII and his beautiful Queen. They use their opera glasses freely, nod to their friends, and fully embrace the atmosphere of the evening’s entertainment.

[Pg 263]

CHAPTER XIV

SCENE-PAINTING AND CHOOSING A PLAY

Novelist—Dramatist—Scene Painter—An Amateur Scenic Artist—Weedon Grossmith to the Rescue—Mrs. Tree’s Children—Mr. Grossmith’s Start on Stage—A Romantic Marriage—How a Scene is Constructed—Comparing English and American Theatres—Selecting a Play—Theatrical Syndicate—Three Hundred and Fifteen Plays at the Haymarket.

A NOVELIST describes the surroundings of his story. He paints in words, houses, gardens, dresses, anything and everything to heighten the picture and show up his characters in a suitable frame.

A NOVELIST describes the setting of his story. He uses words to create a vivid picture of houses, gardens, clothing—anything and everything to enhance the scene and present his characters in an appropriate context.

The dramatist cannot do this verbally; but he does it in fact. He definitely decides the style of scene necessary for each act, and draws out elaborate plans to achieve that end. It is the author who interviews the scene-painter, talks matters over with the costume-artist, the dressmaker, and the upholsterer. It is the author who generally chooses the cretonnes and the wall-papers—that is to say, the more important authors invariably do. Mr. Pinero, Mr. W. S. Gilbert, and Captain Robert Marshall design their own scenes to the minutest detail, but then all three of them are capable artists and draughtsmen themselves.

The playwright can't do this with words alone; instead, they make it happen in practice. They clearly decide the style of scenes needed for each act and come up with detailed plans to achieve that. It's the author who meets with the set designer, discusses things with the costume designer, the dressmaker, and the upholsterer. It's usually the author who selects the fabrics and wallpapers—that is, the more prominent authors typically do. Mr. Pinero, Mr. W. S. Gilbert, and Captain Robert Marshall create their own sets down to the smallest detail, but all three of them are skilled artists and designers themselves.

Scene-painting seems easy until one knows something[Pg 264] about its difficulties. To speak of a small personal experience—when we got up those theatricals in Harley Street, mentioned in a previous chapter, my father told me I must paint the scenery, to which I gaily agreed. Having an oil painting on exhibition at the Women Artists’, I felt I could paint scenery without any difficulty.

Scene-painting seems easy until you know a bit[Pg 264] about its challenges. To share a personal experience—when we put on those theatrical performances in Harley Street, mentioned in a previous chapter, my dad told me I had to paint the scenery, and I happily agreed. Since I had an oil painting on display at the Women Artists’, I thought I could paint the scenery without any trouble.

First of all I bought yards and yards of thick canvas, a sort of sacking. It refused to be joined together by machine, and broke endless needles when the seams were sewn by hand. It appeared to me at the time as if oakum-picking could not blister fingers more severely. After all my trouble, when finished and stretched along a wall in the store-room in the basement, with the sky part doubled over the ceiling (as the little room was not high enough to manage it otherwise), the surface was so rough that paint refused to lie upon it.

First of all, I bought a ton of thick canvas, kind of like sacking. It wouldn't connect properly with the sewing machine and broke countless needles when I tried to sew the seams by hand. At that point, it felt like picking oakum couldn’t hurt my fingers any worse. After all my effort, when it was finally done and stretched out along a wall in the basement storeroom, with the top part folded over the ceiling (since the room wasn’t tall enough to handle it otherwise), the surface was so rough that paint wouldn’t stick to it.

I had purchased endless packets of blue and chrome, vermilion and sienna, umber and sap-green; but somehow the result was awful, and the only promising thing was the design in black chalk made from a sketch taken on Hampstead Heath. Sticks of charcoal broke and refused to draw; but common black chalk at last succeeded. I struggled bravely, but the paint resolutely refused to adhere to the canvas, and stuck instead to every part of my person.

I had bought countless packs of blue and chrome, bright red and sienna, umber and sap green; but somehow the outcome was terrible, and the only hopeful part was the design in black chalk that came from a sketch done on Hampstead Heath. Charcoal sticks broke and wouldn’t draw; but regular black chalk finally worked. I tried hard, but the paint stubbornly refused to stick to the canvas and instead clung to me everywhere.

Photo by Hall, New York.

Photo by Hall, NYC.

MR. WEEDON GROSSMITH.

Mr. Weedon Grossmith.

At last some wiseacre suggested whitewashing the canvas, and, after sundry boilings of smelly size, the coachman and I made pails of whitewash and proceeded to get a groundwork. Alas! the brushes when full [Pg 265]of the mixture proved too heavy for me to lift, and the unfortunate coachman had to do most of that monotonous field of white.

At last, someone suggested painting over the canvas, and after a few rounds of boiling smelly size, the coachman and I mixed up buckets of whitewash and got to work on the base coat. Unfortunately, the brushes filled with the mixture were too heavy for me to lift, so the poor coachman had to handle most of that tedious area of white.

So far so good. Now came “the part,” as the gallant jehu was pleased to call it.

So far so good. Now came “the part,” as the brave driver liked to call it.

It took a long time to get into the way of painting it at all. The window had to be shut, the solitary gas-jet lighted, endless lamps unearthed to give more illumination while I struggled with smelling pots.

It took a long time to get the hang of painting it at all. The window had to be shut, the single gas light turned on, countless lamps dug out to provide more light while I wrestled with smelly pots.

Oh, the mess! The floor was bespattered, and the paint being mixed with size, those spots remain as indelible as Rizzio’s blood at Holyrood. Then the paint-smeared sky—my sky—left marks on the ceiling—my father’s ceiling—and my own dress was spoilt. Then up rose Mother in indignation, and promptly produced an old white garment—which shall be nameless, although it was decorated with little frills—and this I donned as a sort of overall. With arms aching from heavy brushes, and feet tired from standing on a ladder, with a nose well daubed with yellow paint, on, on I worked.

Oh, what a mess! The floor was splattered, and the paint mixed with sizing left stains as permanent as Rizzio’s blood at Holyrood. Then the paint-smeared sky—my sky—left marks on the ceiling—my dad’s ceiling—and my dress was ruined. Then Mother got up in outrage and quickly brought out an old white garment—which I won’t name, even though it had little frills—and I put it on as a sort of apron. With my arms sore from heavy brushes, feet aching from standing on a ladder, and my nose covered in yellow paint, I kept working on.

In the midst of my labours “Mr. Grossmith” was suddenly announced, and there below me stood Weedon Grossmith convulsed with laughter. At that time he was an artist and had pictures “on the line” at the Royal Academy. His studio was a few doors from us in Harley Street.

In the middle of my work, “Mr. Grossmith” was suddenly called, and there below me stood Weedon Grossmith, laughing uncontrollably. At that time, he was an artist and had his paintings “on display” at the Royal Academy. His studio was just a few doors down from us on Harley Street.

“Don’t laugh, you horrid man,” I exclaimed; “just come and help.”

“Don’t laugh, you terrible man,” I said; “just come and help.”

He took a little gentle persuading, but finally gave in, and being provided with another white garment[Pg 266] he began to assist, and he and I finally finished that wondrous scene-painting together.

He needed a bit of gentle encouragement, but eventually, he agreed, and with another white outfit[Pg 266] he started to help, and together we finally completed that amazing scene-painting.

After a long vista of years Mrs. Beerbohm Tree—who, it will be remembered, also acted with us in Harley Street—and Weedon Grossmith—who helped me paint the scenery for our little performance—were playing the two leading parts together at Drury Lane in Cecil Raleigh’s Flood Tide.

After many years, Mrs. Beerbohm Tree—who, as you might recall, also acted with us in Harley Street—and Weedon Grossmith—who assisted me in painting the scenery for our small performance—were both playing the two lead roles together at Drury Lane in Cecil Raleigh’s Flood Tide.

The two little daughters of the Trees, aged six and eight respectively, were taken by their father one afternoon to see their mother play at the Lane. They sat with him in a box, and enjoyed the performance immensely.

The two young daughters of the Trees, aged six and eight, were taken by their father one afternoon to watch their mother perform at the Lane. They sat with him in a box and had a great time enjoying the show.

“Well, do you like it better than Richard II.?” asked Tree.

“Well, do you like it more than Richard II.?” asked Tree.

There was a pause. Each small maiden looked at the other, ere replying:

There was a pause. Each young girl looked at the other before replying:

“It isn’t quite the same, but we like it just as much.”

“It’s not exactly the same, but we like it just as much.”

When they reached home they were asked by a friend which of the two plays they really liked best.

When they got home, a friend asked them which of the two plays they liked best.

“Oh, mother’s,” for naturally the melodrama had appealed to their juvenile minds, “but we did not like to tell father so, because we thought it might hurt his feelings.”

“Oh, mom’s,” because the drama had naturally caught their young minds, “but we didn’t want to tell dad that, because we thought it might hurt his feelings.”

The part that delighted them most at Drury Lane was the descent of the rain, that wonderful rain which had caused so much excitement, and which was composed of four tons of rice and spangles thrown from above, and verily gave the effect of a shower of water.

The part that excited them the most at Drury Lane was the rain, that amazing rain which had caused so much excitement, made up of four tons of rice and glitter tossed from above, and truly created the effect of a shower of water.

[Pg 267]

But to return to Weedon Grossmith. Whether he found art didn’t pay at the studio in Harley Street, or whether he was asked to paint more ugly old ladies than pretty young ones, I do not know; but he gave up the house, and went off to America for a trip. So he said at the time, but the trip meant that he had accepted an engagement on the stage. He made an instantaneous hit. When he returned to England, sure of his position, as he thought, he found instead that he had a very rough time of it, and it was not until he played with Sir Henry Irving in Robert Macaire that he made a London success. Later he “struck oil” in Arthur Law’s play, The New Boy under his own management.

But to get back to Weedon Grossmith. Whether he found that art wasn’t paying at the studio on Harley Street, or whether he was asked to paint more unattractive old ladies than beautiful young ones, I don’t know; but he gave up the house and headed off to America for a trip. That’s what he said at the time, but the trip actually meant that he had taken a role on stage. He made an instant hit. When he came back to England, thinking he was secure in his position, he found that he had a tough time instead, and it wasn’t until he performed with Sir Henry Irving in Robert Macaire that he found success in London. Later, he “struck oil” in Arthur Law’s play, The New Boy, under his own management.

Round the The New Boy circled a romance. Miss May Palfrey, who had been at school with me, was the daughter of an eminent physician who formerly lived in Brook Street. She had gone upon the stage after her father’s death, and was engaged to play the girl’s part. The “engagement” begun in the theatre ended, as in the case of Forbes Robertson, in matrimony, and the day after The New Boy went out, the new girl entered Weedon Grossmith’s home as his wife.

Round the The New Boy surrounded a romance. Miss May Palfrey, who had been in school with me, was the daughter of a well-known doctor who used to live on Brook Street. After her father's death, she joined the stage and was set to play the female lead. The "engagement" that started in the theater, like in Forbes Robertson's case, ended in marriage, and the day after The New Boy was released, the new girl came into Weedon Grossmith’s home as his wife.

Success has followed success, and they now live in a delightful house in Bedford Square, surrounded by quaint old furniture, Adams’ mantelpieces, overmantels, and all the artistic things the actor appreciates. A dear little girl adds brightness to the home life of Mr. and Mrs. Weedon Grossmith.

Success has led to more success, and they now live in a charming house in Bedford Square, filled with charming old furniture, Adams’ mantelpieces, overmantels, and everything else the actor enjoys. A sweet little girl brings joy to the home life of Mr. and Mrs. Weedon Grossmith.

Artist, author, actor, manager, are all terms that may[Pg 268] be applied to Weedon Grossmith, but might not scene-painter be added after his invaluable aid in the Harley Street store-room with paints and size?

Artist, author, actor, manager—these are all labels that could[Pg 268] be used for Weedon Grossmith, but could we include scene-painter after his essential help in the Harley Street storeroom with paints and sizes?

So much for the amateur side of the business: now for the real.

So much for the amateur side of the business: now for the real deal.

The first thing a scenic artist does is to make a complete sketch of a scene. This, when approved, he has “built up” as a little model, a miniature theatre, in fact, such as children love to play with. It is usually about three feet square, exactly like a box, and every part is designed to scale with a perfection of detail rarely observed outside an architect’s office.

The first thing a scenic artist does is create a complete sketch of a scene. Once approved, they build a little model of it, a miniature theater that children love to play with. It’s usually about three feet square, just like a box, and every part is designed to scale with a level of detail rarely seen outside an architect's office.

One of the most historic painting-rooms was that of Sir Henry Irving at the Lyceum, for there some of the most elaborate stage settings ever produced were constructed, inspired by the able hand of Mr. Hawes Craven.

One of the most iconic painting rooms was that of Sir Henry Irving at the Lyceum, where some of the most intricate stage sets ever created were built, thanks to the skilled work of Mr. Hawes Craven.

A scene-painter’s workshop is a large affair. It is very high, and below the floor is another chamber equally lofty, for the “flats,” or large canvases, have to be screwed up or down for the artist to be able to get at his work. They cannot be rolled wet, so the entire “flat” has to ascend or descend at will.

A scene painter’s workshop is quite spacious. It has a high ceiling, and below the floor is another room that's just as tall, because the “flats,” or large canvases, need to be raised or lowered for the artist to access his work. They can't be rolled up while wet, so the whole “flat” has to move up or down as needed.

To make the matter clear, a scene on the stage, such as a house or a bridge, is known as a “carpenter’s scene.” The large canvases at the back are called “flats,” or “painters’ cloths.” “Wings” are unknown to most people, but really mean the side-pieces of the scene which protrude on the stage. The “borders” are the bits of sky or ceiling which hang[Pg 269] suspended from above, and a “valarium” is a whole roof as used in classical productions.

To clarify, a scene onstage, like a house or a bridge, is referred to as a “carpenter’s scene.” The large canvases at the back are called “flats” or “painters’ cloths.” “Wings” might be unfamiliar to many, but they actually refer to the side pieces of the scene that extend onto the stage. The “borders” are the sections of sky or ceiling that hang[Pg 269] from above, and a “valarium” is a complete roof used in classic productions.

A scene-painter’s palette is a strange affair; it is like a large wooden tray fixed to a table, and that table is on wheels; along one side of the tray are divisions like stalls in a stable, each division containing the different coloured paints, while in front is a flat piece on which the powders can be mixed. The thing that strikes one most is the amount of exercise the scenic artist takes. He is constantly stepping back to look at what he has done, for he copies on a large scale the minute sketch he has previously worked out in detail. Assistants generally begin the work and lay the paint on; but all the finishing touches are done by the master, who superintends the whole thing being properly worked out from his model.

A scene painter’s palette is quite an odd setup; it resembles a big wooden tray attached to a table that's on wheels. Along one side of the tray are sections like stalls in a stable, each holding different colors of paint, while in front is a flat area for mixing the powders. What stands out the most is how much exercise the scenic artist gets. He’s always stepping back to check his work because he’s recreating a large version of the detailed sketch he prepared earlier. Assistants usually start the job and apply the paint, but all the finishing touches are made by the master, who oversees everything to ensure it matches his model.

The most elaborate scenery in the world is to be found in London, and Sir Henry Irving, as mentioned before, was the first to study detail and effect so closely. Even in America, where many things are so extravagant, the stage settings are quite poor compared with those of London.

The most elaborate scenery in the world is found in London, and Sir Henry Irving, as mentioned earlier, was the first to pay such close attention to detail and effect. Even in America, where many things are so extravagant, the stage settings are pretty lacking compared to those in London.

Theatres in England and America differ in many ways. The only thing I found cheaper in the United States than at home was a theatre stall, which in New York cost eight shillings instead of ten and sixpence. They are also ahead of us inasmuch as they book their cheaper seats, which must be an enormous advantage to those unfortunate people who can always be seen—especially on first nights—wet or fine, hot or cold, standing in rows outside a London pit door.

Theaters in England and America are different in many ways. The only thing I found cheaper in the United States than at home was a theater stall, which costs eight shillings in New York instead of ten and sixpence. They’re also ahead of us because they can book their cheaper seats, which must be a huge advantage for those unfortunate souls who can always be seen—especially on opening nights—whether it’s raining or sunny, hot or cold, standing in lines outside a London pit door.

[Pg 270]

There is no comparison between the gaiety of the scene of a London theatre and that of New York. Long may our present style last. In London every man wears evening dress in the boxes, stalls, and generally in the dress circle, and practically every woman is in evening costume, at all events without her hat. Those who do not care to dress, wisely go to the cheaper seats. This is not so across the Atlantic. It is quite the exception for the male sex to wear dress clothes; they even accompany ladies to the stalls in tweeds, probably the same tweeds they have worn all day at their office “down town,” and it is not the fashion for women to wear evening dress either. What we should call a garden-party gown is de rigueur, although a lace neck and sleeves are gradually creeping into fashion. Little toques are much worn, but if the hat be big, it is at once taken off and disposed of in the owner’s lap. Being an American she is accustomed to nursing her hat by the hour, and does not seem to mind the extra discomfort, in spite of fan, opera-glass, and other etceteras.

There’s no comparison between the lively atmosphere of a London theater and that of New York. Long may our current style continue. In London, every man wears evening attire in the boxes, stalls, and usually in the dress circle, and practically every woman is in evening wear, at least without her hat. Those who prefer to dress down wisely choose the cheaper seats. This isn’t the case across the Atlantic. It’s pretty rare for men to dress up; they even take ladies to the stalls in tweed, probably the same tweed they wore all day at their office “downtown,” and women generally don’t wear evening dresses either. What we would call a garden-party gown is de rigueur, although lace necks and sleeves are gradually becoming more popular. Small toques are quite common, but if a woman wears a large hat, she immediately takes it off and puts it in her lap. Being American, she’s used to holding onto her hat for hours and doesn’t seem to mind the extra discomfort, even with a fan, opera glasses, and other accessories.

The result of all this is that the auditorium is in no way so smart as that of a London theatre. The origin of the simplicity of costume in the States of course lies in the fact that fewer people in proportion have private carriages, cabs are a prohibitive price, and every one travels in a five cents (2½d.) car. The car system is wonderful, if a little agitating at first to a stranger, as the numbers of the streets—for they rarely have names in New York—are not always so distinctly marked as they[Pg 271] might be. It is far more comfortable, however, to get into one’s carriage, a hansom, or even a dear old ramshackle shilling “growler” at one’s own door, than to have to walk to the nearest car “stop” and find a succession of electric trams full when you arrive there, especially if the night happens to be wet. The journey is cheap enough when one does get inside, but payment of five cents does not necessarily ensure a seat, so the greater part of one’s life in New York is spent hanging on to the strap of a street car.

The outcome of all this is that the auditorium isn't nearly as fancy as those in a London theater. The reason for the simple costumes in the States is that fewer people have private carriages, cabs are really expensive, and everyone travels on a five-cent (2½d.) streetcar. The car system is great, although it can be a bit stressful for newcomers since the streets often don't have names in New York and the numbers aren’t always clearly marked as they[Pg 271] should be. It's much more comfortable to get into your own carriage, a hansom, or even an old, creaky shilling “growler” right at your door than to walk to the nearest streetcar stop and find all the electric trams packed by the time you get there, especially if it's a rainy night. The ride is cheap enough once you’re inside, but paying five cents doesn’t guarantee a seat, so most of your time in New York is spent gripping the strap of a streetcar.

“Look lively,” shouts the conductor, almost before one has time to look at all, and either life has to be risked, or the traveller gets left behind altogether.

“Pick up the pace,” yells the conductor, almost before anyone has a chance to react, and either you take the risk or the traveler gets left behind completely.

Not only travelling in cars, but many things in the States cost twopence halfpenny. It seems a sort of tariff, that five cents, or nickle, as it is called. One has to pay five cents for a morning or evening paper, five cents to get one’s boots blacked, and even in the hotels they only allow a darkie to perform that operation as a sort of favour.

Not only is traveling by car, but a lot of things in the States cost a little bit. That five-cent charge, or nickel, feels like a kind of tax. You have to pay five cents for a morning or evening newspaper, five cents to have your shoes shined, and even in hotels, they only let a Black person do that as a sort of favor.

It is a universal custom in the States to eat candies during a performance at the theatre, but when do Americans refrain from eating candies—one dare not say “chewing-gum,” for we are told that no self-respecting American ever chews gum nowadays!

It’s a common practice in the U.S. to eat candies during a show at the theater, but when do Americans hold back from snacking on sweets—one wouldn’t want to say “chewing gum,” since we’ve heard that no self-respecting American chews gum these days!

The theatres I visited in New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, New Orleans, and even in far-away San Antonio, Texas, were all comfortable, well warmed, well ventilated, and excellently managed, but the audience were certainly not so smart as our own,[Pg 272] not even at the Opera House at New York, where the performers are the same as in London, and the whole thing excellently done, and where it is the fashion to wear evening dress in the boxes. Even there one misses the beauty of our aristocracy, and the glitter of their tiaras.

The theaters I went to in New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, New Orleans, and even in distant San Antonio, Texas, were all comfortable, cozy, well-ventilated, and well-managed, but the audience was definitely not as stylish as ours,[Pg 272] not even at the Opera House in New York, where the performers are the same as in London, everything is done exceptionally well, and it’s the trend to wear evening attire in the boxes. Even there, you miss the beauty of our aristocracy and the sparkle of their tiaras.

Choosing a play is no easy matter. Hundreds of things have to be considered. Will it please the public? Will it suit the company? If Miss So-and-So be on a yearly engagement and there is no part for her, can the theatre afford out of the weekly profits of the house to pay her a large salary merely as an understudy? What will the piece cost to mount? What will the dramatist expect to be paid? This latter amount varies as greatly as the royalties paid to authors on books.

Choosing a play is not an easy task. There are countless factors to consider. Will it appeal to the audience? Will it fit the cast? If Miss So-and-So is on a yearly contract and there's no role for her, can the theater afford to pay her a large salary just to be an understudy out of the weekly box office profits? What will it cost to produce the show? What does the playwright expect to be paid? This last amount can vary widely, just like the royalties given to authors for their books.

As nearly every manager has a literary adviser behind his back, so almost every actor-manager has a syndicate in the background. Theatrical syndicates are strange institutions. They have only come into vogue since 1880, and are taken up by commercial gentlemen as a speculation. When gambling ceases to attract on the Stock Exchange, the theatre is an exciting outlet.

As almost every manager has a literary advisor behind them, nearly every actor-manager has a syndicate supporting them. Theatrical syndicates are unusual entities. They’ve only become popular since 1880 and are adopted by businesspeople as an investment. When gambling loses its appeal on the Stock Exchange, the theater offers an exciting alternative.

The actor-manager consequently is not the “sole lessee” in the sense of being the only responsible person. He generally has two or three backers, men possessed of large incomes who are glad to risk a few thousand pounds for the pleasure of a stall on a first night, or an occasional theatrical supper. Sometimes the syndicate does extremely well: at others[Pg 273] ill; but that does not matter—the rich man has had his fun, the actor his work, the critic his sneer, and so the matter ends.

The actor-manager isn’t the “sole lessee” in the sense of being the only one responsible. He usually has two or three backers, wealthy individuals who are happy to risk a few thousand pounds for the thrill of being at the premiere or for an occasional theater dinner. Sometimes the group does really well; other times[Pg 273] they don’t, but that’s not important—the rich guy gets his entertainment, the actor gets his job, the critic gets to make fun, and that’s the end of it.

The actor-manager draws his salary like any other member of the company; but should the play prove a success his profits vary according to arrangement.

The actor-manager gets paid like any other member of the company, but if the play is a hit, his earnings change based on their agreement.

If, on the other hand, the venture turn out a failure, in the case of the few legitimate actor-managers—if one may use the term—he loses all the outgoing expenses. Few men can stand that. Ten thousand pounds have been lost through a bad first night, for although some condemned plays have worked their way to success, or, at least, paid their expenses, that is the exception and by no means the rule.

If, however, the project fails, for the few genuine actor-managers—if that’s the right term—he loses all the upfront costs. Not many people can handle that. Ten thousand pounds have been lost because of a bad opening night, because while some poorly received plays have eventually found success, or at least covered their costs, that’s the exception rather than the rule.

Many affirm there should be no actor-managers: the responsibility is too great; but then no man is sure of getting the part he likes unless he manages to secure it for himself.

Many believe there shouldn’t be actor-managers; the responsibility is too heavy. But then, no one can be sure of getting the role they want unless they manage to secure it for themselves.

Every well-known manager receives two or three hundred plays per annum. Cyril Maude told me that three hundred and fifteen dramas were left at the Haymarket Theatre in 1903, and that he and Frederick Harrison had actually read, or anyway looked through, every one of them. They enter each in a book, and put comments against them.

Every well-known manager gets two or three hundred plays a year. Cyril Maude told me that three hundred and fifteen dramas were submitted to the Haymarket Theatre in 1903, and that he and Frederick Harrison actually read, or at least skimmed, all of them. They record each one in a book and add comments about them.

“The good writing is Harrison’s,” he remarked, “and the bad scribble mine”; but that was so like Mr. Maude’s modesty.

“The good writing is Harrison’s,” he said, “and the bad scribble is mine”; but that was so typical of Mr. Maude’s modesty.

After that it can hardly be said there is any lack of ambition in England to write for the stage. The extraordinary thing is that only about three per cent.[Pg 274] of these comedies, tragedies, burlesques, or farces are worth even a second thought. Many are written without the smallest conception of the requirements of the theatre, while some are indescribably bad, not worth the paper and ink wasted on their production.

After that, it’s hard to say there’s any shortage of ambition in England to write for the stage. The surprising thing is that only about three percent[Pg 274] of these comedies, tragedies, burlesques, or farces are even worth a second thought. Many are written with no understanding of what the theater needs, while others are so poorly done they’re not worth the paper and ink spent on their production.

It may readily be understood that every manager cannot himself read all the MSS. sent him for consideration, neither is the actor-manager able to see himself neatly fitted by the parts written “especially for him.” Under these circumstances it has become necessary of late years at some theatres to employ a literary adviser, as mentioned on the former page. All publishing-houses have their literary advisers, and woe betide the man who condemns a book which afterwards achieves a great success, or accepts one that proves a dismal failure! So likewise the play reader.

It’s easy to see that not every manager can read all the manuscripts sent to him for review, and the actor-manager can't expect to find himself perfectly suited for the roles written "especially for him." Because of this, many theaters have recently started hiring a literary advisor, as mentioned on the previous page. All publishing houses have their own literary advisors, and woe to anyone who dismisses a book that later becomes a huge success or accepts one that turns out to be a complete flop! The same goes for the play reader.

Baskets full of dramatic efforts are emptied by degrees, and the few promising productions they contain are duly handed over to the manager for his final opinion.

Baskets full of dramatic efforts are gradually emptied, and the few promising works they hold are passed on to the manager for his final opinion.

In spite of the enormous number of plays submitted yearly, every manager complains of the dearth of suitable ones.

In spite of the huge number of plays submitted each year, every manager complains about the lack of suitable options.

[Pg 275]

CHAPTER XV

THEATRICAL DRESSING-ROOMS

A Star’s Dressing Room—Long Flights of Stairs—Miss Ward at the Haymarket—A Wimple—An Awkward Situation—How an Actress Gets Ready—Herbert Waring—An Actress’s Vanity Table—A Girl’s Selfies—A Makeup Kit—Eyelashes—White Hands—Mrs. Langtry’s Dressing Room—Clara Morris on Makeup—Mrs. Tree as a Writer—“Resting”—Mary Anderson on Stage—A Writer’s Perspective—Actors in Society.

AFTER ascending long flights of stone stairs, traversing dreary passages with whitewashed walls, and doors on either side marked one, two, or three, we tap for admission to a dressing-room.

AFTER climbing long flights of stone stairs, walking through dull hallways with whitewashed walls, and passing doors on either side marked one, two, or three, we knock to get into a dressing room.

Where is the fairy pathway? where the beauty?—ah! where? That long white corridor resembles some passage in a prison, and the little chambers leading off it are not very different in appearance from well-kept convict cells, yet this is the home of our actors or actresses for many hours each day.

Where's the fairy pathway? Where's the beauty?—ah! Where? That long white hallway looks like a corridor in a prison, and the small rooms branching off it aren't much different from tidy jail cells, yet this is where our actors and actresses spend many hours each day.

In some country theatres the dressing-rooms are still disgraceful, and the sanitary arrangements worse.

In some rural theaters, the dressing rooms are still in terrible condition, and the restrooms are even worse.

Even in London it is only the “stars” who have an apartment to themselves. At such an excellently conducted theatre as the Haymarket, Miss Winifred Emery has to mount long flights between every act. Suppose she has to change her costume four times[Pg 276] in the play, she must ascend those stone stairs five times in the course of each evening, or, in other words, walk up two hundred and fifty steps in addition to the fatigue of acting and the worry of quick changing, while on matinée days this exertion is doubled. She is a leading lady; she has a charming little room when she reaches it, and the excitement, the applause, and the pay of a striking part to cheer her—but think of the sufferers who have the stairs without the redeeming features. An actress once told me she walked, or ran, up eight hundred steps every night during her performance.

Even in London, only the “stars” get an apartment to themselves. At a well-run theater like the Haymarket, Miss Winifred Emery has to climb long flights of stairs between each act. If she needs to change her costume four times[Pg 276] during the play, she has to go up those stone stairs five times each night, which means walking up two hundred and fifty steps on top of the fatigue from acting and the stress of quick changes, and on matinée days, this effort is doubled. She’s a leading lady; she has a nice little room waiting for her, and the excitement, applause, and paycheck from a standout role to motivate her—but think about the others who face the stairs without those perks. An actress once told me she walked, or ran, up eight hundred steps every night during her performance.

While speaking of dressing-rooms I recall a visit I paid to Miss Geneviève Ward at the Haymarket during the run of Caste (1902). It was a matinée, and, wanting to ask that delightful woman and great actress a question, I ventured to the stage door and sent up my card.

While talking about dressing rooms, I remember a visit I made to Miss Geneviève Ward at the Haymarket during the run of Caste (1902). It was a matinée, and wanting to ask that charming woman and great actress a question, I went to the stage door and sent up my card.

“Miss Ward is on the stage; but I will give it to her when she comes off in four minutes,” said the stage-door-keeper.

“Miss Ward is on stage, but I’ll give it to her when she comes off in four minutes,” said the stage-door-keeper.

Accordingly I waited near his room.

Accordingly, I waited near his room.

The allotted time went by—it is known in a theatre exactly how long each scene will take—and at the expiration of the four minutes Miss Ward’s dresser came to bid me follow her up to the lady’s room. The dresser was a nice, complacent-looking woman, l’âge ordinaire, as the French would say, arrayed in a black dress and big white apron.

The time frame passed—it’s common knowledge in a theater how long each scene lasts—and when the four minutes were up, Miss Ward’s dresser came to ask me to follow her to the lady’s room. The dresser was a pleasant-looking woman, l’âge ordinaire, as the French would say, dressed in a black dress and a big white apron.

Miss Ward had ascended before us, and was already seated on her little sofa.

Miss Ward had gone up ahead of us and was already sitting on her small sofa.

[Pg 277]

“Delighted to see you, my dear,” she exclaimed. “I have three-quarters of an hour’s wait, so I hope you will stay to cheer me up.”

“I'm so happy to see you, my dear,” she said. “I have a three-quarter hour wait, so I hope you'll stay to keep me company.”

How lovely she looked. Her own white hair was covered by a still whiter front wig, while added colour had given youth to her face, and the darkened eyelids made those wondrous grey orbs of hers even more striking.

How beautiful she looked. Her own white hair was hidden under an even whiter front wig, while added color had brought youth to her face, and the darker eyelids made her amazing gray eyes even more striking.

“Why, you look about thirty-five,” I exclaimed, “and a veritable grande dame!”

“Wow, you look like you’re about thirty-five,” I said, “and a true big lady!”

“It is all the wimple,” she said.

“It’s all about the wimple,” she said.

“And what may that be?”

"What could that be?"

“Why, this little velvet string arrangement from my bonnet, with the bow under my chin; when you get old, my dear, you must wear a wimple too; it holds back those double, treble, a nd quadruple chins that are so annoying, and restores youth—me voilà.”

“Why, this little velvet string from my hat, with the bow under my chin; when you get older, my dear, you have to wear a wimple too; it keeps those double, triple, and quadruple chins in check that are so annoying, and brings back a youthful look—here I am.”

Miss Ward was first initiated into the mysteries and joys of a wimple when about to play in Becket at the Lyceum.

Miss Ward was first introduced to the mysteries and joys of a wimple when she was about to perform in Becket at the Lyceum.

While we chatted she took up her knitting—being as untiring in that line as Mrs. Kendal. Miss Ward was busy making bonnets for hospital children, and during all those long hours she waited in her dressing-room, this indefatigable woman knitted for the poor. After about half an hour her dresser returned and said:

While we talked, she picked up her knitting—just as tireless as Mrs. Kendal. Miss Ward was focused on making bonnets for children in the hospital, and throughout all those long hours she spent in her dressing room, this relentless woman knitted for the less fortunate. After about half an hour, her dresser came back and said:

“It is time for you to dress, madame.”

“It’s time for you to get dressed, ma’am.”

“Shall I leave?” I asked.

“Should I leave?” I asked.

“Certainly not—there is plenty of room for us all;” and in a moment the knitting was put aside,[Pg 278] and her elaborate blue silk garment taken off and hung on a peg between white sheets. Rapidly Miss Ward transformed herself into a sorrowing mother—a black skirt, a long black coat and bonnet were placed in readiness, when lo, the dresser, having turned everything over, exclaimed:

“Of course not—there’s more than enough space for everyone;” and in an instant, the knitting was set aside,[Pg 278] and her fancy blue silk outfit was taken off and hung on a hook between white sheets. Quickly, Miss Ward changed into a grieving mother—she got a black skirt, a long black coat, and a bonnet ready, when suddenly, the dresser, having searched through everything, called out:

“I cannot see your black bodice.”

“I can’t see your black bodice.”

Miss Ward looked perturbed.

Miss Ward looked troubled.

“I do believe I have left it at home—I went back in it last night, if you remember, because I was lazy; and forgot all about it. Never mind, no one will see the bodice is missing when I put on my cloak, if I fasten it tight up, and I must just melt inside its folds.”

“I really think I left it at home—I wore it last night, remember? I was being lazy and totally forgot about it. No worries, no one will notice the bodice is missing when I put on my cloak, as long as I fasten it tightly, and I’ll just have to stay hidden inside its folds.”

But when the cloak was fastened there still appeared a decidedly décolleté neck. Time was pressing, the “call boy” might arrive at any moment. Miss Ward seized a black silk stocking, which she twirled round her neck, secured it with a jet brooch, powdered her face to make it look more doleful, and was ready in her garb of woe ere the boy knocked.

But when the cloak was fastened, there was still a pretty noticeable décolleté neckline. Time was running out; the “call boy” could show up at any moment. Miss Ward grabbed a black silk stocking, wrapped it around her neck, secured it with a jet brooch, powdered her face to give it a more sorrowful look, and was ready in her outfit of distress just before the boy knocked.

Then we went down together.

These theatrical dressers become wonderfully expert. I have seen an actress come off the stage after a big scene quite exhausted, and yet only have a few minutes before the next act. She stood in the middle of her dressing-room while we talked, and at once her attendant set to work. The great lady remained like a block. Quickly the dresser undid her neck-band, and unhooked the bodice after removing the lace, took away the folded waistband, slipped off the skirt, and[Pg 279] in a twinkling the long ball dress was over the actress’s head and being fastened behind. Her arms were slipped into the low bodice, and while she arranged the jewels or her corsage the dresser was doing her up at the back. Down sat the actress in a chair placed for her, and while she rouged more strongly to suit the gaiety of the scene, the dresser was putting feathers and ornaments into her hair, pinning a couple of little curls to her wig to hang down her neck, and just as they both finished this rapid transformation the call boy rapped.

These theater dressers become incredibly skilled. I've seen an actress come off stage after a big scene, totally wiped out, but only have a few minutes before the next act. She stood in the middle of her dressing room while we talked, and right away her attendant started working. The actress stayed still like a statue. The dresser quickly undid her neckband, unhooked the bodice after removing the lace, took off the folded waistband, slipped off the skirt, and[Pg 279] in no time the long ball gown was over the actress’s head and being fastened in the back. Her arms were slipped into the low bodice, and while she arranged the jewels on her corsage, the dresser was fixing her up at the back. The actress sat down in a chair that was ready for her, and while she applied more makeup to match the lively scene, the dresser was adding feathers and decorations to her hair, pinning a couple of little curls to her wig to hang down her neck. Just as they both finished this quick transformation, the call boy knocked.

Off went my friend.

My friend left.

“I shall be back in seven minutes,” she exclaimed, “so do wait, as I have fourteen minutes’ pause then.”

“I'll be back in seven minutes,” she said, “so please wait, since I have a break of fourteen minutes after that.”

The dresser caught up her train and her cloak, and followed the great lady to the wings, where I saw her arranging the actress’s dress before she went on, and waiting to slip on the cloak and gloves which she was supposed in the play to come off and fetch.

The dresser picked up her train and cloak, and followed the lead actress to the sides of the stage, where I saw her adjusting the actress's costume before she went on, and waiting to put on the cloak and gloves that she was supposed to take off and retrieve in the play.

A good dresser is a treasure, and that is why most people prefer their own to those provided at the theatres.

A skilled dresser is invaluable, which is why most people choose their own over those offered at the theaters.

Apropos of knowing exactly how long an actor is on the stage, I may mention that Herbert Waring once invited me to tea in his dressing-room.

Regarding knowing exactly how long an actor is on stage, I might mention that Herbert Waring once invited me to tea in his dressing room.

“At what time?” I naturally asked.

“At what time?” I casually asked.

“I’ll inquire from my dresser,” was his reply. “I really don’t know when I have my longest ‘wait.’”

“I’ll ask my dresser,” he replied. “I honestly don’t know when I have my longest ‘wait.’”

Accordingly a telegram arrived next day, which said “tea 4.25,” so at 4.25 I presented myself at the[Pg 280] stage door, where Mr. Waring’s man was waiting to receive me.

Accordingly, a telegram arrived the next day saying "tea 4:25," so at 4:25, I showed up at the[Pg 280] stage door, where Mr. Waring’s guy was waiting for me.

Others joined us. A tin tray was spread with a clean towel; as usual, the theatrical china did not match, and the spoons and the seats were insufficient, but the tea and cakes were delicious, and the rough-and-tumble means of serving them in a star’s dressing-room only in keeping with the usual arrangements of austere simplicity behind the scenes.

Others joined us. A metal tray was laid out with a clean towel; as usual, the mismatched china was part of the charm, and there weren't enough spoons or seats, but the tea and cakes were delicious. The casual way of serving them in a star’s dressing room fit perfectly with the usual arrangements of simple austerity backstage.

“What was the most amusing thing that ever happened to you on the stage?”

“What was the funniest thing that ever happened to you on stage?”

Mr. Waring looked perplexed.

Mr. Waring looked confused.

“I haven’t the slightest idea. Nothing amusing ever happens; it is the same routine day, alas, after day, the same dressing, undressing, acting, finishing, going gleefully home, and returning next day to begin exactly the same thing over again. I must be a very dull dog, but I cannot ferret out anything ‘amusing’ from the back annals of a long theatrical career,” and up he jumped to slip on his powdered wig—which he had removed to cool his head—and away he ran to entertain his audience.

“I have no idea. Nothing funny ever happens; it’s the same daily routine, sadly, day after day: getting dressed, undressed, performing, finishing, happily going home, and coming back the next day to do it all over again. I must be really boring, but I can’t find anything ‘amusing’ in the long history of my theatrical career,” and with that, he jumped up to put on his powdered wig—which he had taken off to cool his head—and rushed off to entertain his audience.

Mr. Waring’s amusing experiences, or lack of them, seem very usual in theatrical life. What a delightful man he is, and what a gentleman in all his dealings. He is always loved by the companies with whom he acts, and never makes a failure with his parts.

Mr. Waring’s funny experiences, or the lack of them, seem pretty typical in theater life. What a charming guy he is, and what a gentleman in all his interactions. He is always adored by the companies he works with, and he never fails in his roles.

The most important thing in an actress’s dressing-room is her table—verily a curious sight. It is generally very large, more often than not it is composed of plain deal, daintily dressed up in muslin[Pg 281] flouncings over pink or blue calico. There seems to be a particular fashion in this line, probably because the muslin frills can go to the wash—a necessary proviso for anything connected with the theatre. In the middle usually reposes a large looking-glass, and as one particular table is in my mind’s eye, I will describe it, as it is typical of many, and belonged to a beautiful comic-opera actress.

The most important thing in an actress’s dressing room is her table—it’s truly a fascinating sight. It’s usually quite large, often made of simple wood, decorated nicely with muslin flounces over pink or blue fabric. There seems to be a specific style for this, probably because the muslin frills are washable—a must for anything related to the theatre. In the center, there’s usually a big mirror, and since I have one particular table in mind, I’ll describe it because it’s typical of many, and it belonged to a beautiful comic-opera actress.[Pg 281]

The looking-glass was ornamented with little muslin frills and tucks, tied with dainty satin bows, on to which were pinned a series of the actress’s own photographs. These cabinet portraits formed a perfect garniture, they represented the lady in every conceivable part she had ever played, and were tied together with tiny scarlet ribbons, the foot of one being fixed to the head of the next. The large mirror over the fireplace—for she was a star and had a fireplace—was similarly ornamented, so was the cheval glass, and above the chimneypiece was a complete screen composed of another set of her own photographs from another piece. These had to stand up, so the little red bows which fixed them went from side to side, by which means they stood along the board zig-zag fashion, like a miniature screen, without tumbling down. She was not in the least egotistical, it was simply the craze for photographs, which all theatrical folk seem to have, carried a little further than usual, and in her own dressing-room she essayed to have her own photographs galore. As she was very pretty and many of the costumes charming, she showed her good taste.

The mirror was decorated with small muslin frills and tucks, tied with delicate satin bows, onto which a series of the actress’s own photos were pinned. These cabinet portraits created a perfect display, showcasing her in every role she had ever played, and were tied together with tiny red ribbons, with one bow connected to the next. The large mirror over the fireplace—because she was a star and had a fireplace—was similarly decorated, as was the cheval mirror, and above the mantelpiece was a full display made up of another set of her photos from a different performance. These had to stand up, so the little red bows that held them in place went from side to side, allowing them to stand along the board in a zig-zag pattern, like a mini screen, without falling down. She wasn't at all egotistical; it was just the trend for photos that all theater people seem to have, taken a bit further than usual, and in her dressing room, she aimed to have her own pictures everywhere. Since she was very pretty and many of the costumes were charming, this showed her good taste.

[Pg 282]

In front of the looking-glass was a large pincushion stuffed with a multiplication of pins of every shape and size, endless hat-pins, safety-pins, and little brooches, in fact, a supply sufficient to pin everything on to her person that exigency might require. There were large pots of powder, flat tablets of rouge, hares’ feet, for putting on the rouge, fine black pencils for darkening eyes, blue chalk pencils for lining the lids, wonderful cherry-red arrangements for painting Cupid’s lips, for even people with large mouths can by deft artistic treatment be made to appear to have small ones. There were bottles of white liquid for hands and neck, because it is more important, of course, to paint the hands than the face, otherwise they are apt to look appallingly red or dirty behind the footlights.

In front of the mirror was a big pincushion filled with all kinds of pins in every shape and size, tons of hat pins, safety pins, and little brooches—enough to attach anything she might need to her outfit. There were large containers of powder, flat tablets of blush, rabbit's feet for applying the blush, fine black pencils for defining the eyes, blue chalk pencils for lining the eyelids, and amazing cherry-red products for making Cupid's lips pop, because even people with big mouths can look smaller with some clever makeup techniques. There were bottles of white lotion for her hands and neck since, of course, it's more important to make her hands look good than her face; otherwise, they might end up looking shockingly red or dirty under the stage lights.

There were two barber’s blocks on which stood the wigs for the respective acts, since it is much quicker and less trouble to put on a wig than adjust one’s hair, and probably no one, except Mrs. Kendal, has ever gone through an entire theatrical career and only twice donned a wig.

There were two barber's blocks where the wigs for the different acts were displayed, since it's much quicker and easier to put on a wig than to style one’s hair, and probably no one, except Mrs. Kendal, has ever had an entire acting career and only worn a wig twice.

Of course there were endless powders as well as perfumes of every sort and kind. There were hand-mirrors and three-fold mirrors, and electric light that could be moved about, for it is important to look well from all sides when trotting about the stage.

Of course, there were countless powders and perfumes of all kinds. There were hand mirrors and tri-fold mirrors, along with portable electric lights, because it’s essential to look good from every angle when walking on stage.

Theatrical dressing-rooms are so small that the dressing-table is their chief feature, and if there be room for a sofa or arm-chair, they are accounted luxurious.

Theatrical dressing rooms are so tiny that the dressing table is their main focus, and if there's enough space for a sofa or armchair, they're considered luxurious.

All the costumes, as a rule, are hung against the[Pg 283] wall, which is first covered with a calico sheet, then each dress is hung on its own peg, over which other calico sheets fall. This does not crush them, keeps all clean, and avoids creases; nevertheless, the most brilliant theatrical costumes look like a series of melancholy ghosts when not in use.

All the costumes are typically hung against the[Pg 283] wall, which is first covered with a calico sheet. Each dress is hung on its own peg, with additional calico sheets draped over them. This prevents them from being crushed, keeps everything clean, and avoids creases; however, the most dazzling theatrical costumes still resemble a row of sad ghosts when they're not being used.

One of the actress’s most important possessions is the grease paint-box, which in tin, separated into compartments for paints, costs about ten and sixpence. Into these little compartments she puts vaseline, coco butter, Nuceline, and Massine for cleaning the skin. For the face has to be washed, so to speak, with grease, preparatory to being made up.

One of the actress's most important belongings is her makeup kit, which is made of tin and has sections for different products, costing about ten shillings and sixpence. She fills these small sections with Vaseline, cocoa butter, Nuceline, and Massine for cleaning her skin. Before applying makeup, she has to clean her face using these products.

A fair woman first lays on a layer of grease paint of a cream ground. On to that she puts light carmine on her cheeks, and follows the lines of her own colour as much as she can. Some people have colour high up on the cheek-bones, others low down, and it is as well to follow this natural tint if possible.

A fair woman starts by applying a layer of cream foundation. On top of that, she adds some light red blush to her cheeks, trying to follow the natural color contours as much as possible. Some people have color higher up on their cheekbones, while others have it lower down, so it's best to stick to this natural tint whenever possible.

She blue-pencils round her eyes to enhance their size, gets the blue well into the corners and down a little at the outside edges to enlarge those orbs. Then she powders her face all over to get rid of that look of grease which is so distressing, and soften down the general make-up, and then proceeds to darken her eyelashes and eyebrows.

She applies blue eyeliner around her eyes to make them look larger, getting the blue deep into the corners and a bit at the outer edges to expand those orbs. Then she powders her face to eliminate any greasy look that’s quite bothersome, softening the overall makeup, and then goes on to darken her eyelashes and eyebrows.

One little actress told me she always wound a piece of cotton round a hairpin, on to which she put a blob of cosmetic, heated it in the gas or candle, and when it was melted, blinked her eyelashes up and down upon it so that they might take on the black without getting[Pg 284] it in hard lumps, but as a level surface. She put a little red blob in the corner of her eyes to give brightness, and a red line in the nostrils to do away with the black cavern-like appearance caused by the strong lights of the stage.

One young actress told me she always wrapped a piece of cotton around a hairpin, added some makeup, heated it over the gas or candle, and when it melted, she blinked her eyelashes up and down on it so they could absorb the black smoothly instead of in hard clumps. She applied a little red dot in the corners of her eyes for brightness and added a red line in her nostrils to counteract the dark, cavernous look created by the bright stage lights.[Pg 284]

“I never make up the lips full size,” she said, “or else they look enormous from the front. I put on very bright little ‘Cupid’s bow’ middles, which gives all the effect that is necessary. After I have powdered my face and practically finished it, I just dust on a little dry rouge with a hare’s foot to get the exact amount of colour I wish for each act. Grease paints are absolutely necessary to get the make-up to stay on one’s face, but they have to be well powdered down or they will wear greasy.”

“I never make my lips look full size,” she said, “or else they look huge from the front. I use very bright little ‘Cupid’s bow’ middle sections, which create all the effect I need. After I’ve powdered my face and almost finished it, I just dust on a little dry blush with a hare’s foot to get the exact amount of color I want for each act. Grease paints are essential to make the makeup stay on my face, but they have to be well powdered down or they’ll look greasy.”

“I always think the hands are so important,” I remarked.

"I always think hands are really important," I said.

“Oh yes,” she replied. “Of course, for common parts, such as servants, one leaves one’s hands to look red, for the footlights always make them look a dirty red, but for aristocratic ladies we have to whiten our hands, arms, and neck, and I make a mixture of my own of glycerine and chalk, because it is so much cheaper than buying it ready-made.

“Oh yes,” she replied. “Of course, for everyday things, like when you have to deal with servants, you let your hands look a bit red, since the footlights always give them a dirty red tone. But for aristocratic ladies, we need to make our hands, arms, and neck look white, and I mix my own glycerin and chalk because it’s much cheaper than buying it pre-made.”

“Sometimes it takes me an hour to make up my face. You see, a large nose can be modified; and a small nose can be made bigger by rouging it up the sides and leaving a strong white line down the middle. It is wonderful how one can alter one’s face with paint, though I think it is better to make up too little than too much[Pg 285].”

“Sometimes it takes me an hour to do my makeup. You see, a big nose can be adjusted, and a small nose can look larger by adding blush along the sides and leaving a bold white line down the center. It’s amazing how much you can change your face with makeup, although I believe it’s better to wear a little too little than too much[Pg 285].”

Thus it will be seen an hour is quite a usual length of time for an actress to sit in front of her dressing-table preparatory to the performance.

Thus it will be seen an hour is quite a normal amount of time for an actress to sit in front of her dressing table getting ready for the performance.

Mrs. Langtry’s dressing-room at the Imperial Theatre may be mentioned. An enormous mirror is fastened against one wall, and round it, in the shape of a Norman arch, are three rows of electric lights giving different colour effects. The plain glass is to dress by in the ordinary way; pink tones give sunset and evening effect; while the third is a curious smoked arrangement to simulate moonlight or dawn. Dresses can be chosen and the face painted accordingly to suit the stage colouring of the scene. The lights turn on above, below, or at the sides, so the effect can be studied from every point of view.

Mrs. Langtry’s dressing room at the Imperial Theatre is worth mentioning. An enormous mirror is mounted on one wall, and surrounding it is a Norman arch-shaped arrangement of three rows of electric lights that create different color effects. The plain glass is for regular makeup application; pink tones provide a sunset or evening look, while the third offers a unique smoky effect to mimic moonlight or dawn. Dresses can be selected and makeup applied to match the stage colors for each scene. The lights can be turned on from above, below, or the sides, allowing the effect to be viewed from every angle.

While on the subject of making up, a piece of advice from the great actor Jefferson to the wonderful American actress, Clara Morris, is of interest:

While we're talking about making up, a piece of advice from the great actor Jefferson to the amazing American actress, Clara Morris, is noteworthy:

“Be guided as far as possible by Nature. When you make up your face, you get powder on your eyelashes. Nature made them dark, so you are free to touch the lashes themselves with ink or pomade, but you should not paint a great band about your eye, with a long line added at the corner to rob it of expression. And now as to the beauty this lining is supposed to bring, some night when you have time I want you to try a little experiment. Make up your face carefully, darken your brows and the lashes of one eye; as to the other eye, you must load the lashes with black pomade, then draw a black line[Pg 286] beneath the eye, and a broad line on its upper lid, and a final line out from the corner. The result will be an added lustre to the make-up eye and a seeming gain in brilliancy; but now, watching your reflection all the time, move slowly backwards from the glass, and an odd thing will happen; that made-up eye will gradually grow smaller and will gradually look like a black hole, absolutely without expression.”

“Try to follow Nature as much as you can. When you apply makeup, you’ll get powder on your eyelashes. Nature made them dark, so you can use ink or pomade on the lashes themselves, but you shouldn’t paint a thick line around your eye, especially not a long line at the corner that takes away its expression. Now, regarding the beauty this lining is supposed to create, I want you to do a little experiment one night when you have the time. Carefully do your makeup, darken your brows and the lashes of one eye; for the other eye, load the lashes with black pomade, then draw a black line[Pg 286] beneath the eye, a thick line on its upper lid, and a final line extending from the corner. The result will be that the made-up eye looks more vibrant, but now, while watching your reflection the whole time, step back slowly from the mirror, and something strange will happen; that made-up eye will seem to get smaller and will start to look like a black hole, completely devoid of expression.”

Clara Morris followed Jefferson’s counsel and never blued or blacked her eyes again.

Clara Morris took Jefferson’s advice and never used blue or black makeup on her eyes again.

I once paid an interesting visit to a dressing-room: it came about in this wise.

I once had an interesting visit to a dressing room: it happened like this.

In 1898 the jubilee of Queen’s College, in Harley Street, was celebrated. It was founded fifty years previously as the first college open to women. A booklet in commemoration of the event was got up, and many old girls were persuaded to relate their experiences. Among them were Miss Sophia Jex Blake, M.D., Miss Dorothea Beale (of Cheltenham), Miss Adeline Sargent, the novelist, Miss Louisa Twining, whose work on pauperism and workhouses is well known, Miss Mary Wardell, the founder of the Convalescent Home, etc. Mrs. Tree agreed to write an article on the stage as a profession for women. At the last moment, when all the other contributions had gone to press, hers was not amongst them. It was a matinée day, and as editor I went down to Her Majesty’s, and bearded the delinquent in her dressing-room. She was nearly ready for the performance, in the midst of her profession, so to speak; but realising the necessity of doing the work at once[Pg 287] or not at all, she seized some half-sheets of paper, and between her appearances on the stage jotted down an excellent article. It was clever, to the point, and full of learning. It appeared a few days later, and some critic was unkind enough to say “her husband or some other man had written it for her.” I refute the charge; for I myself saw it hastily sketched in with a pencil at odd moments on odd scraps of paper.

In 1898, the jubilee of Queen’s College on Harley Street was celebrated. It was founded fifty years earlier as the first college open to women. A booklet was created to commemorate the event, and many former students were encouraged to share their experiences. Among them were Miss Sophia Jex Blake, M.D., Miss Dorothea Beale (from Cheltenham), Miss Adeline Sargent, the novelist, Miss Louisa Twining, known for her work on poverty and workhouses, Miss Mary Wardell, the founder of the Convalescent Home, etc. Mrs. Tree agreed to write an article on acting as a profession for women. At the last minute, when all the other contributions had been sent to print, hers was missing. It was a matinée day, and as the editor, I went down to Her Majesty’s and confronted her in her dressing room. She was almost ready for the performance, right in the middle of doing her job, but realizing she needed to complete the work immediately[Pg 287] or not at all, she grabbed some scraps of paper and, between her performances on stage, quickly wrote an excellent article. It was smart, direct, and full of insight. It was published a few days later, and some critic unkindly claimed “her husband or some other man had written it for her.” I refute that accusation; I witnessed it being sketched out quickly with a pencil on various bits of paper during her breaks.

Mrs. Tree is a woman who would have succeeded in many walks of life, for she is enthusiastic and thorough, a combination which triumphantly surmounts difficulties. She has a strong personality. In the old Queen’s College days she used to wear long æsthetic gowns and hair cut short. Bunches of flowers generally adorned her waist, offerings from admiring young students, whom she guided through the intricacies of Latin or mathematics.

Mrs. Tree is someone who would have excelled in many areas of life, as she is passionate and detail-oriented, a combination that successfully overcomes challenges. She has a strong personality. Back in her days at Queen’s College, she would wear long aesthetic dresses and sport short hair. Bunches of flowers often decorated her waist, gifts from grateful young students whom she helped navigate the complexities of Latin or math.

The Beerbohm Trees have a charming old-fashioned house at Chiswick, and three daughters of various and diverse ages, for the eldest is grown up while the youngest is quite small. Both parents are devoted to reading and fond of society, but their life is one long rush. Books from authors line their shelves, etchings and sketches from artists cover their walls; both have great taste with a keen appreciation of genius. Few people realise what an unusually clever couple the Beerbohm Trees are, or how versatile are their talents. They fly backwards and forwards to the theatre in motor-cars, and pretend they like it in spite of midnight wind and rain.

The Beerbohm Trees live in a lovely, old-fashioned house in Chiswick. They have three daughters of different ages; the oldest is already grown up, while the youngest is still quite small. Both parents are passionate about reading and enjoy socializing, but their lives are a constant rush. Their shelves are lined with books from various authors, and the walls are decorated with etchings and sketches from artists. They both have great taste and a sharp appreciation for genius. Few people realize what a remarkably clever couple the Beerbohm Trees are or how versatile their talents are. They zip back and forth to the theater in their cars and pretend to enjoy it despite the midnight wind and rain.

[Pg 288]

Theatrical work means too much work or none. It is a great strain to play eight times a week, to dress eight times at each performance, as in a Drury Lane drama, and to rehearse a new play or give a matinée performance as well, and yet this has to be done when the work is there, for what one refuses, dozens, aye dozens, are waiting eagerly to take. Far more actors and actresses are “resting” every evening than are employed in theatres, poor souls.

Theatrical work involves either way too much or none at all. It’s a huge challenge to perform eight times a week, to get ready for each show as you would in a Drury Lane drama, and to rehearse a new play or put on a matinée performance as well. But this has to be done when there’s work available because for every job you turn down, dozens, yes dozens, are eagerly waiting to take it. There are far more actors and actresses “resting” every night than there are working in theaters, poor things.

“Resting!” That word is a nightmare to men and women on the stage. It means dismissal, it means weary waiting—often actual want—yet it is called “resting.” It spells days of unrest—days of dreary anxiety and longing, days when the unfortunate actor is too proud to beg for work, too proud even to own temporary defeat—which nevertheless is there.

“Resting!” That word is a nightmare for performers. It means being let go, it means exhausting waiting—often real financial struggle—yet it’s referred to as “resting.” It signifies days of unease—days filled with dull anxiety and longing, days when the unfortunate actor is too proud to ask for work, too proud even to admit temporary failure—which is still there.

A long run of luck, the enjoyment of many months, perhaps years, when all looked bright and sunny, when money was plentiful and success seemed assured, suddenly stops. There is no suitable part available, new blood is wanted in the theatre, and the older hands must go. Then comes that cruelly enforced “rest,” and, alas! more often than not, nothing has been laid by for the rainy day, when £10 a week ceases even to reach 10s. Expenses cannot easily be curtailed. Home and family are there, the actor hopes every week for new work, he refuses to retrench, but lives on that miserable farce “keeping up appearances,” which, although sometimes good policy, frequently spells ruin in the end.

A long streak of good luck, the enjoyment of many months, maybe even years, when everything looked bright and sunny, when money was abundant and success seemed guaranteed, suddenly comes to an end. There isn’t a suitable role available, new talent is needed in the theater, and the veterans have to go. Then comes that harshly enforced “break,” and, unfortunately, more often than not, nothing has been saved for the rainy day, when £10 a week barely even covers 10s. Expenses can’t easily be cut. Home and family are there; the actor hopes each week for new work, refuses to cut back, and lives on that pathetic charade of “keeping up appearances,” which, although sometimes a smart move, often leads to disaster in the end.

Photo by Bassano, 25, Old Bond Street, W.

Photo by Bassano, 25 Old Bond Street, W.

MRS. BEERBOHM TREE.

[Pg 289]

Some of the best actors and actresses of the day are forced into this unfortunate position; indeed, they suffer more than the smaller fry—for each theatre requires only one or two stars in its firmament. Theatrical folk are sometimes inclined to be foolish and refuse to play a small part for small pay, because they think it beneath their dignity, so they prefer to starve on their mistaken grandeur, which is, alas! nothing more nor less than unhappy pride.

Some of the best actors and actresses today find themselves in this unfortunate situation; in fact, they suffer more than the lesser-known performers—each theater only needs one or two stars. People in the theater often act foolishly and refuse to take on a small role for little pay, believing it's beneath them, so they choose to struggle financially due to their misguided sense of dignity, which is, unfortunately, nothing more than unhappy pride.

Clara Morris, one of America’s best-known actresses, shows the possible horrors, almost starvation, of an actress’s early years in her delightful volume, Life on the Stage.

Clara Morris, one of America’s most famous actresses, reveals the potential nightmares, nearly the struggle for survival, of an actress’s early years in her engaging book, Life on the Stage.

She nearly died from want of food, and after years and years of work all over the States made her first appearance as “leading lady” at Daly’s Theatre in New York at a salary of thirty-five dollars a week, starting with only two dollars (eight shillings) in her pocket.

She almost died from hunger, and after years of hard work all over the country, she finally got her first role as the “leading lady” at Daly’s Theatre in New York, earning thirty-five dollars a week, starting with just two dollars (eight shillings) in her pocket.

Her first triumph she discussed with her mother and her dog over a supper of bread and cheese. She had attained success—but even then it was months and months, almost years, before she earned enough money either to live in comfort or be warmly clothed.

Her first success was shared with her mom and her dog over a dinner of bread and cheese. She had achieved something big—but even after that, it took months and months, almost years, before she made enough money to live comfortably or stay warm.

The beautiful Mary Anderson, in her introduction to the volume, says:

“I trust this work will help to stem the tide of girls who so blindly rush into a profession of which they are ignorant, for which they are unfitted, and in which dangers unnumbered lurk on all sides. If with Clara Morris’s power and charm so much had to be suffered, what is—what must be—the lot of so[Pg 290] many mediocrities who pass through the same fires to receive no reward in the end?”

“I hope this work will help slow down the number of girls who rush into a profession they know nothing about, for which they are unprepared, and in which countless dangers surround them. If Clara Morris had to endure so much with her talent and charm, what is—what must be—the fate of so[Pg 290] many average people who go through the same challenges and end up with nothing to show for it at the end?”

Every one who knows the stage, knows what weary suffering is endured daily by would-be actors who are “resting”; and as they grow older that “resting” process comes more often, for, as one of the greatest dramatists of the day said to me lately:

Every person familiar with the theater understands the exhausting hardship faced daily by aspiring actors who are “resting”; and as they get older, that “resting” period happens more frequently, because, as one of the greatest playwrights of our time mentioned to me recently:

“The stage is only for the young and beautiful, they can claim positions and salaries which experience and talent are unable to keep. By the time youth has thoroughly learnt its art it is no longer physically attractive, and is relegated to the shelf.”

“The stage is only for the young and attractive; they can secure roles and salaries that experience and skill can't maintain. By the time youth has fully mastered its craft, it’s no longer physically appealing and is pushed aside.”

“That seems very hard.”

"That looks really difficult."

“Ah, but it is true. At the best the theatrical is a poor profession, and ends soon. Believe me, it is only good for handsome young men and lovely girls. When the bloom of youth has gone, good acting does not command the salary given to beautiful inexperience.”

“Ah, but it’s true. At best, acting is a tough profession, and it doesn’t last long. Trust me, it’s only suitable for handsome young men and beautiful girls. Once youth fades, good acting doesn’t earn the pay given to charming inexperience.”

“How cruelly sad!”

"So cruelly sad!"

“Perhaps—but truth is often sad. When a girl comes to me and says she has had an offer of marriage, but she doesn’t want to give up her Art, I reply:

“Maybe—but the truth can be painful. When a girl comes to me and says she’s received a marriage proposal but doesn’t want to give up her Art, I respond:

“‘Marry the man before your Art gives you up.’”

“‘Marry the guy before your passion lets you down.’”

This was severe, but I have often thought over the subject since, and seen how true were the words of that man “who knew.”

This was serious, but I've thought about it a lot since then, and I've realized how true the words of that man "who knew" were.

Half a century ago only a few favoured professionals were admitted into the sacred circle called Society, and then only on rare occasions, but all that is now changed: actors and actresses are the fashion, and may[Pg 291] be found everywhere and anywhere. Their position is remarkable, and they appear to enjoy society as much as society enjoys them. They are fêted and feasted, the world worships at their feet. In London the position of an actor or actress of talent is a brilliant one socially.

Half a century ago, only a select few professionals were allowed into the exclusive circle known as Society, and even then, only on rare occasions. But all that has changed: actors and actresses are now the trend and can be found everywhere and anywhere. Their status is impressive, and they seem to enjoy socializing just as much as society enjoys having them around. They are celebrated and hosted, and the world adores them. In London, the status of a talented actor or actress is exceptionally prestigious socially.

[Pg 292]

CHAPTER XVI

HOW DOES A MAN GET ON THE STAGE?

A Voice Trial—How It's Done—Nervous Expressions—Singing in Total Darkness—A Reminder for Rehearsal—The Thrill of an Engagement—Proof Copy; Private—Arrival of the Main Performers—Chorus on Stage—Rehearsing Twelve Hours a Day for Nine Weeks Without Pay.

“HOW does a man get on the stage?” is a question so continually asked that the mode of procedure, at any rate for comic opera, may prove of interest.

“HOW does a man get on stage?” is a question that's asked so often that the process, at least for comic opera, might be of interest.

After application the would-be actor-singer, if lucky, receives a card, saying there will be a “voice trial” for some forthcoming musical comedy at the theatre on such a date at two o’clock. Managements that have a number of touring companies arrange voice trials regularly once a week, but others organise them only when necessary.

After applying, the aspiring actor-singer, if fortunate, receives a card that says there will be a “voice audition” for an upcoming musical comedy at the theater on a specific date at two o’clock. Companies that have multiple touring groups hold voice auditions regularly once a week, while others only arrange them when needed.

Let us take a case of Special Trial for some new production. There are usually so many persons anxious to procure employment, that three days are devoted to these trials from two till seven o’clock.

Let’s consider a case of a Special Trial for some new production. There are often so many people eager to get hired that three days are set aside for these trials from two to seven o’clock.

Upon receiving a card the would-be artist proceeds to his destination in a state of wild excitement and overpowering nervousness at a quarter to two, having[Pg 293] in the greenness of inexperience arranged to meet a friend at three o’clock, expecting by then to be able to tell him he has been engaged.

Upon getting a card, the aspiring artist heads to his destination, feeling a mix of intense excitement and overwhelming nerves at a quarter to two. He has[Pg 293] naively arranged to meet a friend at three o'clock, hoping by then to share the news that he has been hired.

On arriving at the corner of the street the youth is surprised to see a seething mass of struggling humanity striving to get near the stage door; something like a gallery entrance on a first night. At this spectacle his nervousness increases, for he has a vague fear that some of these voices and dramatic powers may be better than his own. During the wait outside, people recognise and hail friends whom they have played with in other companies on tour, or met on the concert platform, or perhaps known in a London theatre. Every one tries to look jaunty and gay, none would care to acknowledge the cruel anxiety they are enduring, or own how much depends on an engagement.

On reaching the corner of the street, the young man is taken aback to see a chaotic crowd of people all trying to get close to the stage door, similar to the scene outside a gallery on opening night. This sight only heightens his nervousness, as he has a nagging fear that some of these voices and acting skills might be better than his own. While waiting outside, people recognize and greet friends they’ve performed with in other touring companies, met on the concert stage, or perhaps known from a theater in London. Everyone tries to appear upbeat and cheerful, and no one wants to admit the intense anxiety they’re feeling or how much hinges on landing a role.

After half an hour, or probably an hour’s wait, the keen young man reaches the stage door, and finally gets into the passage. In his eagerness he fancies he sees space in that passage to slip past a number of people who are waiting round the door-keeper’s room, and congratulates himself on his smartness in circumventing them. Somehow he contrives to get through, and finally runs gaily down a flight of stairs, to find himself—not on the stage, as he had hoped, but underneath it. A piano and voice are heard overhead. Quickly retracing his steps he mounts higher and higher in his anxiety to be an early performer, tries passage after passage, to find nothing but dressing-rooms, until he arrives breathless at the top of the building opposite[Pg 294] two large apartments relegated later to the chorus. Utterly bewildered by the intricacies of the theatre, and a sound of music which he cannot locate, the poor novice is almost in despair of reaching the stage at all. One more effort, and a man who looks like a carpenter remarks:

After waiting for about half an hour, or maybe an hour, the eager young man finally reaches the stage door and gets into the hallway. In his excitement, he thinks he spots a way to slip past a bunch of people hanging around the doorkeeper’s room and feels proud of his cleverness in avoiding them. Somehow, he manages to get through and happily runs down a flight of stairs, only to find himself—not on the stage like he had hoped, but underneath it. He can hear a piano and vocals coming from above. Quickly retracing his steps, he climbs higher and higher, anxious to be one of the first performers, trying different hallways but finding nothing but dressing rooms, until he breathlessly arrives at the top of the building across from[Pg 294] two large rooms that were later assigned to the chorus. Completely confused by the maze of the theatre and the music he can’t pinpoint, the poor novice is almost in despair about making it to the stage at all. With one more effort, a man who looks like a carpenter comments:

“These ’ere is the flies, sir: there’s the stage,” and he points down below over some strange scaffolding.

“These are the flies, sir: there’s the stage,” he says, pointing down over some unusual scaffolding.

The singer looks. Lo, there are fifty or sixty people on the stage.

The singer looks. Wow, there are fifty or sixty people on stage.

“And those people?”

"And what about those people?"

“All trying for a job, sir; but, bless yer ’eart, not one in twenty will get anything.”

“All are trying for a job, sir; but, bless your heart, not one in twenty will get anything.”

This sounds cheerless to the stage beginner, whose only recommendation is a good, well-trained voice.

This sounds discouraging to the new performer, whose only asset is a strong, well-trained voice.

With directions from the carpenter he wends his way down again, not with the same elastic step with which he bounded up the stairs. “Bless yer ’eart, not one in twenty will get anything” was not a pleasant piece of news.

With the carpenter's directions, he makes his way back down, but not with the same spring in his step that he had when he raced up the stairs. "Bless your heart, not one in twenty will get anything" was not encouraging news.

Ah, here is a glass door, through which—oh joy! he sees the stage at last. He is about to enter gaily when he is stopped by a theatre official who demands his “form.”

Ah, here is a glass door, through which—oh joy! he sees the stage at last. He is about to enter happily when a theater official stops him and asks for his “form.”

“Form? What form? I have none.”

"Form? What form? I don’t have any."

“Go back to the stage door, sign your name and address there, and fill in the printed form you will get there,” says this gentleman in stentorian tones that cause the poor youth to tremble while he inquires:

“Go back to the stage door, write down your name and address there, and fill out the form you’ll receive,” says this man in loud tones that make the poor young man tremble as he asks:

“Where is the stage door[Pg 295]?”

“Where's the stage door?”

“Up those stairs, first to the right, and second to the left.”

“Go up those stairs, take the first right, and then the second left.”

Back he goes, and after another wait, during which he notes many others filling in forms one by one and asking endless questions, he gets the book, signs his name, and receives a form in which he enters name, voice, previous experience, height, and age. There is also a column headed “Remarks,” which the would-be actor feels inclined to fill with superlative adjectives, but is informed that “the stage manager fills in this column himself.”

Back he goes, and after another wait, during which he notices many others filling out forms one by one and asking endless questions, he finally gets the book, signs his name, and receives a form where he has to enter name, voice, previous experience, height, and age. There's also a column titled “Remarks,” which the aspiring actor feels tempted to fill with glowing adjectives, but he's told that “the stage manager fills in this column himself.”

At last he is on the stage, and after all the ladies have sung and some of the men, his name is called and he steps breezily down to the footlights. Ere he reaches them, however, some one to his left says:

At last he’s on stage, and after all the ladies have sung and some of the men, his name is called, and he casually steps down to the front. But before he gets there, someone to his left says:

“Where is your music?” and some one else to his right:

“Where’s your music?” and someone else to his right:

“Where is your form?”

“Where's your form?”

He hands the form to a person seated at a table, and turning round sees a very ancient upright piano, where he gives his music to the accompanist. Then comes a trying moment. The youth has specially chosen a song with a long introduction so as to allow time to compose himself. But that introduction is omitted, for the accompanist in a most inconsiderate manner starts two bars from the end of it and says:

He hands the form to someone sitting at a table, and as he turns around, he spots a very old upright piano, where he hands his music to the accompanist. Then comes a difficult moment. The young man has specifically chosen a song with a long introduction to give himself time to calm down. But that introduction gets cut short, as the accompanist thoughtlessly starts two bars before the end of it and says:

“Now then, please, if you’re ready.”

“Alright then, please, if you’re ready.”

The singer gets through half a verse, when he is suddenly stopped by:

The singer gets through half a verse when he is suddenly interrupted by:

“Sing a scale, please[Pg 296].”

"Please sing a scale.[Pg 296]"

He sings an octave, and is about to exhibit his beautiful tenor notes, when he is again interrupted by the question:

He sings an octave and is about to show off his beautiful tenor notes when he's interrupted again by the question:

“How low can you go?”

“How low can you get?”

He climbs down, and with some difficulty manages an A.

He climbs down and, after a bit of struggle, manages to get an A.

“Is that as deep as you can get?”

“Is that the deepest you can go?”

“Yes, but I’m a tenor. Shall I sing my high notes?”

“Yes, but I’m a tenor. Should I sing my high notes?”

A voice from the front calls out, “Your name.”

A voice from the front calls out, “What’s your name?”

All this is abruptly disconcerting, and the lad peers into Cimmerian darkness. In the stalls he sees two ghost-like figures, as “in a glass dimly.” These are the manager and the composer of the new piece, while a few rows behind, two or three more spirits may be noted flitting restlessly about in the light thrown from the stage.

All this is suddenly unsettling, and the young man looks into the pitch-black darkness. In the stalls, he sees two ghostly figures, as if “in a glass dimly.” These are the manager and the composer of the new piece, while a few rows back, two or three more spirits can be seen moving restlessly in the light coming from the stage.

“Mr. A——” again says that voice from the front.

“Mr. A——” that voice from the front says again.

“Yes, sir.”

"Yes, sir."

“Did you say you were a tenor?”

“Did you say you’re a tenor?”

“Yes.”

"Yes."

“Ah, I’m afraid we’ve just chosen the last one wanted. We had a voice trial yesterday, you know.” And the tone sounded a dismissal.

“Ah, I’m sorry, but we just picked the last one we needed. We had a voice audition yesterday, you know.” And the tone felt like a rejection.

“May I not sing the last verse of my song?” the young fellow almost gasps.

“Can I not sing the last verse of my song?” the young guy almost breathes.

“If you like.” He does like, and the two figures in front lean over in conversation; but he thinks he detects a friendly nod.

“If you want.” He does want, and the two people in front lean in to talk; but he thinks he sees a friendly nod.

“Have we your address?” asks one of them.

“Do we have your address?” asks one of them.

[Pg 297]

“Yes, sir, I left it at the stage door.”

“Thank you; we’ll communicate with you should we require your services.” The tenor is about to murmur his thanks, when another voice from the side of the stage calls, “Mr. Jones, please,” and he hurries off, hearing the same questions from the two attendant spirits, “Where is your form?” “Where is your music?” addressed to the new-comer.

“Thank you; we’ll get in touch if we need your help.” The tenor is just about to express his gratitude when another voice from the side of the stage says, “Mr. Jones, please,” and he rushes off, hearing the same questions from the two attendant spirits, “Where is your form?” “Where is your music?” directed at the newcomer.

Just as he reaches the door he hears Mr. Jones stopped after three bars with “Thank you, that will do. Mr. Smith, please.”

Just as he gets to the door, he hears Mr. Jones stop after three bars with, “Thank you, that’s enough. Mr. Smith, please.”

This is balm to his soul; after all, he was not hurried off so quickly, and he passes out into the light of day with the “Where is your form?” “Where is your music?” “Bless yer ’eart, not one in twenty will get anything,” still ringing in his ears. And so to tea with what appetite he may bring at a quarter to seven instead of three o’clock as arranged.

This is soothing to him; after all, he wasn't rushed off so quickly, and he steps out into the daylight with the “Where is your shape?” “Where is your music?” “Bless your heart, not one in twenty will get anything,” still echoing in his ears. And so he goes to tea with whatever appetite he has at a quarter to seven instead of three o’clock as planned.

Ten weary days pass—he receives no letter, hears nothing. He has almost given up all hope of that small but certain income, when a type-written missive arrives:

Ten exhausting days go by—he gets no letter, hears nothing. He has nearly lost all hope of that small but guaranteed income when a typed message arrives:

“Kindly attend rehearsal at the —— Theatre on Tuesday next at twelve o’clock.”

“Please attend rehearsal at the —— Theatre next Tuesday at noon.”

The words swim before his eyes. Can it be true? Can he be among the successful ones after all? He is so excited he is scarcely able to eat or sleep, waiting for Tuesday to come. It does come at last, and he sets out for the theatre, thinking he will not betray further ignorance, and arrives fashionably late[Pg 298] at a quarter to one. This time he sees no signs of life at the stage door.

The words blur in front of him. Could it really be true? Could he actually be one of the successful ones? He’s so excited he can barely eat or sleep, counting down the days until Tuesday. Finally, it arrives, and he heads to the theater, determined not to show any more ignorance, arriving fashionably late[Pg 298] at a quarter to one. This time, he sees no signs of life at the stage door.

“Of course, now that I belong to the theatre, I must go in through the front of the house, not at the side entrance,” he says to himself. Round, therefore, he goes to the front, where some one sitting in the box office asks:

“Of course, now that I belong to the theater, I have to go in through the front, not through the side entrance,” he says to himself. So, he goes around to the front, where someone sitting in the box office asks:

“What can I do for you?”

“What can I help you with?”

“Nothing, thanks; I am going to rehearsal.”

“Thanks, but no; I’m heading to rehearsal.”

“You’re late. The chorus have started nearly an hour.”

“You’re late. The chorus started almost an hour ago.”

Good chance here to make an impression.

Good opportunity here to make an impression.

“Chorus? I’m a principal.” This is not quite true at the moment, but may be in a year or two.

“Chorus? I’m a principal.” This isn't exactly true right now, but it might be in a year or two.

“Principal? Then you’re too early, sir! Principals won’t be called for another three weeks.”

“Principal? Then you’re too early, sir! They won’t start calling principals for another three weeks.”

The tenor slinks out and goes round to the stage door again, where “You’re very late, sir,” is the door-keeper’s greeting. “I should advise you to hurry up, they started some time ago. You’ll find them up in the saloon. On to the stage, straight through to the front of the house, and up to the back of the circle.”

The tenor sneaks out and heads back to the stage door, where the doorman greets him with, “You’re really late, sir. I suggest you hurry; they started a while ago. You’ll find them in the saloon. Go straight to the stage, right through to the front, and then up to the back of the circle.”

He goes down on the stage, where he finds the same old piano going, and some one sitting in the stalls, watching a girl in a blouse and flaming red petticoat, who is dancing, whilst three or four other girls in various coloured petticoats, none wearing skirts, are waiting their turn. In the distance he hears sounds of singing, which make the most unpleasant[Pg 299] discord with the dance tune on the stage. The accompanist points to an iron door at the side, passing through which the youth finds himself outside another door leading to the stalls, and, guided by his ear, finally reaches the saloon. He enters unobserved to find it filled with some forty girls and men, standing or sitting about, and singing from printed copies of something. Sitting down he looks over his neighbour’s shoulder, and notices that each copy has printed on it “Proof copy. Private.” After half an hour the stage manager, who has been standing near the piano, says:

He steps down onto the stage, where he sees the same old piano playing, and someone in the audience is watching a girl in a blouse and bright red petticoat dance, while three or four other girls in various colored petticoats, none in skirts, wait for their turn. In the background, he hears singing that clashes unpleasantly with the dance tune on stage. The accompanist gestures toward an iron door on the side, and when the young man goes through it, he finds himself outside another door leading to the audience area. Following the sounds, he finally makes his way to the saloon. He enters unnoticed to find it filled with about forty girls and men, either standing or sitting around, singing from printed sheets of music. He sits down and leans over to look at his neighbor's sheet, noticing that each one is marked with “Proof copy. Confidential.” After half an hour, the stage manager, who has been standing near the piano, says:

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, that will do: back in an hour, please. Is Mr. A—— here? And Mr. A—— replies “Yes,” and is told to wait, and asked why he did not answer to his name before.

“Thank you, everyone, that’s enough: we’ll be back in an hour, please. Is Mr. A—— here? Mr. A—— replies “Yes,” and is told to wait and asked why he didn’t respond to his name earlier.

“I was a little late, I fear.”

“I think I'm a bit late.”

“Don’t be late again, or I shall have to fine you.”

“Don’t be late again, or I’ll have to fine you.”

Off he goes to luncheon, and returns with the rest, who after a further three hours’ work are dismissed for the day.

Off he goes to lunch and comes back with the others, who are let go for the day after three more hours of work.

This goes on for six hours a day, during a fortnight, when the chorus is joined by eight more ladies and gentlemen styled “Small-part people,” who, however, consider themselves very great people all the same.

This continues for six hours a day, over two weeks, when the chorus is joined by eight more ladies and gentlemen called “Small-part people,” who, nonetheless, see themselves as very important people just the same.

Next the young man is told that in two days every one must be able to sing without music, as rehearsals will commence on the stage. In due course comes the first rehearsal on the stage, and after a[Pg 300] couple of days Position, Gestures, and Business are all taken up in turn.

Next, the young man is informed that in two days, everyone has to be able to sing without music since rehearsals will start on stage. Eventually, the first rehearsal on stage takes place, and after a[Pg 300] couple of days, Position, Gestures, and Business are all addressed in turn.

The saloon is then used by the principals, who have now turned up, and in the intervals of rest the chorus can hear sounds of music floating toward them.

The saloon is now used by the main characters, who have arrived, and during their breaks, the chorus can hear music drifting toward them.

In another week the principals join the company on the stage, and are told their places, while all principals read from their parts at first, such being the etiquette even if they know their lines. Books are soon discarded, however, and rehearsals grow rapidly longer, while everything shows signs of active progress towards production. Scenery and properties begin to be on view, and every one is sent to be measured for costumes, wigs, and boots. Then comes the first orchestral rehearsal, and finally, a week before the production, night rehearsals start in addition to day, so that people positively live in the theatre from 11.30 in the morning till 11.30 at night or later. Apart from all the general rehearsals there are extra rehearsals before or after these, for the dances.

In another week, the main actors join the company on stage and are assigned their spots, while all the leads read from their scripts at first, as is the tradition, even if they know their lines. However, the scripts are quickly set aside, and rehearsals get significantly longer, with everything showing clear signs of active progress toward the performance. The sets and props start being displayed, and everyone is measured for costumes, wigs, and boots. Then comes the first orchestra rehearsal, and finally, a week before the show, they start having night rehearsals in addition to daytime ones, so people basically live in the theater from 11:30 AM until 11:30 PM or later. Besides all the main rehearsals, there are extra sessions before or after for the dance routines.

There are generally two or three semi-dress rehearsals, followed by the full-dress rehearsal on Friday afternoon at two o’clock, or sometimes seven in the evening, when all the reserved seats are filled with friends of the management or company, various professionals connected in any way with the stage, and a number of artists and journalists, making sketches for the papers. At the end of each act the curtain is rung up and flash-light photographs taken of the effective situation and the finale, and so at last the curtain rises on the first night. Nine weeks’ rehearsal were given for a comic[Pg 301] opera lately, and no one was paid for his or her services during all that time. It only ran for six weeks, when the salaries ceased.

There are usually two or three semi-dress rehearsals, followed by the full-dress rehearsal on Friday afternoon at two o’clock, or sometimes seven in the evening, when all the reserved seats are filled with friends of the management or company, various professionals connected to the stage, and some artists and journalists, making sketches for the papers. At the end of each act, the curtain goes up and flash-light photographs are taken of the key moments and the finale, and then finally the curtain rises on the first night. Nine weeks of rehearsals were held for a recent comic[Pg 301] opera, and no one was paid for their services during that entire time. It only ran for six weeks, after which the salaries stopped.

In comic opera there are such constant changes, of dialogue, songs, and alterations, that the company have a general rehearsal at least once a fortnight on the average, right through the run of a piece, and there is always an entire understudying company ready to go on at any moment.

In comic opera, there are so many constant changes in dialogue, songs, and alterations that the cast holds a general rehearsal at least once every two weeks during the entire run of a show, and there's always a full understudy team ready to step in at any moment.

[Pg 302]

CHAPTER XVII

A GIRL IN THE PROVINCES

Why Women Join the Stage—How to Avoid It—Miss Florence St. John—Local Theatre Company—Theatrical Supplies—A Short Tour—A Theatre Tour—Repertoire Tour—Unusual Landladies—Flyers—The Desired Meal—Used Clothing—Getting a Role—Why Men Decline—Tons of Tea—E. S. Willard—Why He Chooses America—Room Hunting—A Helpful Priest—A Drunk Landlady—How the Dog Resolved an Awkward Situation.

IT is continually being asked: Why do women crowd the stage?

IT is constantly being asked: Why do women crowd the stage?

The answer is a simple one—because men fail to provide for them. If every man, willing and able to maintain a wife, married, there would still be over a million women left. Many women besides these “superfluous” ones will never marry—many husbands will die, and leave their widows penniless, and therefore several millions of women in Great Britain must work to live. Their parents bring them into the world, but they do not always give them the means of livelihood.

The answer is straightforward—because men don't support them. If every man who is willing and able to provide for a wife got married, there would still be over a million women left. Many women, aside from these "extra" ones, will never marry—many husbands will die and leave their widows without financial support, which means several million women in Great Britain must work to survive. Their parents bring them into the world, but they don't always provide them with the means to make a living.

Marriage with love is entering a heaven with one’s eyes shut, but marriage without love is entering hell with them open.

Marriage with love is walking into paradise with your eyes closed, but marriage without love is stepping into hell with your eyes wide open.

[Pg 303]

What then?

What now?

Women must work until men learn to protect and provide for, not only their wives, but their mothers, daughters, and sisters. All men should respect the woman toiler who prefers work to starvation, as all must deplore the necessity that forces her into such a position. Women of gentle blood are the greatest sufferers; brought up in luxury, they are often thrust on the world to starve through no fault of their own what ever. The middle-class father should also be obliged to make some provision by insurance for every baby girl, which will enable her to live, and give her at least the necessities of life, so that she may not be driven to sell herself to a husband, or die of starvation. The sons can work for themselves, and might have a less expensive up-bringing, so that the daughters may be provided for by insurance, if the tragedies of womanhood now enacted on every side are to cease.

Women have to work until men learn to protect and support not just their wives, but also their mothers, daughters, and sisters. All men should respect the working woman who chooses to earn a living rather than face starvation, just as everyone should regret the circumstances that push her into such a situation. Women from privileged backgrounds suffer the most; raised in comfort, they are often forced into the world to fend for themselves through no fault of their own. Middle-class fathers should be required to set up insurance for every baby girl, ensuring she has the means to live and at least access to basic necessities, so she won’t be compelled to marry just to survive or risk starvation. Sons can find ways to support themselves and might have a less expensive upbringing, allowing for the daughters to be financially supported through insurance, if we want to put an end to the tragedies of womanhood happening all around us.

It is no good for young men to shriek at the invasion of the labour market by women: the young men must deny themselves a little and provide for their women folk if it is to be otherwise. It is no good grinding down the wages of women workers, for that does harm to men and women alike, and only benefits the employer. Women must work as things are, and women do work in spite of physical drawbacks, in spite of political handicap, in spite—too often—of lack of sound education. The unfortunate part is that women work for less pay than men, under far harder conditions, and the very men who abuse them for competing on their own ground, are the men who[Pg 304] do not raise a hand to make provision for their own women folk, or try in any way to help the present disastrous condition of affairs.

It's pointless for young men to complain about women entering the job market: they need to make some sacrifices and support the women in their lives if they want things to change. Cutting women’s wages only harms both men and women, benefiting only the employers. Women have to work as things stand, and they do so despite physical challenges, political disadvantages, and often a lack of proper education. The sad reality is that women are paid less than men and have to work in much tougher conditions, and the very men who criticize them for competing are often the ones who don’t lift a finger to support the women in their lives or to help improve the current situation.

Men can stop this overcrowding of every profession by women if they really try, and until they do so they should cease to resent a state of affairs which they themselves have brought about.

Men can put an end to the overcrowding of every profession by women if they genuinely make an effort, and until they do that, they should stop resenting a situation that they themselves have created.

Luckily there is hardly any trade or profession closed to women to-day. They cannot be soldiers, sailors, firemen, policemen, barristers, judges, or clergymen in England, but they can be nearly everything else. Even now, in these so-called enlightened days, men often leave what money they have to their sons and let chance look after their daughters. They leave their daughters four alternatives—to starve, to live on the bitter bread of charity, to marry, or to work. Independent means is a heritage that seldom falls to the lot of women. There are too many women on the stage as there are too many women everywhere else; but on the stage as in authorship, women are at least fairly treated as regards salary, and can earn, and do earn, just as much as men.

Fortunately, there are hardly any jobs or professions that are closed off to women today. They can't be soldiers, sailors, firefighters, police officers, lawyers, judges, or clergy in England, but they can pretty much do anything else. Even now, in these so-called enlightened times, men often leave whatever money they have to their sons and leave their daughters to fate. They give their daughters four choices— to starve, to live off charity, to marry, or to work. Having independent means is a legacy that rarely goes to women. There are too many women in theater just as there are too many women everywhere else; however, in theater and in writing, women are at least treated fairly when it comes to salaries and can earn the same as men.

The provinces are the school of actors and actresses, so let us now turn to a provincial company, for after all the really hard work of theatrical life is most severely felt in the provinces. A pathetic little account of early struggles appeared lately from the pen of Miss Florence St. John. At fourteen years of age she sang with a Diorama along the South coast, and a few months after she married. Her parents were[Pg 305] so angry they would have nothing more to do with her, and not long afterwards her husband’s health failed and he died. Sheer want pursued her during those years.

The provinces are where actors and actresses are trained, so let’s shift our focus to a regional theater company, since the toughest challenges of theater life are often felt in the provinces. Recently, a touching account of early struggles was shared by Miss Florence St. John. At just fourteen, she performed with a Diorama along the South coast, and a few months later, she got married. Her parents were[Pg 305] so upset that they cut ties with her, and not long after, her husband’s health declined and he passed away. She faced severe hardship during those years.

“My efforts to secure work seemed almost hopeless.”

"My attempts to find a job felt almost pointless."

That is the crux of so many theatrical lives. Those eight words so often appear—and yet there are sanguine people who imagine employment can always be obtained on the stage for the mere asking, which is not so; but let us now follow the fortunes of a lucky one.

That is the crux of so many acting careers. Those eight words show up all the time—and yet there are optimistic people who think jobs can always be found on stage just by asking, which isn't true; but let's now follow the journey of one who is fortunate.

After a play has been sufficiently coached in London, at the last rehearsal a “call” is put up on the board, which says:

After a play has been thoroughly rehearsed in London, at the final rehearsal a “call” is posted on the board, which says:

“Train call. All artistes are to be at —— Station at —— o’clock on such and such a date. Train arrives at A—— at —— o’clock.”

“Train call. All performers are to be at —— Station at —— o’clock on the specified date. Train arrives at A—— at —— o’clock.”

When the actors reach the station they find compartments engaged for them, it being seldom necessary nowadays to charter a private train. Those compartments are labelled in large lettering with the name of the play for which they have been secured. The party travel third class, the manager as a rule reserving first-class compartments for himself and the stars. Generally the others go in twos and twos according to their rank in the theatre, that is to say, the first and second lady travel together, the third and fourth, and so on. Often the men play cards during the whole journey; generally the women knit, read, or enliven the hours of weary travel by making tea and talk!

When the actors arrive at the train station, they find compartments booked for them, as it's rarely necessary these days to hire a private train. Those compartments are labeled in big letters with the name of the play they’re meant for. The group travels in third class, while the manager usually books first-class compartments for himself and the stars. Generally, the others pair up according to their status in the theater; for instance, the first and second leading ladies travel together, followed by the third and fourth, and so on. Often, the men play cards for the entire journey, while the women usually knit, read, or pass the time during the tiring trip by making tea and chatting!

At each of the stations where the train pauses[Pg 306] people look into the carriages in a most unblushing manner, taking a good stare at the theatrical folk, as if they were wild beasts at the Zoo instead of human beings. Sometimes also they make personal and uncomplimentary remarks, such as:

At each train stop[Pg 306], people glance into the carriages without any shame, staring at the performers as if they were exotic animals at the zoo instead of actual people. Occasionally, they also make rude and personal comments, like:

“Well, she ain’t pretty a bit,” or, “My! don’t she look different hoff and hon!”

“Well, she isn't pretty at all,” or, “Wow! doesn’t she look different altogether!”

Each actress has two supplies of luggage, one of which, namely, a “theatrical basket,” contains her stage dresses, and the other the personal belongings which she will require at her lodgings. As a rule, ere leaving London she is given two sets of labels to place on her effects, so that the baggage-man may know where to take her trunks and save her all further trouble.

Each actress has two pieces of luggage, one of which, called a “theatrical basket,” holds her stage costumes, while the other carries her personal items she’ll need at her accommodations. Typically, before leaving London, she receives two sets of labels to put on her things, so the baggage handler knows where to deliver her trunks and she doesn’t have to worry about it anymore.

Naturally theatrical folk must travel on Sunday. On a “Fit-Up” tour, when they arrive at the station of the town in which they are to play, each woman collects her own private property, and those who can afford the expense drive off in a cab, while the others—by far the more numerous—deposit it in the “Left Luggage Office.” After securing a room, the tired traveller returns to the station and employs a porter to deliver her belongings.

Naturally theatrical people have to travel on Sunday. On a “Fit-Up” tour, when they arrive at the train station in the town where they’ll be performing, each woman gathers her own things, and those who can afford it take a cab, while the others—who are many more—leave their stuff at the “Left Luggage Office.” After getting a room, the tired traveler goes back to the station and hires a porter to bring her belongings.

Sometimes a girl experiences great difficulty in finding a suitable temporary abode, for, although in large towns a list of lodgings can be procured, in smaller places no such help is available, and she may have to trudge from street to street to obtain a decent room at a cheap rate. By the time what is wanted is found, she generally feels so weary she is only too thankful to share whatever the landlady may[Pg 307] chance to have in the way of food, instead of going out and procuring the same for herself.

Sometimes a girl has a hard time finding a suitable temporary place to stay. In big cities, you can get a list of available lodgings, but in smaller towns, there's no help like that, and she might have to walk from street to street to find a decent room at an affordable price. By the time she finally finds what she needs, she usually feels so exhausted that she's more than happy to eat whatever the landlady might[Pg 307] have on hand instead of going out to get something for herself.

On a “Theatre Tour” the members of a company nearly always engage their rooms beforehand and order dinner in advance, because they can go to recognised theatrical lodgings, a list of which may be procured by applying to the Actors’ Association, an excellent institution which helps and protects theatrical folk in many ways. When rooms can be arranged beforehand, life becomes easier; but this is not always possible, and then poor wandering mummers meet with disagreeable experiences, such as finding themselves in undesirable lodgings, or at the tender mercy of a landlady who is too fond of intoxicants. A liberal use of insect powder is necessary in smaller towns.

On a “Theatre Tour,” company members usually book their rooms in advance and order dinner early, since they can stay at recognized theatrical lodgings. A list of these can be obtained by contacting the Actors’ Association, which is a great organization that helps and supports people in the theater in many ways. When rooms can be set up in advance, life is easier; however, this isn’t always possible, and then poor traveling performers face unpleasant situations, like ending up in bad accommodations or dealing with a landlady who enjoys her drinks a bit too much. In smaller towns, a generous application of insect spray is often necessary.

A girl friend who decided to go on the stage has given me some valuable information gathered during six or seven years’ experience of provincial theatrical life. Hers are the experiences of the novice, and bear out Mrs. Kendal’s advice in an earlier chapter. She was not quite dependent on her profession, having small means, but for which she says she must have starved many a time during her noviciate.

A friend who chose to pursue acting has shared some valuable insights she gathered from six or seven years of working in regional theater. Her experiences reflect those of a beginner and support Mrs. Kendal’s advice from an earlier chapter. While she wasn't fully reliant on her career due to her limited finances, she admits she would have gone hungry many times during her early days without those means.

“One comes across various types of landladies,” she explained, “but they are nearly always good-natured, otherwise they would never put up with the erratic hours for meals, and the late return of their lodgers. Some of them have been actresses themselves in the olden days, but, having married, they desire to ‘lead a respectable life,’ by which remark they wish one to understand that the would-be lodger is not considered[Pg 308] ‘respectable’ so long as she remains in the theatrical profession.

“One comes across different types of landladies,” she explained, “but they’re usually pretty easygoing; otherwise, they wouldn’t tolerate the strange meal times and the late returns of their lodgers. Some of them used to be actresses back in the day, but after getting married, they want to ‘lead a respectable life,’ which means they think a potential lodger isn’t considered[Pg 308] ‘respectable’ as long as she’s still in the theater profession.

“They are sometimes very amusing, at others the reminiscences of their own experiences prove a little trying; but after all, even such folk are better than the type of lodging-house-keeper who has come down in the world, and is always referring to her ‘better days.’ A great many of these people do not appear ever to have had better days. Now and then, however, one finds a genuine case and receives every possible attention, being made happy with flowers—a real luxury when on tour—nice table linen, fresh towels, all things done in a civilised manner, and oh dear! what a joy it is to come across such a home.”

“They can be really funny sometimes, but at other times, their stories from the past can be a bit exhausting; still, even they are better than the kind of boarding house owner who has fallen on hard times and constantly talks about her 'former glory.' Many of these people seem to have never actually had those 'better days.' Once in a while, though, you find a genuine case where you get the best care, treated to flowers—a real treat while traveling—nice tablecloths, fresh towels, and everything done in a polite way. Oh, what a joy it is to discover such a home.”

“Are the rooms, then, generally very bare?” I asked.

“Are the rooms usually very bare?” I asked.

“One never finds any luxuries. As a rule one has to be content with horsehair-covered chairs and sofas, woollen antimacassars, wax or bead flowers under glass cases, often with the addition of a stuffed parrot brought home by some favourite sailor son. But simplicity does not matter at all so long as the lodgings do not smell stuffy. The bedroom furniture generally consists of the barest necessaries, and if one’s couch have springs or a soft mattress it proves indeed a delightful surprise.

“One never finds any luxuries. Usually, you just have to make do with horsehair-covered chairs and sofas, woolen antimacassars, and wax or bead flowers under glass cases, often accompanied by a stuffed parrot brought home by some favorite sailor son. But simplicity isn’t an issue as long as the place doesn’t smell musty. The bedroom furniture typically includes just the basics, and if your bed has springs or a soft mattress, it’s truly a delightful surprise."

“There is a terrible type of landlady who rushes one for a large bill just at the last moment. As a rule the account should be brought up on Saturday night and settled, but this sort of woman generally manages to put off producing hers until the last[Pg 309] moment on Sunday morning, when one’s luggage is probably on its way to the station. Then she brings forth a document which takes all the joy out of life, and sends the unhappy lodger off without a penny in her pocket. Arguing is not of the slightest use, and if one happens to be a woman, as in my case, she has to pay what is demanded rather than risk a scene.”

“There's a terrible kind of landlady who demands a huge bill at the last minute. Normally, you’d expect the account to be settled on Saturday night, but this type of woman usually waits until the very last moment on Sunday morning, when your luggage is likely already on its way to the station. Then she presents a bill that completely ruins your day and sends the poor lodger off with nothing in her pockets. Arguing is pointless, and if you're a woman, like me, you end up paying whatever she's asking just to avoid a scene.”

My friend’s experiences were so practical I asked her many questions, in reply to some of which she continued:

My friend's experiences were so relatable that I asked her a lot of questions, to which she responded:

“I have always managed to share expenses with some one I knew, which arrangement, besides being less lonely, reduced the cost considerably; but even then there is a terrible sameness about one’s food. An egg for breakfast is very general, as some ‘ladies’ even object to cooking a rasher of bacon. Jam and other delicacies are beyond our means. Everlasting chop or steak with potatoes for dinner. One never sees a joint; it is not possible unless a slice can be begged from the landlady, in which case one often has to pay dearly for the luxury.

“I've always shared expenses with someone I knew, which not only made things less lonely but also significantly cut costs; however, even then, there's a terrible monotony to the food. An egg for breakfast is pretty common, as some ‘ladies’ even refuse to cook a piece of bacon. Jam and other treats are out of our budget. It's always chop or steak with potatoes for dinner. You never see a roast unless you can beg for a slice from the landlady, and even then, you often end up paying a high price for that luxury.”

“We generally have supper after we return from the theatre, from which we often have to walk home a mile or more after changing. Many landladies refuse to cook anything hot at night, in which case tinned tongue or potted meat suffice; but a hot meal, though consisting only of a little piece of fish or poached eggs, is such a joy when one comes home tired and worn out, that it is worth a struggle to try to obtain.

“We usually have dinner after we get back from the theater, which often means walking home about a mile or more after changing. Many landlords don't want to cook anything hot at night, so we settle for canned tongue or potted meat; but a hot meal, even if it's just a small piece of fish or some poached eggs, is such a delight when you come home tired and exhausted that it’s worth the effort to try to get one.”

“The least a bill ever comes to in a week is fifteen[Pg 310] shillings, and that after studying economy in every way possible. Even though two of us lived together I never succeeded in reducing my share below that.”

“The least a bill ever comes to in a week is fifteen[Pg 310] shillings, and that’s after trying every way possible to save money. Even though two of us lived together, I never managed to get my share down below that.”

“What is the usual day?”

“What’s a typical day like?”

“One has breakfast as a rule between ten and eleven—earlier, of course, if a rehearsal has been called for eleven, in which case ten minutes’ grace is given for the difference in local clocks; any one late after that time gets sharply reprimanded by the management. After rehearsal on tour a walk till two or three, a little shopping, dinner 4.30, a rest, a cup of tea at 6.30, after which meal one again proceeds to the theatre, home about 11.30, supper and bed. Week in, week out it is pretty much the same.

“One usually has breakfast between ten and eleven—earlier, of course, if a rehearsal is scheduled for eleven, in which case a ten-minute grace period is allowed for the difference in local clocks; anyone who is late after that time gets a stern reprimand from management. After rehearsal while on tour, there’s a walk until two or three, a little shopping, dinner at 4:30, a rest, a cup of tea at 6:30, after which one heads back to the theatre, returning home around 11:30 for supper and bed. Week in and week out, it’s pretty much the same.”

“For the first four years I only earned a guinea a week, and as it was necessary for me to find all my own costumes for the different parts in the companies in which I played, I had to visit second-hand shops and buy ladies’ cast-off ball dresses and things of that sort, although cheap materials and my sewing machine managed to supply me with day garments. It is extraordinary what wonderful effects one can get over the footlights with a dress which by daylight looks absolutely filthy and tawdry, provided it be well cut; that is why it is advisable to buy good second-hand clothes when possible.

“For the first four years, I only made a guinea a week, and since I had to provide all my own costumes for the different roles in the companies I worked with, I had to shop at thrift stores and buy used ball gowns and similar items. Fortunately, cheap fabrics and my sewing machine helped me create everyday outfits. It’s amazing what stunning effects you can achieve on stage with a dress that looks completely dirty and shabby in daylight, as long as it’s well tailored; that’s why it’s best to buy quality second-hand clothes when you can.”

“In my own theatre basket I have fourteen complete costumes, and with these I can go on any ordinary tour. I travelled for some time with a girl who, though well-born, had out of her miserable guinea[Pg 311] a week to help members of her family at home. She was an excellent needlewoman, and used to send her sewing-machine with her basket to the theatre, where she sat nearly all day making clothes or cutting them out for other members of the company. By these means she earned a few extra shillings a week, which helped towards the expenses of her kinsfolk. She was a nice girl, but delicate, and I always felt she ought to have had all the fresh air possible instead of bending over a sewing-machine in a stuffy little dressing-room.

“In my theater bag, I have fourteen complete costumes, and with these, I can go on any regular tour. I traveled for a while with a girl who, although from a good family, had to make do with her meager guinea[Pg 311] a week to support her family at home. She was a great seamstress and would bring her sewing machine with her bag to the theater, where she spent nearly all day making clothes or cutting them out for other members of the company. This way, she earned a few extra shillings a week, which helped with her family's expenses. She was a sweet girl but delicate, and I always thought she should have had as much fresh air as possible instead of hunching over a sewing machine in a cramped dressing room.”

“Of course it is necessary for us to take great care of our private clothes, and in order to save them I generally keep an old skirt for trudging backwards and forwards through the dust and dirt, and for rehearsals, since at some of the ill-kept provincial theatres a good gown would be ruined in a few days; added to which, one often gets soaked on the way to and from the theatre, for we can rarely afford cabs, and even if we could, on a wet night the audience take all available vehicles, so that by the time the performers are ready to leave, not one is to be procured.”

“Of course, we need to take great care of our personal clothes, so to protect them, I usually keep an old skirt for walking back and forth through the dust and dirt, and for rehearsals. Some of the poorly maintained provincial theaters can ruin a good dress in just a few days. On top of that, we often get soaking wet on the way to and from the theater because we can rarely afford cabs. Even if we could, on a rainy night, the audience takes all the available vehicles, so by the time the performers are ready to leave, there’s not a single cab to be found.”

Perhaps it may be well to say a little more concerning the theatre basket. It looks like a large washing basket, but being made of wicker-work is light. It is lined inside with mackintosh, and bears the name of the company to which it belongs on the outside. It is taken to the theatre on Sunday when the party arrives in the town, and as a rule each actress goes first thing on Monday morning for[Pg 312] rehearsal and to unpack. The ordinary provincial company usually comprises about five men and five women, but in important dramas there are many more, and sometimes a dozen women and girls will have to dress in one room.

Perhaps it’s worth saying a bit more about the theatre basket. It looks like a big laundry basket, but since it’s made of wicker, it’s lightweight. It’s lined inside with waterproof material and has the name of the company it belongs to on the outside. It gets taken to the theatre on Sunday when the group arrives in town, and typically, each actress goes first thing on Monday morning for[Pg 312] rehearsal and to unpack. A typical provincial company usually has about five men and five women, but for important plays, there are a lot more, and sometimes a dozen women and girls have to change in one room.

Of course the principal actresses select the best dressing-rooms, and each chooses according to her rank. Round the wall of the room a table is fastened, such a table as one might find in a dairy, under which the dress baskets stand. Those who can afford it, provide their own looking-glass and toilet-cover to put over their scrap of table, also sheets to cover the dirty walls, ere hanging up their skirts; but as every one cannot afford to pay for the washing of such luxuries, many have to dispense with them.

Of course, the lead actresses choose the best dressing rooms, and each picks based on her status. A table, similar to what you’d find in a dairy, is attached to the wall of the room, and under it sit the dress baskets. Those who can afford it supply their own mirror and a cover for their small table, along with sheets to mask the dirty walls before hanging up their costumes; however, since not everyone can pay for the cleaning of such extras, many have to go without them.

There is seldom a green-room in the provinces, so as a rule the actresses sit upon their own baskets during the waits; and as in many theatres there are no fireplaces in these little dressing-rooms, and not always artificial heat, there they remain huddled in shawls waiting their “call.”

There’s rarely a green room in the provinces, so usually the actresses sit on their own baskets during the waits. Since many theaters don’t have fireplaces in these small dressing rooms, and sometimes lack heating, they stay bundled up in shawls waiting for their “call.”

“The most interesting form of company,” said my friend, “is the ‘Répertoire,’ for that will probably give three different pieces a week, which is much more lively than performing in the same play every night for months.

“The most interesting type of company,” said my friend, “is the ‘Répertoire,’ because that will probably present three different pieces a week, which is way more lively than doing the same play every night for months.”

From a painting by Hugh de T. Glazebrook.

MRS. PATRICK CAMPBELL.

“If any one falls out of the cast through illness or any other reason, and a new man or woman join the company, a fortnight is required for rehearsals, and during that fortnight we unfortunate players [Pg 313]have to give our gratuitous services every day for some hours.”

“If anyone drops out of the cast due to illness or any other reason, and a new person joins the company, a two-week rehearsal period is needed. During that two weeks, we unfortunate players [Pg 313] have to provide our unpaid services every day for several hours.”

On asking her whether she thought it wise for a girl to choose the stage as a profession, she shook her head sadly.

On asking her if she thought it was a good idea for a girl to choose acting as a career, she shook her head sadly.

“I do not think a woman should ever choose the stage as a profession if she have any person depending upon her, for it is practically impossible to live on one’s precarious earnings. It is only the lucky few who can ever hope to make a regular income, and certainly in the provinces very few of us do even that. Many managers like to engage husbands and wives for their company, as this means a joint salary and a saving in consequence. These married couples do not generally get on well, and certainly fail to impress one with the bliss of professional wedded life.”

“I don’t think a woman should choose acting as a career if she has anyone relying on her, because it’s nearly impossible to live off unstable earnings. Only a lucky few can expect to make a consistent income, and especially in smaller towns, very few of us even manage that. Many managers prefer to hire couples because it means a combined salary and some savings. However, these married couples usually don’t get along well and definitely don’t give off the impression of a happy professional married life.”

“What are the chances of success?” I inquired.

“What are the odds of success?” I asked.

“The chances of getting on at all on the stage are small in these days, when advancement means one must either have influence at headquarters, or be able to bring grist to the manager’s mill. It is heart-breaking for those who feel they could succeed if they were but given a chance, to see less talented but more influential sisters pushed into positions. One gradually loses all hope of true merit finding its own reward, while it is no uncommon thing for a girl to pay down £20 to be allowed to play a certain part. She may be utterly unfitted for the rôle, but £20 is not to be scoffed at, and she is therefore pitchforked into it to succeed or fail. In most cases she fails, and[Pg 314] cannot get another engagement unless she produces a second £20.

“The chances of getting on stage these days are slim, where moving up means you either need connections at the top or have something to offer the manager. It's disheartening for those who believe they could succeed if just given a chance, to watch less talented but more influential peers advance to roles instead. You gradually lose hope that real talent will get recognized when it's common for a girl to pay £20 to land a specific part. She might be completely unsuitable for the role, but £20 isn't something to overlook, so she gets thrown into it with no guarantee of success. Most of the time, she fails, and[Pg 314] can't find another job unless she pays another £20.

“No, I do not consider the stage a good profession for a girl, simply because there is no authority over her, and few people take enough interest in the young creature to even warn her of the peril. In the theatrical profession, and especially on tour, the sexes meet on an equal footing. No chivalry need be expected, and is certainly rarely received, because when one is vouchsafed any little attention or politeness, such as one would naturally claim in society or take for granted in daily intercourse, it is merely because the man has some natural instinct which causes him to be polite in spite of adverse circumstances.

“No, I don’t think the stage is a good profession for a girl, mainly because there’s no authority looking out for her, and not many people care enough about young women to even warn them of the risks. In the theater world, especially when on tour, men and women interact as equals. You can’t expect any chivalry, and it's rarely given, because when a woman does receive any attention or politeness—something she would naturally expect in society or take for granted in everyday life—it’s usually just because the man has some inherent urge to be polite despite the challenging situation.”

“The majority of men upon the stage to-day are so-called gentlemen, but there is something in the life which does not conduce to keep them up to the standard from which they start. They become careless in their manners, dress, and conversation, and keep their best side for the audience. As a rule they are kind-hearted and willing to help women, but men upon the stage get ‘petty.’ I do not know whether it is the effect of the paint, the powder, and the clothes, or the fact of their doing nothing all day, but they certainly deteriorate; one sees the decadence month by month. They begin by being keen on sport, for instance, but gradually they find even moving their bicycles about an expense and leave them behind. They have nowhere to go, are not even temporary members of clubs, so gradually get into the habit of staying in bed till twelve or even two o’clock for lack[Pg 315] of something to interest them, and finish the rest of the day in a ‘gin crawl,’ which simply means sitting in public-houses drinking and smoking.

“The majority of men on stage today are referred to as gentlemen, but there's something about the lifestyle that doesn't keep them at the standard where they begin. They become careless in their manners, clothing, and conversation, saving their best selves for the audience. Generally, they are kind-hearted and willing to help women, but men on stage get 'petty.' I’m not sure if it’s the effect of the makeup, the costumes, or just the fact that they do nothing all day, but they definitely decline; you can see the deterioration from month to month. They start out enthusiastic about sports, for example, but eventually find moving their bicycles a hassle and leave them behind. They have nowhere to go and aren’t even temporary members of clubs, so they gradually get into the habit of staying in bed until noon or even two o'clock because there’s nothing to engage them, and they end up spending the rest of the day on a ‘gin crawl,’ which just means sitting in bars drinking and smoking.”

“Unfortunately this love of drink sometimes increases, and as alcohol can be readily procured by the dresser, men and women too, feeling exhausted, often take things which had better be avoided. You see their meals are not sufficiently substantial—how can they be on the salary paid? Girls live on small rations of bread, butter, and oceans of tea, and the men on endless sausage rolls and mugs of beer.”

“Unfortunately, this love for drinking sometimes grows, and since alcohol is easily available to the workers, both men and women, feeling worn out, often turn to things they should really avoid. Their meals aren’t filling enough—how could they be on the pay they receive? Women survive on tiny portions of bread, butter, and tons of tea, while the men eat endless sausage rolls and drink mugs of beer.”

This reminds me of a little chat I had with E. S. Willard. On the fiftieth night of that excellent play The Cardinal, by Louis N. Parker, at the St. James’s Theatre, a mutual friend came to ask me to pay a visit behind the stage to the great Mr. Willard.

This brings to mind a conversation I had with E. S. Willard. On the fiftieth night of that amazing play The Cardinal, by Louis N. Parker, at the St. James’s Theatre, a mutual friend asked me to go backstage to meet the great Mr. Willard.

We arrived in Mr. Alexander’s sitting-room described elsewhere, at the end of the third act, and a moment later the rustling silk of the Cardinal’s robe was heard in the passage.

We entered Mr. Alexander's sitting room, mentioned earlier, at the end of the third act, and a moment later, we heard the rustling silk of the Cardinal's robe in the hallway.

“I’m afraid this is unkind of me,” I said: “after that great scene you deserve a ‘whisky and soda’ instead of a woman and talk.”

“I’m sorry if this sounds rude,” I said, “but after that amazing performance, you deserve a ‘whisky and soda’ instead of a woman and conversation.”

“Not at all,” said this splendid-looking ecclesiastic, seating himself gaily. “I never take anything of that sort till my work is done.”

“Not at all,” said the impressive-looking clergy member, sitting down happily. “I never take anything like that until my work is finished.”

“But you must be fearfully exhausted after such a big scene?”

“But you must be completely worn out after such a big scene?”

“No. It is the eighth performance this week, and[Pg 316] the second to-day; but I’m not really tired, and love my work, although I do enjoy my Sunday’s rest.”

“No. This is the eighth performance this week, and[Pg 316] the second one today; but I’m not really tired, and I love my job, even though I do enjoy my day off on Sunday.”

Mr. Willard looks handsomer off the stage than on. His strong face seems to have a kindlier smile, his manner to be even more courtly, and I was particularly struck with the fact that he wore little or no make-up.

Mr. Willard looks more attractive off the stage than on. His strong face seems to have a friendlier smile, his demeanor comes across as even more gracious, and I was especially impressed by the fact that he wore little or no makeup.

“You are an Englishman,” I said, “and yet you have deserted your native land for America?”

“You're English,” I said, “and yet you've left your home country for America?”

“Not so. I’m English, of course, though I love America,” was the reply. “Seven years ago I went across the Atlantic and was successful, then I had a terrible illness which lasted three years. When I was better I did not dare start afresh in England and risk failure, so I began again in the States, where I was sure of the dollars. They have been so kind to me over there that I do not now like to leave them. You see America is so enormous, the constant influx of emigrants so great, one can go on playing the same piece for years and years, as Jefferson is still doing in Rip van Winkle. Here new plays are constantly wanted, and even if an actor is an old favourite he cannot drag a poor play to success. Management in London has become a risky matter. Expenses are enormous, and a few failures mean ruin.”

“Not at all. I’m English, of course, but I love America,” was the response. “Seven years ago, I crossed the Atlantic and found success, but then I went through a terrible illness that lasted three years. When I recovered, I was too afraid to start over in England and risk failing again, so I began again in the States, where I was sure I could make money. They’ve been so kind to me over there that I don’t want to leave them now. You see, America is so vast, the constant flow of immigrants is so high, you can keep performing the same act for years and years, like Jefferson is still doing in Rip van Winkle. Here, new plays are always in demand, and even if an actor is a long-time favorite, they can’t carry a weak play to success. Running a theater in London has become a risky business. Costs are huge, and a few failures can lead to disaster.”

Alas! at that moment the wretched little bell which heralds a new act rang forth, and I barely had time to reach the box before Mr. Willard was once more upon the stage, continuing his masterly performance. He is an actor of strong personality, and can ill be spared from England’s shores.

Alas! At that moment, the sad little bell that signals a new act rang out, and I barely made it to the box before Mr. Willard was back on stage, continuing his masterful performance. He is an actor with a strong presence, and England can't afford to lose him.

[Pg 317]

But to return to the provinces, and the experiences of the pretty little actress.

But let's go back to the provinces and the experiences of the cute little actress.

“The familiarity which necessarily exists between the sexes,” continued she, “both in acting together at night, and rehearsing together by day, is in itself a danger to some girls who are unfortunate enough to be thrown into close companionship with unprincipled men, and have not sufficient worldly wisdom or instinct to guard against their advances.

“The familiarity that naturally exists between the sexes,” she continued, “both when working together at night and practicing together during the day, is inherently a risk for some girls who are unfortunately placed in close association with unscrupulous men, and who lack the worldly experience or intuition to protect themselves against their advances.

“The idea of the stage door being besieged by admirers is far from true in the provinces. With musical comedies of rather a low order there may be a certain amount of hanging about after the performance, but in the case of an ordinary company this rarely happens. The real danger in the provinces does not come from outside.

“The idea of the stage door being swarmed by fans is far from accurate in smaller towns. With somewhat low-quality musical comedies, there might be a bit of lingering around after the show, but for an average company, this hardly ever occurs. The real risk in the provinces doesn’t come from outside.”

“Life on tour for a single man is anything but agreeable. He has no one to look after his clothes, for, needless to say, no landlady will do that, and therefore both his theatre outfit and his private garments are always getting torn and worn. As a rule, however, there are capable women in the company who are willing to sew on buttons, mend, or darn, and if it were not for their good nature, many men would find themselves in sorry plight.”

“Life on tour for a single guy is anything but pleasant. He doesn’t have anyone to take care of his clothes, since, of course, no landlady is going to do that. Because of this, both his stage outfit and his personal clothes are always getting ripped and worn out. Generally, though, there are capable women in the company who are happy to sew on buttons, make repairs, or patch things up, and if it weren't for their kindness, a lot of guys would be in a tough spot.”

She was an intelligent, clever girl, and I asked her how she got on the stage.

She was a smart, clever girl, and I asked her how she ended up on stage.

“After having been trained under a well-known manager for six months and paying him thirty guineas for his services, I was offered an engagement in one of his companies then starting for a ‘Fit-Up’ tour[Pg 318] through Scotland at a £1 week, payable in two instalments, namely, 10s. on Wednesday and 10s. on Saturday. Fortunately, being a costume play, dresses were provided, but I had to buy tights, grease-paint, sandals, and various ornaments, give two weeks’ rehearsals in London free, play for three nights and live for three days in Scotland before I received even the first ten shillings.

“After training for six months under a well-known manager and paying him thirty guineas for his services, I was offered a role in one of his companies that was starting a 'Fit-Up' tour[Pg 318] through Scotland, earning £1 a week, paid in two installments: 10s. on Wednesday and 10s. on Saturday. Thankfully, since it was a costume play, costumes were provided, but I had to buy tights, grease paint, sandals, and various accessories, do two weeks of rehearsals in London for free, perform for three nights, and live for three days in Scotland before I received even the first ten shillings.”

“Happily I was the proud possessor of small means, and shared my rooms and everything with a girl friend who had trained at the same time as myself, consequently we managed with great care to make both ends meet; but it was hard work for us even with my little extra money, and what girls do who have to live entirely on their pay, and put by something for the time when they are out of an engagement, a time which often comes, I do not pretend to know.

“Happily, I was fortunate to have a modest income, and I shared my apartment and everything else with a female friend who had trained at the same time as I did. Because of this, we carefully managed to make ends meet; but it was tough for us even with my little extra cash. I can’t imagine how other girls manage who have to live entirely on their wages and save something for the times they're between jobs, which happens quite often.”

“A ‘Fit-Up’ tour is admittedly the most expensive kind of work for actors, because it means that three nights is the longest period one ever remains in any town, most of the time being booked for ‘one-night places’ only. On this particular tour of sixteen weeks there were no less than sixty ‘one-night places,’ and my total salary amounted to £16.

“A ‘Fit-Up’ tour is definitely the most expensive type of work for actors because it means that three nights is the longest you usually stay in any town, with most of the time being booked for ‘one-night stops’ only. On this particular tour of sixteen weeks, there were no less than sixty ‘one-night stops,’ and my total salary came to £16.”

“It may sound ridiculous to travel with a dog, but mine proved of the greatest use to me on more than one occasion. Our first hunt was always for rooms; the term sounds grand, for the ‘rooms’ generally consisted of one chamber with a bed sunk into the wall, as they are to-day at a great public school like[Pg 319] Harrow. To get to this abode we sometimes had to pass through the family apartments, a most embarrassing proceeding, as the members had generally retired to rest before our return from the theatre; but still, ‘beggars cannot be choosers,’ and in some ways we often felt ourselves in that position.

“It may seem silly to travel with a dog, but mine turned out to be incredibly helpful on more than one occasion. Our first quest was always to find a place to stay; it sounds fancy, but the ‘rooms’ usually consisted of a single chamber with a bed built into the wall, just like at a large public school such as[Pg 319] Harrow. To reach this place, we often had to walk through the family’s living areas, which was really embarrassing since the family members had usually gone to bed by the time we returned from the theater; but still, ‘beggars can’t be choosers,’ and in many ways, we often felt that way.

“Supposing we arrived at a one-night place, we would sally forth and buy

“Supposing we got to a place for one night, we would head out and buy

¼	lb. tea,
¼	lb. butter,
1	small loaf,
½	lb. steak or chop for dinner,
2	eggs for breakfast.

“The landlady’s charge as a rule for two lodgers sharing expenses varied from 2s. 6d. to 3s. for a single night, or 5s. for three nights, so that the one-night business was terribly extravagant.

“The landlady usually charged two lodgers sharing expenses between 2s. 6d. and 3s. for a single night, or 5s. for three nights, making the one-night stay pretty expensive.”

“Being our first tour we were greatly interested by the novelty of everything; it was this novelty and excitement which carried us through. We really needed to be sharp and quick, for in that particular play we had to change our apparel no less than six times. We were Roman ladies, slaves, and Christians intermittently during the evening, being among those massacred in the second act, and resuscitated to be eaten by lions at the end of the play; therefore, while the audience were moved to tears picturing us being devoured by roaring beasts, we were ourselves roaring in the wings in imitation of those bloodthirsty animals.

“Since this was our first tour, we were really excited by everything new around us; it was this excitement that kept us going. We had to be sharp and quick because, in that particular play, we had to change our costumes no less than six times. We played Roman ladies, slaves, and Christians throughout the evening, being among those massacred in the second act and then brought back to be eaten by lions at the end of the play. So, while the audience was moved to tears imagining us being devoured by roaring beasts, we were in the wings imitating those bloodthirsty animals.”

“A ‘Fit-Up’ carries all its own scenery, and nearly[Pg 320] always goes to small towns which have no theatre, only a Town Hall or Corn Exchange, while the dressing-rooms, especially in the latter, are often extremely funny, being like little stalls in a stable, where we sometimes found corn on the floor, and could look over at each other like horses in their stalls.

A ‘Fit-Up’ brings all its own scenery and almost[Pg 320] always travels to small towns that lack a theatre, only having a Town Hall or Corn Exchange. The dressing rooms, especially in the latter, are often quite amusing, resembling little stalls in a stable, where we sometimes found corn on the floor and could glance over at each other like horses in their stalls.

“The ‘Fit-Up’ takes its own carpenter, who generally plays two or three parts during the evening. He has to make the stage fit the scenery or vice versâ, and get everything into working order for the evening performance.

“The ‘Fit-Up’ brings its own carpenter, who usually plays two or three roles during the evening. He has to adjust the stage to match the scenery or vice versâ, and get everything ready for the evening performance."

“On one occasion we arrived at a little town in Scotland and started off on our usual hunt for rooms. We were growing tired and depressed; time was creeping on, and if we did not obtain a meal and rooms soon, we knew we should have to go to the theatre hungry, and spend that night in the wings. Matters were really getting desperate when we met two other members of the company in similar plight. One of them was boldly courageous, however, and when we saw a clergyman coming towards us, suggested she should ask him if he knew of any likely place. She did so, and he very kindly told her to mention his name at an inn where he was sure they would, if possible, put her and her friend up, but he added, ‘There is only one room.’ This, of course, did not help my friend and myself, so after the two had started off we stood wondering what was to become of us.

“Once, we arrived in a small town in Scotland and began our usual search for places to stay. We were getting tired and feeling down; time was passing slowly, and if we didn’t get food and a room soon, we knew we’d have to go to the theatre hungry and spend the night backstage. Things were getting really desperate when we bumped into two other members of the troupe who were in the same situation. One of them was quite brave, though, and when we saw a clergyman walking toward us, she suggested asking him if he knew of any good places. She did, and he kindly told her to mention his name at an inn where he was sure they would, if possible, give her and her friend a room, but he added, ‘There's only one room.’ This didn’t help my friend and me at all, so after the two of them left, we stood there wondering what would happen to us.”

“‘Can you not tell us of any other place?’ we asked. No, he could not, but at this moment a lady[Pg 321] appeared on the scene who asked what we wanted. We explained the difficulty of our situation, and she pondered and thought, but intimated there was no lodging she could recommend, whereupon we proceeded disconsolately on our way, not in the least knowing what we were to do.

“‘Can you tell us about any other place?’ we asked. No, he couldn’t, but just then a lady[Pg 321] appeared and asked what we needed. We explained our difficult situation, and she thought for a moment but hinted that there wasn’t any place she could recommend for lodging. So, we continued on our way feeling disheartened, with no idea what to do next.”

“A moment or two afterwards we heard some one running behind. It was the clergyman. Taking off his hat and almost breathless, he exclaimed, ‘My wife wishes to speak to you,’ and lo and behold that dear wife hurried after him to say she felt so sorry for the position in which we were placed that she would be very glad if my friend and I would give her the pleasure of our company and stay at her house for the night.

“A moment or two later, we heard someone running behind us. It was the clergyman. He took off his hat and, almost out of breath, exclaimed, ‘My wife wants to talk to you,’ and sure enough, that dear wife hurried after him to say she felt really sorry for the situation we were in and would be very happy if my friend and I would join her for the night at their house.”

“We went. She sent from the vicarage to the station for our belongings, and we could not have been more kindly treated if we had been her dearest friends. She had a fire lighted in our bedroom, and there were lovely flowers on the table when we returned from the theatre. They took us for a charming expedition to some old ruins on the following morning, invited friends to meet us at luncheon, and although they did not go to the theatre themselves at night, they sat up for us and had a delightful little supper prepared against our return.

“We went. She sent someone from the vicarage to the station for our things, and we couldn’t have been treated more warmly if we were her closest friends. She had a fire lit in our bedroom, and there were beautiful flowers on the table when we got back from the theater. They took us on a lovely trip to some old ruins the next morning, invited friends to join us for lunch, and even though they didn’t go to the theater that night, they stayed up for us and had a delightful little supper ready for our return.

“I shall never forget the great kindness they showed us. I am sure there are very few people who would be tempted to proffer such courtesy and hospitality to two wandering actresses; and yet if they only knew how warmly their goodness was appreciated and how[Pg 322] beneficent its influence proved, they would feel well repaid.

“I will never forget the incredible kindness they showed us. I’m sure there are very few people who would be inclined to offer such courtesy and hospitality to two wandering actresses; and yet if they only knew how much we appreciated their generosity and how[Pg 322] beneficial its impact was, they would feel well compensated.”

“In the afternoon when it was time to leave, rain was pouring down, but that fact did not deter the clergyman from accompanying us to the station, carrying an umbrella in one hand and a bag in the other, while his little son followed with a great bunch of flowers.

“In the afternoon, when it was time to leave, it was pouring rain, but that didn’t stop the clergyman from walking with us to the station. He carried an umbrella in one hand and a bag in the other, while his little son followed behind with a big bunch of flowers.”

“As if to take us down after such luxurious quarters, we fell upon evil days at the very next town, where we were told it was difficult to get accommodation at all, and therefore made up our minds to take the first we met. It did not look inviting, but the woman said that by the time we had done our shopping she would have everything clean and straight. We bought our little necessaries, and as the door was opened by a small boy handed them in to him, saying we were going for a walk but would be back in less than an hour for tea. On our return we were admitted, but saw no signs of tea, so rang the bell. No one came. We waited ten minutes and rang again. A pause. Suddenly the door was burst open and in reeled the landlady, who banged down a jug of boiling water on the table and departed. We gazed at each other in utter consternation, feeling very much frightened, for we both realised she was drunk.

“As if to bring us down after such nice accommodations, we ran into trouble in the next town, where we were told it was hard to find a place to stay. So we decided to take the first one we found. It didn’t look appealing, but the woman said that by the time we finished our shopping, everything would be clean and neat. We got our essentials, and when a small boy opened the door, we handed them to him, saying we were going for a walk but would be back in less than an hour for tea. When we returned, we were let in, but didn’t see any signs of tea, so we rang the bell. No one came. We waited ten minutes and rang again. There was a pause. Suddenly, the door swung open, and the landlady stumbled in, slamming a jug of boiling water down on the table before leaving. We looked at each other in shock, feeling quite scared, as we both realized she was drunk.”

“We rang again after a time, but as no one attempted to answer our summons, and it being impossible to make a meal off hot water, I crept forth to reconnoitre. There was not a soul to be seen,[Pg 323] not even the little boy, but I ventured into the kitchen to try if I could not find the bread, butter, and tea, so that we might prepare something to eat for ourselves. While so engaged a sonorous sound made me turn round, and there upon the floor with her head resting upon a chair in the corner of the room lay our landlady, dead drunk. It was an appalling sight. We gathered our things together as quickly as we could and determined to leave, put a shilling on the table to appease the good woman’s wrath when she awoke, and were glad to shake the dust of her home from our feet.

“We rang again after a while, but since no one answered our calls, and it wasn’t practical to eat just hot water, I stepped out to check things out. There wasn’t a soul in sight,[Pg 323] not even the little boy, but I ventured into the kitchen to see if I could find some bread, butter, and tea so we could make something to eat. While I was busy with that, I heard a loud noise that made me turn around, and there on the floor with her head resting on a chair in the corner of the room lay our landlady, completely drunk. It was a shocking sight. We quickly gathered our things and decided to leave, placing a shilling on the table to smooth things over when she woke up, and were relieved to get out of her home."

“Not far off was a Temperance Hotel, the sight of which after our recent experience we hailed with delight, and where we engaged a bedroom, to which we repaired, when our evening’s work was finished.

“Not far away was a Temperance Hotel, and after our recent experience, we welcomed it with joy. We booked a bedroom there, which we went to after finishing our evening work.”

“My dog, who always lay at the foot of my bed, woke us in the middle of the night by his low growls. He seemed much perturbed, so we lay and listened. The cause of his anxiety soon became clear; some one was trying to turn the handle of the door, while the voices of two men could be heard distinctly, one of which said:

“My dog, who always lay at the foot of my bed, woke us in the middle of the night with his low growls. He seemed very disturbed, so we lay there and listened. The reason for his anxiety quickly became clear; someone was trying to turn the door handle, and we could clearly hear the voices of two men, one of whom said:

“‘Only two actresses, go on,’ and then the door handle turned again and his friend was pushed in. It was all dark, but at that moment my dog’s growls and barks became so furious and angry as he sprang from the bed that the man precipitately departed, and we were left in peace, although too nervous to sleep.

“‘Just two actresses, come on,’ and then the door handle turned again, and his friend was pushed inside. It was completely dark, but at that moment my dog's growls and barks turned extremely fierce as he jumped off the bed, causing the man to leave quickly, and we were left in peace, even though we were too anxious to sleep.

[Pg 324]

“Of course we complained next morning, but equally of course the landlady knew nothing about the matter. These were our best and worst experiences during my first tour.”

“Of course we complained the next morning, but naturally the landlady didn’t know anything about it. These were our best and worst experiences during my first trip.”

[Pg 325]

CHAPTER XVIII

PERILS OF THE STAGE

Easy to Build a Reputation—Hard to Maintain One—The Theatrical Agent—The Butler’s Letter—Mrs. Siddons’ Warning—Theatrical Aspirants—The Fake Manager—The Actress in Court—A Decade of Success—Temptations—Late Nights—An Actress’s Ad—A Deceitful Agreement—Rules Behind the Scenes—Edward Terry—Success is Fleeting.

MANKIND curses bad luck, but seldom blesses good fate. It is comparatively easy to make a reputation once given a start by kindly fate; but extremely difficult to maintain one in any walk of life, and this applies particularly to the stage.

MANKIND curses bad luck, but rarely praises good fortune. It’s relatively easy to build a reputation once you get a boost from good luck; however, it’s really challenging to keep that reputation in any field, especially in theater.

Happening to meet a very pretty girl who had made quite a hit in the provinces and was longing for a London engagement, I asked her what her experience of theatrical agents had been.

Happening to meet a really attractive girl who had made quite an impression in the provinces and was eager for a London gig, I asked her what her experience with theatrical agents had been.

“Perfectly horrible,” she replied, “and heart-breaking into the bargain. For three whole months I have been daily to a certain office, and in all this weary time I have only had five interviews with the manager.”

“Absolutely dreadful,” she replied, “and incredibly heart-wrenching too. For three whole months, I’ve been going to a certain office every day, and in all that exhausting time, I’ve only had five interviews with the manager.”

“Is it so difficult to get work?”

“Is it really that hard to find a job?”

“It is almost impossible. When I arrive, the little stuffy office is more or less crowded; there are women[Pg 326] seeking engagements for the music halls, fat, common, vulgar women who laugh loud and make coarse jokes; there are sickly young men who want to play lovers’ parts on the legitimate stage, and who, according to the actors’ habit, never take their hats off. It is a strange fact that actors invariably rehearse in hats or caps, and sit in them on all occasions like Jews in synagogues.

“It’s almost impossible. When I get there, the small, stuffy office is pretty crowded; there are women[Pg 326] looking for gigs in the music halls, loud, common, and vulgar women who laugh loudly and tell crude jokes; there are sickly young men who want to play the role of lovers on the legitimate stage, and who, like actors usually do, never take off their hats. It’s a funny thing that actors always rehearse in hats or caps and wear them at all times, just like Jews do in synagogues.”

“There are children who come alone and wait about daily for an engagement, children who have been employed in the pantomime, and whose parents are more or less dependent on their gains, and there is one girl, she is between thirteen and fourteen, whom I have met there every day for weeks and weeks. Seventy-four days after the pantomime closed she was still without work, and I watched that child get thinner and paler time by time as she told me with tears in her eyes she was the sole support of a sick mother.

“There are kids who come here alone and wait around every day for a job, kids who have worked in the pantomime, and whose parents rely on what they earn, and there’s one girl, she’s between thirteen and fourteen, whom I've seen there every day for weeks. Seventy-four days after the pantomime ended, she was still out of work, and I watched her get thinner and paler each time as she told me with tears in her eyes that she was the only support for her sick mother.”

“When I go there, the gentleman who has the office makes me shrivel up.

“When I go there, the guy in the office makes me feel really small.”

“‘Do you specialise?’ he asks, peeping over the edge of his gold-rimmed spectacles. He jots down my replies on a sheet of paper. ‘Character or juvenile parts?’ he inquires. ‘What salary? Whom have you played with?’ And having made these and other inquiries he looks through a series of books, turns over the pages, says, ‘I am sorry I have nothing for you to-day, you might look in again to-morrow.’ And this same farce or tragedy is repeated every time.”

“‘Do you specialize?’ he asks, peering over the edge of his gold-rimmed glasses. He scribbles my answers on a piece of paper. ‘Character or juvenile roles?’ he asks. ‘What’s your salary? Who have you acted with?’ After making these and other questions, he flips through a bunch of books, turns the pages, says, ‘I’m sorry, I have nothing for you today. You might want to check back tomorrow.’ And this same routine or drama plays out every time.”

“But is it worth while going?” I asked.

“But is it worth going?” I asked.

[Pg 327]

“Hardly; one wears out one’s shoe-leather and one’s temper; and yet after all the theatrical agent is practically my only chance of an engagement. This man is all right, he is not a bogus agent, but he simply has a hundred applicants for every single post he has to fill.”

“Barely; you wear out your shoes and your patience; and still, the theatrical agent is basically my only shot at getting a job. This guy is legit, he’s not a phony agent, but he seriously has a hundred people applying for every single role he needs to fill.”

She went back day after day, and week after week, and each time the same scene was enacted, but no engagement came of it. Finally, brought to the verge of starvation, she had to accept work again in the provinces, and so desert an invalid father. She happened to be a lady, but of course many applicants for histrionic fame ought to be kitchen-maids or laundry-maids: they have no qualifications whatever to any higher walk of life.

She went back day after day and week after week, and every time the same scene played out, but no offer came from it. Eventually, pushed to the brink of starvation, she had to find work again in the countryside, leaving her invalid father behind. She was a lady, but obviously, many people chasing acting fame should be kitchen maids or laundry maids: they have no qualifications for any higher position in life.

Below is an original letter showing the kind of person who wants to go on the stage. It was sent to one of our best-known actresses when she was starring with her own company.

Below is an original letter showing the kind of person who wants to go on stage. It was sent to one of our best-known actresses when she was starring with her own company.

“... Castle
“Oct 19th 1897

“Oct 19, 1897

“Dear Madam

“Dear Ma'am”

“i writ you this few lins to see if you would have a opening for me as i would be an Actor on the Stage for my hole thought and life is on the stage and when i have any time you will always feind me readin at some play i make a nice female as i have a very soft voice Dear Madam i hop you will not refuse me i have got no frends alive to keep me back and every one tells me that you would make the best teacher that i could get Dear lady i again ask you[Pg 328] not to refuse me i will go on what ever termes you think best i have been up at the theatre 4 times seeing you i enclose my Card to let you see it plese to send it back again and i enclose 12 stamps to you to telegraf by return if you would like to see me or if you would like to come down to the Castle to see me No more at present

"I’m writing you this short note to see if you have an opening for me. I want to be an actor on stage because my whole life revolves around it. Whenever I have free time, you’ll find me reading a play. I make a lovely female character since I have a very soft voice. Dear Madam, I hope you won’t refuse me; I don’t have any friends left to hold me back, and everyone tells me that you would be the best teacher I could ask for. Dear lady, I again ask you not to turn me down. I’m willing to accept whatever terms you think are best. I’ve been to the theater four times to see you. I’m enclosing my card so you can see it; please send it back to me. I’ve also included 12 stamps for you to telegraph me if you’d like to meet or if you’d like to come down to the Castle to see me. No more for now."

“but remans your
“Obedient servant
“Peter W——.”

“but remains your
“Obedient servant
“Peter W——.”

This was a letter from a man with aspirations, and below is a letter from Mrs. Siddons. If this actress, whose position was probably the grandest and greatest of any woman on the stage, can express such sentiments, what must be the experiences of less successful players?

This was a letter from a man with dreams, and below is a letter from Mrs. Siddons. If this actress, who held probably the highest and most prestigious position of any woman in theater, can share such feelings, what must be the experiences of less successful performers?

“Mrs. Siddons presents her compliments to Miss Goldsmith, & takes the liberty to inform her, that altho’ herself she has enjoyed all the advantages arising from holding the first situation in the drama, yet that those advantages have been so counterbalanced by anxiety & mortification, that she long ago resolved never to be accessory to bringing any one into so precarious & so arduous a profession.”

“Mrs. Siddons sends her regards to Miss Goldsmith and takes the liberty to inform her that although she has enjoyed all the benefits of holding the top position in theater, those benefits have been overshadowed by anxiety and disappointment. Therefore, she decided a long time ago that she would never help anyone enter such a risky and demanding profession.”

The deterrent words of Mrs. Siddons had little effect in her day, just as the deterrent words of those at the top of the profession have little effect now. Consequently, not only does the honest agent flourish,[Pg 329] but the bogus agent and bogus manager grow rich on the credulity of young men and women.

The warnings from Mrs. Siddons didn't have much impact in her time, just like the warnings from those at the top of the industry don’t have much effect today. As a result, not only do honest agents thrive,[Pg 329] but the fake agents and fake managers also get wealthy off the naivety of young men and women.

Speaking of the bogus manager, Sir Henry Irving observed:

Speaking of the fake manager, Sir Henry Irving noted:

“The actor’s art is thought to be so easy—in fact, many people deny it is an art at all—and so many writers persistently assert no preparation is needed for a career upon the stage, that it is little wonder deluded people only find out too late that acting, as Voltaire said, is one of the most rare and difficult of arts. The allurements, too, held forth by unscrupulous persons, who draw money from foolish folk under the pretence of obtaining lucrative engagements for them, help to swell very greatly the list of unfortunate dupes. I hope that these matters may in time claim the attention of serious-minded persons, for the increasing number of theatrical applicants for charity, young persons, too, is little less than alarming.”

“The actor’s craft is often seen as easy—in fact, many people argue it’s not even a craft at all—and so many writers keep insisting that no preparation is needed for a career on stage, that it’s no surprise that misled individuals only realize too late that acting, as Voltaire said, is one of the most rare and challenging arts. The temptations offered by unscrupulous individuals, who profit from naive people by promising them lucrative roles, only add to the long list of unfortunate victims. I hope that these issues will eventually capture the attention of serious-minded individuals, because the growing number of young theater applicants seeking charity is quite alarming.”

This remark of Sir Henry’s is hardly surprising when below is a specimen application received by the manager of a London suburban theatre from a female farm servant in Essex:

This comment from Sir Henry isn’t surprising at all when you consider the example application that the manager of a suburban London theater received from a female farm worker in Essex:

“Deer sur,—I works hon a farm but wants to turn actin. Would lik ingagement for the pantomin in hany ways which you think I be fit for. I sings in the church coir and plais the melodion. I wants to change my work for the stage, has am sik of farm wark, eas last tater liftin nigh finished me.”

“Dear Sir,—I work on a farm but want to pursue acting. I would like to be considered for roles in the pantomime in any capacity you think I would be suitable for. I sing in the church choir and play the melodion. I want to change my job to the stage, as I am tired of farm work; the last potato harvest nearly finished me.”

Another was written in an almost illegible hand which ran:

Another was written in an almost unreadable hand that said:

[Pg 330]

“Honoured Sir,—i wants to go on the staige i am a servent and my marster sais i am a good smart made so i wod like to play act mades parts untill i can do laidies i doant mind wages for a bit as i like your acting i’d like to act in your theter so i am going to call soon.”

“Dear Sir,—I want to go on stage. I am a servant, and my master says I am a good, smart maid, so I would like to play maid parts until I can do ladies. I don't mind wages for a while since I like your acting. I’d love to act in your theater, so I will be calling soon.”

Truly the assurance of people is amazing; to imagine they can enter the theatrical profession without even common education is absurd. Only lately another stage-struck servant appeared in the courts. Although an honest girl, she was tempted to steal from her mistress to pay £3 7s. to an agent for a problematical theatrical engagement. She is only one of many.

Truly, the confidence of some people is incredible; to think they can pursue a career in theater without even basic education is ridiculous. Just recently, another aspiring actress showed up in the courts. Even though she was a decent girl, she was driven to steal from her employer to pay £3 7s. to an agent for a questionable acting opportunity. She is just one of many.

One day a woman stood before a manager. She had been so persistent for days in her desire to see him, and appeared so remarkable, that the stage door-keeper at last inquired if he might admit her.

One day, a woman stood in front of a manager. She had been so persistent for days in wanting to see him and seemed so impressive that the stage door attendant finally asked if he could let her in.

“Please, sir, I wants to be an actress,” she began, on entering the manager’s room.

“Please, sir, I want to be an actress,” she said as she entered the manager’s room.

“Do you? And what qualifications have you?”

“Do you? And what are your qualifications?”

“I’m a cook.”

"I'm a chef."

“That, my good woman, will hardly help you on the stage.”

“That, my good woman, probably won’t help you on stage.”

“And I’ve been to the the-a-ters with my young man—I’m keeping company with ’im ye know, and——”

“And I’ve been to the theaters with my boyfriend—I’m dating him, you know, and——”

“Well, well.”

"Well, well."

“And ’e and I thinks you ain’t got the right tone of hactress for them parts. Now I’m a real cook I am, and I don’t wear them immoral ’igh ’eels, and[Pg 331] tiny waists, I dresses respectable I do, and I’d just give the right style to the piece. My pal—she’s a parlourmaid she is—could do duchesses and them like—she’s the air she ’as—but I ain’t ambitious, I’d just like to be what I am, and show people ’ow a real cook should be played—Lor’ bless ye, sir, I don’t cook in diamond rings.”

“And he and I think you don’t have the right tone of actress for those roles. Now, I’m a real cook, I am, and I don’t wear those immoral high heels and tiny waists. I dress respectably, I do, and I’d bring the right style to the piece. My friend—she’s a parlormaid—could do duchesses and those sorts—she has the presence for it—but I’m not ambitious. I’d just like to be what I am and show people how a real cook should be portrayed. Lord bless you, sir, I don’t cook in diamond rings.”

That manager did not engage the lady; but he learnt a lesson in realism which resulted in Miss FitzClair being asked to dispense with her rings on the stage that night.

That manager didn’t approach the lady; but he learned a lesson in realism that led to Miss FitzClair being asked to take off her rings on stage that night.

With a parting nod the “lady” said as she left the door:

With a final nod, the “lady” said as she walked out the door:

“Your young man don’t make love proper neither, you should just see ’ow ’Arry makes love you should, he’d make you all sit up, I know, he does it that beautiful he do—your man’s a arf-’arted bloke ’e is, seems afraid of the gal, perhaps it’s ’er ’igh ’eels and diamonds ’e’s afraid of, eh?”

“Your guy doesn’t make love right either. You should see how Harry does it; he’d impress you all, I know he would. He does it so beautifully—your man’s just a half-hearted guy, he is. He seems scared of the girl, maybe it’s her high heels and diamonds that make him nervous, huh?”

The lady took herself off.

The woman left.

These are only a few instances to show how all sorts and conditions of people are stage-struck. That delightful man Sir Walter Besant lay down an excellent rule for young authors, “Never pay to produce a book”—it spells ruin to the aspirant. The same may be said of the stage. Never part with money to get on the stage. It may be advisable to accept a little if one cannot get much; but never, never to pay for a footing. Services will be accepted while given free or paid for, and dispensed with when the time comes for payment to be received.

These are just a few examples to show how people from all walks of life can be captivated by the idea of being on stage. The wonderful Sir Walter Besant established a great rule for aspiring writers: “Never pay to produce a book”—it leads to disaster for those hoping to succeed. The same is true for acting. Never give up money to get onto the stage. It might be okay to accept a small amount if you can’t get much, but never, ever pay for a chance to perform. Services will be accepted whether they're given for free or paid for, but they’ll be dropped when it’s time to get paid.

[Pg 332]

Among the many temptations of stage life is drink. The actor feels a little below par, he has a great scene before him, and while waiting in his dressing-room for the “call boy” he flies to a glass of whiskey or champagne. He gets through the trying ordeal, comes off the boards excited and streaming at every pore, flings himself into a chair, and during the time his dresser is dragging him out of his clothes, or rubbing him down, yields to the temptation of another glass. Many of our actors are most abstemious, though more than one prominent star has been known to mumble incoherently on the stage.

Among the many temptations of life on stage is alcohol. The actor feels a bit off, has an important scene coming up, and while waiting in their dressing room for the “call boy,” they reach for a glass of whiskey or champagne. They get through the intense experience, come off stage buzzing and sweating, collapse into a chair, and while their dresser is taking off their costume or helping them cool down, they give in to the temptation of another drink. Many of our actors are quite moderate, but more than one famous star has been known to mumble incoherently on stage.

Matinée days are always a strain for every one in the theatre, and there are people foolish enough to think a little stimulant will enable them to get through, not knowing a continuance of forced strength spells damnation.

Matinée days are always tough for everyone in the theater, and some people are naive enough to believe that a little boost will help them get through, not realizing that pushing themselves like this will lead to disaster.

Yes. The stage is surrounded by temptations. Morally, extravagantly, and alcoholically the webs of excess are ready to engulf the unwary, and therefore, when people keep straight, run fair, and save their pennies, they are to be congratulated, and deserve the approbation of mankind. He who has never been tempted, is not a hero in comparison with the man who has turned aside from the enticing wiles of sin.

Yes. The stage is surrounded by temptations. Morally, extravagantly, and with alcohol, the webs of excess are ready to trap the unsuspecting. Therefore, when people stay on the straight path, play fair, and save their money, they deserve congratulations and the approval of society. Someone who has never faced temptation is not a hero compared to the person who has turned away from the seductive tricks of sin.

There is a certain class of woman who continually appears in the police courts, described as an “actress.” She is always “smartly dressed,” and is generally up before the magistrate or judge for being “drunk and disorderly”—suing her husband or some one else for[Pg 333] maintenance—or claiming to have some grievance for a breach of promise or lost jewellery.

There’s a specific group of women who frequently show up in the police courts, labeled as “actresses.” They are always “stylishly dressed” and usually appear before the magistrate or judge for being “drunk and disorderly”—either suing their husbands or someone else for[Pg 333] support—or claiming to have some issue regarding a broken promise or missing jewelry.

These “ladies” often describe themselves as actresses: and perhaps they sometimes are; but if so they are no honour to their profession. There is another stamp of woman who becomes an actress by persuading some weak man to run a theatre for her. Sympathy between men and women is often dangerous. She generally ends by ruining him, and he in running away from her. These bogus actresses, with their motor cars and diamonds, are more dangerous and certainly more attractive than the bogus manager. They are the vultures who suck young men’s blood. They are the flashy, showy women who attract silly servant-girls with the idea the stage spells wealth and success; but they are the scourge of the profession.

These "ladies" often call themselves actresses, and maybe they are sometimes; but if that’s the case, they don’t bring any respect to their profession. There’s another type of woman who becomes an actress by convincing some weak man to run a theater for her. The sympathy between men and women can often be dangerous. She usually ends up ruining him, and he ends up running away from her. These fake actresses, with their fancy cars and diamonds, are more dangerous and definitely more appealing than the fake manager. They are the vultures that drain young men of their vitality. They are the flashy, attention-seeking women who lure naive young women with the idea that the stage equals wealth and success; but they are a blight on the profession.

Good and charming women are to be found upon the stage. Virtue usually triumphs; they are happy in their home life, devoted to their children, sympathetic to their friends, and generous almost to a fault. The leading actresses are, generally speaking, not only the best exponents of their art, but the best women too. The flash and dash come to the police courts, and end their days in the workhouse.

Good and charming women can be found on stage. Virtue usually wins; they have happy home lives, are devoted to their children, supportive of their friends, and almost overly generous. The leading actresses are generally not just the best at their craft, but also the best women. The excitement and drama go to the police courts, ending up in the workhouse.

The stage at best means very, very hard work, and theatrical success is only fleeting in most cases. It must be seized upon when caught and treated as a fickle jade, because money and popularity both take wings and fly away sooner than expected. In all professions men and women quickly reach their zenith, and if they are clever may hold that position for ten[Pg 334] years. After that decline is inevitable and more rapid than the ascent has been.

The stage really means a lot of hard work, and most of the time, theatrical success is short-lived. It should be grabbed when you have the chance and handled carefully, because both money and fame can disappear quicker than you think. In every profession, people typically reach their peak, and if they’re smart, they might stay at that level for ten[Pg 334] years. After that, a decline is unavoidable and happens faster than the rise did.

If a reputation is to be made, it is generally achieved by either man or woman before the age of forty. By fifty the summit of fame is reached, and the downward grade begun. One can observe this again and again in every profession.

If someone is going to build a reputation, they usually do it by the time they hit forty. By fifty, they’ve reached the peak of their fame, and then it starts to decline. You can see this pattern over and over in every profession.

A great actor, doctor, lawyer, writer, or painter has ten years of success, and if he does not provide for his future during those ten years, ’tis sad for him. As the tide turns on the shore, so the tide turns on the careers of men and women alike.

A great actor, doctor, lawyer, writer, or painter has ten years of success, and if they don't plan for their future during those ten years, it’s unfortunate for them. Just like the tide changes on the shore, the tide also shifts in the careers of both men and women.

Public life is not necessarily bad. In the first place, it is only the man with strong individuality who can ever attain publicity. He must be above the ordinary ruck and gamut, or he will never receive public recognition. If, therefore, he is stronger than his brother, he should be stronger also to resist temptation, to disdain self-love or vainglory. The moment his life becomes public he is under the microscope, and should remember his influence is great for good or ill. Popular praise is pleasant, but after all it means little; one’s own conscience is the thing, that alone tells whether we have given of our best or reached our ideal. The true artist is never satisfied, therefore the true artist never suffers from a swelled head; it is the minor fry who enjoy that ailment.

Public life isn’t necessarily a bad thing. First of all, only someone with a strong sense of self can really gain public attention. He needs to stand out from the crowd; otherwise, he won’t be recognized. So, if he’s stronger than others, he should also be stronger in resisting temptation and avoiding self-love or vanity. Once his life is in the public eye, he’s under scrutiny and must remember that his influence can be significant, for better or worse. While it’s nice to receive public praise, it ultimately doesn’t mean much; what really matters is our own conscience, which tells us if we’ve given our best or achieved our goals. A true artist is never fully satisfied, which is why they don’t suffer from inflated egos; it’s the lesser talents who tend to have that problem.

The temptations behind the footlights are enormous. It is useless denying the fact. One may love the stage, and count many actors and actresses among one[Pg 335]’s friends; but one cannot help seeing that theatrical life is beset by dangers and pitfalls.

The temptations behind the stage are huge. There's no denying it. You might love performing and have a lot of actor friends, but it's hard to ignore that life in theater is full of risks and challenges.

Young men and women alike are run after and fawned upon by foolish people of both sexes. Morally this is bad. Actors are flattered and worshipped as though they were little gods. This in itself tends to evoke egotism. The gorgeous apparel of the theatre makes men and women extravagant in their dress; the constant going backwards and forwards in all weathers inclines them to think they must save time or themselves by driving; the fear of catching cold makes them indulge in cabs and carriages they cannot afford, and extravagance becomes their besetting sin. Every one wants to look more prosperous than his neighbour, every recipient of forty shillings a week wishes the world to think his salary is forty pounds.

Young men and women are pursued and adored by foolish people of both genders. Morally, this is wrong. Actors are praised and idolized as if they were tiny gods. This, in itself, tends to foster egotism. The beautiful clothing of the theater makes people extravagant in their attire; the constant movement in all weather leads them to believe they need to save time or themselves by driving; the fear of catching a cold makes them rely on cabs and carriages they can’t afford, and extravagance becomes their main flaw. Everyone wants to appear more successful than their neighbor, and anyone earning forty shillings a week wants the world to think their salary is forty pounds.

Apart from pay, the life is exacting. The leaders of the profession seldom sup out: they are tired after the evening’s work, and know that burning the candle at both ends means early extinction, but the Tottie Veres and Gladys Fitz-Glynes are always ready to be entertained.

Apart from the pay, life is demanding. The leaders in the profession rarely go out for dinner: they are worn out after a long day's work and understand that pushing themselves too hard leads to burnout, but the Tottie Veres and Gladys Fitz-Glynes are always up for a good time.

The following advertisement appeared one day in a leading London paper:

The following advertisement was published one day in a major London newspaper:

“Stage.—I am nearly eighteen, tall, fair, good-looking, have a little money, and wish to adopt the stage as a profession. Engagement wanted.”

Stage.—I'm almost eighteen, tall, fair-skinned, attractive, have some money, and want to pursue acting as a career. Looking for a role.

What was the result? Piles of letters, containing all sorts of offers to help Miss A—— to her doom. A certain gentleman wrote from a well-known fashionable[Pg 336] club, the letter being marked Private, saying: “I should like if possible to assist you in your desire to go on the stage, but I am not professional myself in any way. This is purely a matter in which I might be happy to take an interest and assist, if you think proper to communicate with me by letter, stating exactly the circumstances, and when I can have an interview with you on the subject.” This letter might be capable of many interpretations. The gentleman might, of course, have been purely philanthropic in his motives; we will give him the benefit of the doubt.

What was the result? A pile of letters, filled with all kinds of offers to help Miss A—— reach her fate. One gentleman wrote from a well-known, trendy[Pg 336] club, marking his letter Private, saying: “I would like to help you pursue your desire to go on stage if possible, but I'm not a professional in any way. This is simply a matter I would be happy to take an interest in and assist you with, if you feel comfortable reaching out to me in writing, explaining your situation and when we could meet to discuss it.” This letter could be interpreted in several ways. The gentleman might have had purely philanthropic intentions; we'll give him the benefit of the doubt.

Others were yet more strange and suggestive of peril for the girl of eighteen.

Others were even stranger and hinted at danger for the eighteen-year-old girl.

What might have been the end of all this? Supposing Miss A—— had granted an interview to No. 1. Supposing further he had advanced the money for the novice to buy an engagement, what might have proved her fate? She would have been in his clutches—young, inexperienced, powerless, in the hands of a man who, if really philanthropic, could easily have found persons needing interest and assistance among his own immediate surroundings, instead of going wide afield to dispense his charity and selecting for the purpose an unknown girl of eighteen who innocently stated she was good-looking.

What could have been the outcome of all this? Imagine if Miss A—— had agreed to meet No. 1. And suppose he had given the money to the newcomer to buy an engagement—what could have been her fate? She would have been trapped—young, naive, and helpless—in the hands of a man who, if he truly cared about helping others, could have easily found people needing support right in his own circle rather than searching far and wide to offer his charity to an unknown eighteen-year-old girl who simply claimed she was attractive.

Miss Geneviève Ward, a woman who has climbed to the top of her profession, allows me to tell the following little story about herself as a warning to others, for it was only her own genius—a very rare gift—which dragged her to the front.

Miss Geneviève Ward, a woman who has reached the pinnacle of her career, lets me share this little story about herself as a cautionary tale for others, for it was only her own talent—a truly exceptional gift—that brought her to the forefront.

By permission of W. Boughton & Sons, Photographers, Lowestoft.

MR. GEORGE GROSSMITH.

Mr. George Grossmith.

[Pg 337]

When she first came to England, with a name already well established in America, expecting an immediate engagement, she could not get work at all. She applied to the best-known theatrical agents in London. Day after day she went there, she a woman in her prime and at the top of her profession, and yet she was unable to obtain work.

When she first arrived in England, already having a well-known name in America and expecting to land a role right away, she couldn't find any work at all. She reached out to the most reputable theatrical agents in London. Day after day, she went there, a woman in her prime and at the peak of her career, yet she still couldn't secure any jobs.

“Tragedy is dead, Miss Ward,” exclaimed Mr. B——. “Young women with fine physical developments are what we want.”

“Tragedy is out, Miss Ward,” shouted Mr. B——. “We need young women with great looks.”

It was not talent, not experience, that were required according to this well-known agent, but legs and arms—a poor standard, truly, for the drama of the country.

It wasn’t talent or experience that this well-known agent thought were needed, but just legs and arms—a pretty low standard, really, for the country's drama.

However, at last there came a day, after many weary months of waiting, when some one was wanted to play tragedy at Manchester. It was only a twelve weeks’ engagement, and the pay but £8 a week. It was a ridiculous sum for one in Miss Ward’s position to accept, but she was worn out with anxiety, and determined not to go back to America and own herself vanquished; therefore she accepted the offer, paid the agent heavily, and went to Manchester, where she played for twelve weeks as arranged. Before many nights had passed, however, she had signed a further engagement at double the pay. Her chance in England had come and she had won.

However, finally, after many exhausting months of waiting, the day arrived when someone was needed to perform a tragedy in Manchester. It was only a twelve-week engagement, and the pay was just £8 a week. It was an absurd amount for someone in Miss Ward’s position to accept, but she was worn out from anxiety and was determined not to return to America and admit defeat; so she accepted the offer, paid the agent a hefty fee, and went to Manchester, where she performed for twelve weeks as planned. However, before too many nights had passed, she had signed another contract for double the pay. Her opportunity in England had come, and she had succeeded.

If such delay, such misery, such anxiety can befall those whose position is already established, and whose talents are known, what must await the novice?

If experienced people with established positions and known talents can face such delays, misery, and anxiety, what can the newcomer expect?

[Pg 338]

“I suppose I have kept more girls off the stage than any living woman,” said Miss Ward. “Short, ugly, fat, common, hopeless girls come to me to ask my advice. There is not one in twenty who has the slightest chance, not the very slightest chance, of success. Servants come, dressmakers, wives of military men, daughters of bishops and titled folk. The mania seems to spread from high to low, and yet hardly one of them has a voice, figure, carriage, or anything suitable for the stage, even setting dramatic talent aside.”

“I think I've discouraged more girls from performing than any other woman alive,” said Miss Ward. “Short, unattractive, overweight, ordinary, desperate girls come to me for advice. There's barely one in twenty who has any chance at all—absolutely no chance—of succeeding. I get requests from servants, dressmakers, military wives, and daughters of bishops and nobility. The obsession seems to trickle down from the upper class to the lower, yet hardly any of them have the voice, appearance, poise, or anything else that's right for the stage, even ignoring any dramatic talent.”

“What do you say to them?”

“Tell them right out. I think it is kinder to them, and more generous to the drama. ‘Mind you,’ I say, ‘I am telling you this for your own good; if I consulted personal profit I should take you as a pupil and fill my pocket with your guineas; but you are hopeless, nothing could possibly make you succeed with such a temperament, or voice, or size, or whatever it may be, so you had better turn your attention at once to some other occupation.’”

“Just tell them straight up. I think it's kinder to them and more fair to the situation. ‘Just so you know,’ I say, ‘I'm saying this for your own benefit; if I was looking out for my own gain, I would take you on as a student and cash in on your money; but you’re not going to make it, and nothing could realistically help you succeed with your attitude, voice, size, or whatever else it is, so you should definitely focus on something else instead.’”

I have known several cases in which Miss Ward has been most kind by helping real talent gratuitously; many of the women on the stage to-day owe their position to her timely aid.

I have seen several instances where Miss Ward has been incredibly generous by helping real talent for free; many of the women on stage today owe their careers to her timely support.

“Warn girls,” she continued, “when asked for a bonus, never, NEVER to give one.”

“Warn girls,” she continued, “when asked for a bonus, never, NEVER give one.”

It is no uncommon thing for a bogus agent to ask for a £10 bonus, and promise to secure an engagement at £1 a week. That engagement is never procured, or, if it be, lasts only during rehearsals—which are not paid for—or for a couple of weeks, after which the girl[Pg 339] is told she does not suit the part, and dismissed. Thus the matter ends so far as a triumphal stage entry is concerned.

It’s not uncommon for a fake agent to ask for a £10 fee and promise to get a job paying £1 a week. That job is never secured, or if it is, it only lasts through rehearsals—which aren’t paid—or for a couple of weeks, after which the girl[Pg 339] is told she doesn’t fit the role and is let go. This is how things wrap up when it comes to making a big entrance on stage.

It may be well here to give an actual case of bonus as an example.

It might be helpful to provide a real-life example of a bonus.

A wretched girl signed an agreement to the following effect. She was to pay £20 down to the agent as a fee, to provide her own dresses and travelling expenses, and to play the first four months without any salary at all. At the expiration of that time she was to receive 10s. a week for six months, with an increase of £1 a week for the following year.

A miserable girl signed a contract that stated the following: She would pay £20 upfront to the agent as a fee, bring her own costumes and cover her travel expenses, and work the first four months without any pay at all. After that period, she would earn 10s. a week for six months, with a raise of £1 a week for the next year.

On this munificent want of salary the girl was expected to pay rent, dress well for the stage, have good food so as to be able to fulfil her engagements properly, attend endless rehearsals, and withal consider herself fortunate in obtaining a hearing at all. She broke the engagement on excellent advice, and the agent wisely did not take action against her, as he at first threatened to do.

On this generous want of salary, the girl was expected to pay rent, dress nicely for the stage, eat well to perform her duties properly, attend countless rehearsals, and still feel lucky just to get a chance at all. She ended the contract based on sound advice, and the agent wisely chose not to take action against her, despite his initial threats.

In the sixties Edward Terry essayed the stage. Seeing an advertisement, the future comedian offered his services at a salary of 15s. a week.

In the sixties, Edward Terry tried his hand at acting. After seeing an ad, the future comedian offered his services for a salary of 15s. a week.

Above the door was announced in grand style:

“Madame Castaglione’s Dramatic Company, taking advantage of the closing of the Theatres Royal Covent Garden, Drury Lane, Lyceum, etc., will appear at Christchurch for six nights only.”

“Madame Castaglione’s Dramatic Company, seizing the opportunity from the closure of the Theatres Royal Covent Garden, Drury Lane, Lyceum, etc., will perform at Christchurch for just six nights.”

It was an extraordinary company, in which several parts were acted by one person during the same evening.[Pg 340] There was only one play-book, from which every actor copied out his own part, no one was ever paid, and general chaos reigned. Edward Terry had fallen into the hands of one of the most notorious bogus managers of his time. His next engagement was more lucrative. He was always sure of playing eighteen parts a week, and sometimes received 20s. in return. Matters are better now; but strange stories of early struggle crop up occasionally, and the bogus manager-agent, in spite of the Actors’ Association and the Benevolent Fund, still exists.

It was an amazing company where several roles were played by one person in the same night.[Pg 340] There was only one script, and each actor copied their own lines from it, no one ever got paid, and everything was in complete disarray. Edward Terry found himself working for one of the most infamous fake managers of his time. His next job paid better. He could always count on playing eighteen roles a week and sometimes got 20s. in return. Things are better now, but strange stories of early struggles still pop up sometimes, and the fake manager-agent, despite the Actors’ Association and the Benevolent Fund, still exists.

Edward Terry had to fight hard in order to attain a position, and thoroughly deserves all the success that has fallen to his lot; but all stage aspirants are not Edward Terrys, and then their plight in the hands of the bogus agent is sad indeed, especially in the provinces where he flourishes.

Edward Terry had to work really hard to achieve his position and truly deserves all the success that has come his way. However, not all aspiring actors are like Edward Terry, and their situation with dishonest agents is really unfortunate, especially in the provinces where these agents thrive.

Those who know the stage only from the front of the house little realise the strict regulations enforced behind the scenes in our first-class London theatres, the discipline of which is almost as severe as that of a Government office. Each theatre has its code of rules and regulations, which generally number about twenty, but are sometimes so lengthy they are embodied in a handbook. These rules and regulations have to be signed by every one, from principal to super, and run somewhat in this wise:

Those who only know the theater from the audience don’t realize the strict rules enforced behind the scenes in our top London theaters, where the discipline is almost as rigid as that of a government office. Each theater has its own set of rules, usually around twenty, but sometimes they're so extensive that they’re included in a handbook. Everyone, from the lead actors to the crew, has to sign these rules, which typically go like this:

“The hair of the face must be shaven if required by the exigencies of the play represented.”

“The facial hair must be shaved if needed for the demands of the play being performed.”

“All engagements to be regarded as exclusive, and no artiste shall appear at any other theatre or hall[Pg 341] without the consent in writing of the manager or his representative.”

“All engagements will be considered exclusive, and no performer shall appear at any other theater or venue[Pg 341] without written consent from the manager or their representative.”

“All artistes engaged are to play any part or parts for which they may be cast, and to understudy if required.”

“All artists involved are to perform any roles they are cast in and to understudy if needed.”

“In the event of the theatre being closed through riot, fire, public calamity, royal demise, epidemic, or illness of principal, no salary shall be claimed during such closing.”

“In case the theater is closed due to a riot, fire, public disaster, royal death, epidemic, or illness of a key person, no salary will be payable during that closure.”

A clause in a comic opera agreement ran:

A clause in a comic opera contract stated:

“No salary will be payable for any nights or days on which the artiste may not perform, whether absenting himself by permission, or through illness, or any other unavoidable cause, and should the artiste be absent for more than twelve consecutive performances under any circumstances whatever, this engagement may be cancelled by the manager without any notice whatsoever.”

“No salary will be paid for any nights or days when the artist does not perform, whether they are absent with permission, due to illness, or for any other unavoidable reason. If the artist is absent for more than twelve consecutive performances for any reason, the manager can cancel this engagement without any notice.”

Thus it will be seen an engagement even when obtained hangs on a slender thread, and twelve days’ illness, although an understudy may step in to take the part, threatens dismissal for the unfortunate sufferer.

Thus, it will be seen that an engagement, even when secured, hangs by a thin thread, and twelve days of illness, even though an understudy can step in to fill the role, puts the unfortunate person at risk of being dismissed.

Of course culpable negligence of the rules may be punished by instant dismissal, but for ordinary offences fines are levied, in proportion to the salary of the offender. Sometimes a fine is sixpence, sometimes a guinea, but an ordinary one is half a crown “for talking behind the scenes during a performance.” Some people are always being fined.

Of course, serious violations of the rules can lead to immediate dismissal, but for minor offenses, fines are imposed based on the offender's salary. Sometimes a fine is just sixpence, other times it can be a guinea, but a typical fine is half a crown “for talking offstage during a performance.” Some people are constantly getting fined.

In the case of legitimate drama the actor is not permitted to “build up” his part at his own sweet will;[Pg 342] in comic opera, however, “gagging” and “business” have often gone far to make success.

In serious drama, the actor can't just add to their role however they like; [Pg 342] but in comic opera, however, adding jokes and antics has often played a big part in achieving success.

The upholder of law and order behind the scenes is the stage manager. If power gives happiness he should be happy, but his position is such a delicate one, and tact so essential, that it is often difficult for him to be friendly with every one and yet a strict and impartial disciplinarian.

The person who maintains law and order behind the scenes is the stage manager. If power brings happiness, he should be happy, but his role is so delicate and requires such tact that it’s often hard for him to be on friendly terms with everyone while still being a strict and impartial disciplinarian.

Life is a strange affair. We all try to be alike in our youth, and individual in our middle age. As we grow up we endeavour to shake ourselves out of that jelly-mould shape into which school education forces us, although we sometimes mistake eccentricity for individuality. Just as much real joy comes to the woman who has darned a stocking neatly or served a good dinner, as is vouchsafed by public praise; just as much pleasure is felt by the man who has helped a friend, or steered a successful bargain. In the well-doing is the satisfaction, not in indiscriminate and ofttimes over-eulogistic applause.

Life is a weird thing. In our youth, we all try to fit in, and by middle age, we aim to stand out. As we grow up, we work to break free from the cookie-cutter shape that school forces on us, even if we sometimes confuse being quirky with being individual. A woman feels just as much real joy from neatly mending a stocking or serving a great dinner as she does from public recognition; a man experiences just as much pleasure from helping a friend or making a smart deal. The satisfaction comes from doing good, not from exaggerated and often undeserved praise.

Stage aspirants soon learn those glorious press notices count for naught, and they cease to bring a flutter to the heart.

Stage aspirants quickly realize that those glowing press reviews mean nothing, and they no longer cause a thrill in the heart.

Success is but a bubble. It glistens and attracts the world as the soap globe glistens and attracts the child. It is something to strive for, something to catch, something to run after and grasp securely; yet, after all, what is it? It is but a shimmer—the bubble bursts in the child’s hand, the glistening particles are nothing, the ball once gained is gone. Is not success the same? We long for, we strive[Pg 343] to attain our goal, and then find nothing but emptiness.

Success is just a bubble. It sparkles and draws people in just like a soap bubble catches a child's eye. It's something to aim for, something to chase, something to catch and hold tight; yet, when you think about it, what is it really? It's just a glimmer—the bubble bursts in the child's hand, the shining bits are nothing, and the ball we once had is gone. Isn't success just like that? We long for it, we work hard to reach our goals, and then end up finding only emptiness.

If we are not satisfied with ourselves, if we know our best work has not yet been attained, that we have not reached our own high standard, worldly success has merely pricked the bubble of ambition, that bubble we had thought meant so much and which really is so little. People are a queer riddle. One might liken them to flowers. There are the beautiful roses, the stately lilies, the prickly thorns and clinging creepers; there are the weeds and poisonous garbage. Society is the same. People represent flowers. Some live long and do evil, some live a short while and do good, sweetening all around them by the beauty of their minds. Our friends are like the blooms in a bouquet, our enemies like the weeds in our path.

If we're not happy with ourselves, if we know we haven't done our best yet, that we haven't met our own high standards, then worldly success has just popped the bubble of ambition—a bubble we thought was so important but really isn't. People are a strange puzzle. You could compare them to flowers. There are beautiful roses, elegant lilies, prickly thorns, and climbing vines; there are also weeds and toxic plants. Society is similar. People are like flowers. Some live a long time and do bad things, while some live a short life and do good, bringing sweetness to those around them with their brilliance. Our friends are like the blossoms in a bouquet, and our enemies are like the weeds in our way.

What diversified people we like. This woman excites our admiration because she is beautiful, that one because she is clever, yon lady is sympathetic, and the trend of the mind of the fourth stimulates our own. They are absolutely dissimilar, that quartette, we like them all, and yet they have no points in common. It does us good to be with some people, they have an ennobling, refining, or softening effect upon us—it does us harm to be with others.

What a diverse group of people we enjoy. This woman captivates us because she’s beautiful, that one because she’s intelligent, that lady over there is warm-hearted, and the way the fourth thinks inspires us. They’re completely different, this group of four, but we like them all, even though they share nothing in common. Being around certain people lifts us up, refines us, or softens our edges—while being with others can bring us down.

And so we are all many people in one. We adapt ourselves to our friends as we adapt our clothes to the weather. We expand in their sunshine and frizzle up in their sarcasm. We are all actors. All our life is merely human drama, and imperceptibly to[Pg 344] ourselves we play many parts, and yet imagine during that long vista of years and circumstances we are always the same.

And so we are all different people in one. We change ourselves to fit our friends just like we choose our outfits based on the weather. We thrive in their positivity and wilt in their sarcasm. We’re all performers. Our entire lives are just a human drama, and without realizing it, we take on many roles, yet we believe throughout all those years and situations we are always the same.

We act—you and I—but we act ourselves, and the professional player acts some one else; but that is the only difference, and it is less than most folk imagine.

We act—you and I—but we act as ourselves, while the professional actor plays someone else; but that’s the only difference, and it’s smaller than most people think.

Love of the stage is the fascination of the mysterious, which is the most insidious of all fascinations.

Love of the stage is the allure of the unknown, which is the most deceptive of all attractions.

[Pg 345]

CHAPTER XIX

“CHORUS GIRL NUMBER II. ON THE LEFT”

A Fantasy Based on Facts

Simple yet Captivating—The Excitement in the Audience—Musical Introductions—Determination—Finally, the Introduction—Her Tale—His Generosity—Joy Slipped In—Romance—A Blissful Delight—His Tale—An Awful Reality Check—The Consequence of Lies—The Unfairness of Silence—Return to the City—Sickness—Rest.

THE curtain had just risen; the orchestra was playing the music of the famous operetta Penso, when a man in the prime of life in a handsome fur coat entered the stalls. He was alone. Having paid for his programme and taken off his furs, he quietly sat down to survey the scene.

THE curtain had just risen; the orchestra was playing the music of the famous operetta Penso, when a man in the prime of his life wearing a stylish fur coat entered the audience area. He was alone. After buying his program and taking off his fur coat, he quietly sat down to take in the scene.

The chorus was upon the stage; sweeping his glasses from end to end of the line of girls upon the boards, his eyes suddenly lighted upon the second girl on the left. She was not beautiful. She had a pretty figure, and a most expressive face; but her features were irregular and her mouth was large. Far more lovely girls stood in that row, many taller, with finely chiselled features and elegant figures, but only that girl—Number II. on the Left—caught and riveted his attention. He looked and looked again. What charm[Pg 346] did she possess, he wondered, which seemed to draw him towards her? She was singing, and making little curtsies like the others in time to the music: she was waving her arms with those automatic gesticulations the chorus learn; she was smiling, and yet behind it all he seemed to see an unutterable sadness in the depths of her dark grey eyes. The girl fascinated him; he listened not to the music of Penso, he hardly looked at any one else; so long as Number II. on the Left remained upon the stage his entire thoughts were with her. She enchained, she almost seemed to hypnotise him, and yet she seldom looked his way. During the entr’acte Allan Murray went outside to try and discover the name of Number II. on the Left. No one, however, was able to tell him, or if they were, they would not.

The chorus was on stage; sweeping his glasses across the line of girls on the boards, his eyes suddenly landed on the second girl from the left. She wasn't beautiful. She had a nice figure and a very expressive face, but her features were uneven and her mouth was large. Many more beautiful girls stood in that row, some taller, with finely sculpted features and elegant figures, but only that girl—Number II. on the Left—captured and held his attention. He looked and looked again. What charm[Pg 346] did she have that seemed to pull him toward her? She was singing and making little curtsies like the others, moving her arms in those automatic gestures the chorus learns. She was smiling, yet behind it, he seemed to see a profound sadness in the depths of her dark grey eyes. The girl fascinated him; he paid no attention to the music of Penso, and he hardly glanced at anyone else; as long as Number II. on the Left was on stage, all his thoughts were focused on her. She captivated him, almost as if she was hypnotizing him, and yet she rarely looked his way. During the entr’acte, Allan Murray went outside to try to find out the name of Number II. on the Left. However, no one could tell him, or if they could, they wouldn't.

Disappointed he returned to his seat in time for the second act. She had changed her dress, and the new one was perhaps less becoming than the first.

Disappointed, he went back to his seat just in time for the second act. She had changed her dress, and the new one was maybe not as flattering as the first.

“She is not pretty,” he kept repeating to himself, “but she is young. She is neither a great singer nor a dancer, but she is a gentlewoman.”

“She’s not pretty,” he kept telling himself, “but she’s young. She’s not a great singer or a dancer, but she’s a lady.”

So great was the fascination she had exerted over the man of the world, that he returned the next night to a seat in the stalls, and as he gazed upon the operetta he felt more than ever convinced that there was some great tragedy lying hidden behind the smiling face of Number II. on the Left. He desired to unravel it.

So powerful was the attraction she had over the worldly man that he came back the next night to a seat in the stalls. As he watched the operetta, he felt more convinced than ever that there was a deep tragedy hidden behind the smiling face of Number II. on the Left. He wanted to discover it.

A short time before Christmas, being absolutely determined to find out who she was, he succeeded in worming the information from some one behind the[Pg 347] scenes. Her real name was Sarah Hopper—could anything be more hideous?—her professional one Alwyn FitzClare—could anything be more euphonious? He went off to his club after one of the performances was over, and wrote her a note. Days went by and he received no answer. Then he purchased some beautiful flowers and sent them to the stage door for Miss Alwyn FitzClare with his compliments. Still no answer; but in the meantime he had been back to the theatre, and had been even more struck than before with the appearance of the girl, and felt sorry for the look of distress he thought he saw lurking behind her smiles.

A little while before Christmas, determined to discover her identity, he managed to get some information from someone behind the[Pg 347] scenes. Her real name was Sarah Hopper—could anything be worse?—her stage name was Alwyn FitzClare—could anything be more appealing? After one of the performances, he went to his club and wrote her a note. Days passed without a reply. Then he bought some beautiful flowers and sent them to the stage door for Miss Alwyn FitzClare, with his regards. Still no response; meanwhile, he had returned to the theater and found himself even more captivated by the girl's appearance, feeling a pang of sympathy for the sadness he thought he glimpsed behind her smiles.

It was now two days before Christmas, and writing her a note begging her not to take it amiss from a stranger, who wished her a very pleasant Christmas, he enclosed two five-pound notes, hoping she would drink his health and remember she had given great pleasure to one of her audience.

It was now two days before Christmas, and writing her a note asking her not to take it the wrong way from a stranger who wished her a very happy Christmas, he included two five-pound notes, hoping she would toast to his health and remember that she had brought great joy to one of her audience members.

Christmas morning brought him back the two notes with a formal stiff little letter, saying that Miss FitzClare begged to return her thanks and was quite unable to accept gifts from a stranger.

Christmas morning brought him back the two notes along with a formal, stiff little letter, stating that Miss FitzClare wished to express her thanks and was unable to accept gifts from someone she didn’t know.

For weeks and weeks he occupied a stall at the theatre, whenever he had an off-night. He continued to write little notes to Miss Alwyn FitzClare, but never received any reply. However, at last he ventured to beg that she would grant him an interview. If she would only tell him where she came from, or give him an inkling of her position, he would find some means to obtain a formal introduction. She answered[Pg 348] this letter not quite so stiffly as the former one containing the bank-notes, and stated that she came from Ipswich. Time passed; he succeeded in gaining an introduction, and sent it formally to Number II. on the Left. At the same time he invited her to lunch with him at a famous restaurant. She accepted; she came out of curiosity, she ultimately vowed, although in spite of the introduction, and in spite of the months of persuasion on his part, she felt doubtful as to the wisdom of doing so.

For weeks, he took a stall at the theater whenever he had a night off. He kept writing little notes to Miss Alwyn FitzClare but never got a response. Finally, he decided to ask her for a meeting. If she could just tell him where she was from or give him a hint about her situation, he would figure out a way to get a proper introduction. She replied[Pg 348] to this letter a bit less formally than the previous one with the banknotes, saying that she was from Ipswich. Time went by; he managed to get an introduction and formally sent it to Number II. on the Left. He also invited her to lunch at a popular restaurant. She agreed, saying it was out of curiosity, though despite the introduction and his months of trying to persuade her, she still felt unsure about whether it was a good idea.

The girl who had looked plain but interesting upon the stage, appeared before him in a neat blue serge costume, well fitting and undecorated, and struck Mr. Murray as very much better looking, and smarter altogether in the capacity of a private person than she did in the chorus. “A gentlewoman” was writ big all over her. No one could look at her a second time and not feel that she was well born.

The girl who had seemed plain yet intriguing on stage appeared before him in a tidy blue serge outfit, fitting well and without decoration, and impressed Mr. Murray as being much better looking and altogether sharper as an individual than she had in the chorus. "A lady" was written all over her. No one could glance at her a second time without sensing that she came from a good background.

“Do you know,” she said, “I often have funny letters from people on the other side of the footlights; but yours is the only one I ever answered in my life. Tell me why you have been so persistent?”

“Do you know,” she said, “I often get funny letters from people on the other side of the stage; but yours is the only one I’ve ever replied to in my life. Why have you been so persistent?”

“Because of the trouble in your face,” he answered.

“Because of the trouble on your face,” he replied.

“In mine? But I am always laughing on the stage—that is part of the duty of the chorus.”

“In mine? But I’m always laughing on stage—that’s just part of the chorus’s job.”

“Yes,” he replied, “you laugh outwardly; but you cry inwardly. It was your sad expression which first attracted my attention.”

“Yeah,” he said, “you laugh on the outside; but you’re crying on the inside. It was your sad expression that first caught my eye.”

He was very sympathetic and very kind, and gradually she told him her story. Her father had been a solicitor of good birth. He had a large practice,[Pg 349] but dying suddenly left a family of nine children, all under the age of twenty, practically unprovided for, for the small amount for which his life was insured soon dwindled away in meeting the funeral expenses and settling outstanding bills.

He was really understanding and kind, and over time, she shared her story with him. Her dad had been a well-born lawyer. He had a big practice,[Pg 349] but when he died unexpectedly, he left behind a family of nine kids, all under twenty, almost without any support, because the small insurance payout quickly went towards covering funeral costs and settling debts.

“I was not clever enough to become a governess,” she said, “I had not been educated for a secretary—in fact, I had no talent of any sort or kind except the ability to sing a little. Luck and hard work brought me the chance of being able to earn a guinea a week on the stage, out of which I manage to live and send home a shilling or so to help mother and the children.”

“I wasn’t smart enough to be a governess,” she said, “I wasn’t trained to be a secretary—in fact, I had no skills at all except for the ability to sing a little. Luck and hard work gave me the opportunity to earn a guinea a week on stage, from which I manage to live and send home a shilling or so to help my mom and the kids.”

It was a tragic little story—one of many which a great metropolis can unfold, where men bring children into the world without giving a thought to their future, and leave them to be dragged up on the bitter bread of charity, or to work in that starvation-mill which so many well-born gentlewomen grind year after year.

It was a heartbreaking little story—one of many that a big city can reveal, where people have kids without considering their future, and let them grow up on the meager handouts of charity, or forced to toil in that harsh cycle of poverty that so many privileged women endure year after year.

The rich gentleman and Number II. on the Left became warm friends. Months went by and they often met. She lunched with him sometimes; they spent an occasional Sunday on the river, and she wrote to him, and he to her, on the days when they did not meet. She was very proud; she would accept none of his presents, she would not take money, and was always most circumspect in her behaviour. Gradually that sad look melted away from her eyes, and a certain beauty took its place. He was kind to her, and by degrees, little by little, the interest aroused by her[Pg 350] mournful expression deepened—as it disappeared—into love. She, on her side, looked upon him as a true friend, practically the only disinterested friend she had in London; and so time wore on, bringing happiness to both: neither paused to think. Her life was a happy one. She grew not to mind her work at the theatre, or the sewing she did for the children at home, sitting hour by hour alone in her little attic lodging, looking forward to those pleasant Sunday trips which brought a new joy into her existence. His companionship and friendship were very precious to this lonely girl in London.

The wealthy gentleman and Number II. on the Left became close friends. Months passed and they met frequently. She sometimes had lunch with him; they occasionally spent Sundays on the river, and they wrote to each other on days they didn't see one another. She was very proud; she accepted none of his gifts, refused to take money, and was always very careful in her behavior. Gradually, her sad expression faded, replaced by a certain beauty. He was kind to her, and over time, the concern sparked by her sorrowful look deepened—along with her feelings—into love. She viewed him as a true friend, practically the only selfless friend she had in London; thus, time went on, bringing happiness to both: neither of them stopped to reflect. Her life was joyful. She grew indifferent to her work at the theatre and the sewing she did for the children at home, spending hours alone in her small attic room, looking forward to those enjoyable Sunday outings that brought new joy to her life. His company and friendship were incredibly valuable to this lonely girl in London.

One glorious hot July Sunday which they spent near Marlow-on-Thames seemed to Sarah Hopper the happiest day of her life. She loved him, and she knew it. He loved her; and had often told her so; but more than that had never passed between them. It was nearly two years since they first met, during which time the only bright hours in the life of Number II. on the Left had been those spent in Allan Murray’s company. His kindness never changed. His consideration for her seemed to Alwyn delightful.

One beautiful, hot Sunday in July that they spent near Marlow-on-Thames felt like the happiest day of Sarah Hopper’s life. She loved him, and she knew it. He loved her and had told her so many times, but nothing more had ever happened between them. It had been almost two years since they first met, and during that time, the only happy moments in the life of Number II. on the Left were those spent with Allan Murray. His kindness never wavered. His thoughtfulness toward her seemed delightful to Alwyn.

On that sunny afternoon they pulled up under the willows for tea, which she made from a little basket they always took with them. They were sitting chatting pleasantly, watching the water-flies buzzing on the stream, throwing an occasional bit of cake to a swan, and thoroughly enjoying that delightful sense of laziness which comes upon most of us at the close of a hot day, when seated beneath the shady trees that overhang the river.

On that sunny afternoon, they stopped under the willows for tea, which she made from a little basket they always brought along. They sat there chatting happily, watching the water flies buzzing on the stream, tossing an occasional piece of cake to a swan, and fully enjoying that lovely feeling of laziness that hits most of us at the end of a hot day while sitting under the shady trees that hang over the river.

[Pg 351]

He took her hand, and played with it absently for a while.

He took her hand and casually played with it for a bit.

“Little girl,” he said at last, “this cannot go on. I love you, and you know it; you love me, and I know that too; but do you love me sufficiently to give yourself to me?”

“Little girl,” he finally said, “this can't continue. I love you, and you know that; you love me, and I know that too; but do you love me enough to give yourself to me?”

“I don’t think I could love you any more,” she replied, “however hard I tried, for you have been my good angel for two happy years, you have been the one bright star of hope, the one pleasant thing in my life. I love you, I love you, I love you,” she murmured, as she leaned forward and laid her cheek upon his hand. He felt her warm breath thrill through him.

“I don’t think I could love you any more,” she said, “no matter how hard I tried, because you’ve been my guardian angel for two wonderful years. You’ve been the one bright star of hope, the one happy thing in my life. I love you, I love you, I love you,” she whispered, as she leaned forward and rested her cheek against his hand. He felt her warm breath go through him.

“I know it, dear,” he said, and a sad pained look crossed his face; “but what I want to know is, do you care for me sufficiently?”

“I know it, dear,” he said, and a sad, pained look crossed his face; “but what I want to know is, do you care for me enough?”

“I hardly understand,” she answered, frightened she knew not why.

“I barely understand,” she replied, scared and unsure of why.

“Will you give me the right to keep you in luxury and protect you from harm?”

“Will you let me take care of you in comfort and keep you safe?”

She looked up anxiously, there was something in his words and something in his tone she did not comprehend. His face was averted, but she saw how pale and haggard he looked.

She looked up nervously; there was something in his words and in his tone that she didn't understand. His face was turned away, but she noticed how pale and worn out he appeared.

“What do you mean?” she questioned, turning sick with an inexplicable dread.

“What do you mean?” she asked, feeling a wave of unexplained dread wash over her.

“Could you give up the stage, the world for me? Instead of being your friend I would be your slave.”

"Could you give up the stage, the world for me? Instead of being your friend, I would be your servant."

She seemed to be in a dream; his words sounded strange, his halting speech, his ashen hue denoted evil.

She felt like she was in a dream; his words sounded odd, his hesitant speech, his pale complexion suggested something dark.

[Pg 352]

“Tell me what you mean,” she cried.

“Tell me what you mean,” she shouted.

“Dearest,” he murmured, and then words seemed to fail him.

“Dearest,” he whispered, and then he seemed at a loss for words.

“But?” and she looked him through and through, a terrible suspicion entering her soul, “but——”

“But?” she said, looking at him intensely, a dreadful suspicion creeping into her mind. “But——”

“But,” he replied, turning away from her, “you can never be my wife.”

“But,” he said, turning away from her, “you can never be my wife.”

“Great God!” exclaimed the girl. “This from the one friend I thought I had on earth, from the one man I had learned to love and respect. Not your wife?” she repeated. “Am I losing my senses or are you?”

“Great God!” the girl exclaimed. “This from the only friend I thought I had in the world, from the one man I had come to love and respect. Not your wife?” she repeated. “Am I losing my mind or are you?”

“You cannot be my wife,” he reiterated desperately.

“You can’t be my wife,” he repeated urgently.

“So you think 1 am not good enough?” she gasped almost hysterically. “It is true I am only Number II. on the Left, and yet I was born a lady. I am your equal in social standing, and no breath of scandal has ever soiled my name. You have made love to me for two years, you have vowed you love me, and now, when you know my whole heart is given to you, you turn round and coolly say, ‘You are not good enough to be my wife.’”

“So you think I’m not good enough?” she gasped almost hysterically. “It’s true I’m only Number II. on the Left, but I was born a lady. I’m your equal in social standing, and no rumor has ever tainted my name. You’ve loved me for two years, you’ve promised you love me, and now, when you know my whole heart belongs to you, you just turn around and casually say, ‘You’re not good enough to be my wife.’”

“My darling,” he said, taking her hand and squeezing her fingers until the blood seemed to stand still within them, “this is torture to me.”

“My darling,” he said, taking her hand and squeezing her fingers until the blood felt like it stopped moving, “this is torture for me.”

“And what do you suppose it is to me?” she retorted. “It is not only torture but insult. You have brought me to this. I loved you so intensely and trusted you so implicitly, I never paused to think. I have lived like a blind fool in the present, happy[Pg 353] when with you, dreaming of you when away, drifting on, on, in wild Elysium, hoping—yes, hoping, I suppose—that some day I might be your wife, or if not that, at any rate that I could still continue to respect myself and respect you. To think that you, you, whom I trusted so much, should insult me like this,” and she buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

“And what do you think it means to me?” she shot back. “It’s not just torture; it’s an insult. You’ve put me in this position. I loved you so deeply and trusted you so completely that I never even stopped to think. I’ve lived like a blind fool in the moment, happy[Pg 353] when I was with you, dreaming of you when I was away, drifting along in a wild paradise, hoping—yes, hoping, I guess—that one day I could be your wife, or at least that I could continue to respect myself and respect you. To think that you, someone I trusted so much, would insult me like this,” and she buried her face in her hands and cried.

“My darling, I cannot marry,” he replied. “It is not your position, it is not the stage, it is nothing to do with you that makes me say so. Had it been possible I should have asked you to be my wife a year ago or more, but, little girl, dearest love, how can I tell you?” and almost choking with emotion he added, “I am a married man.”

“My darling, I can't marry you,” he replied. “It's not your situation, it's not the environment, it has nothing to do with you that makes me say this. If it had been possible, I would have asked you to be my wife a year ago or more, but, little girl, my dearest love, how can I explain?” and almost choking with emotion, he added, “I’m a married man.”

She left his side and staggered to the other end of the boat, where, throwing herself upon the cushions, she wept as if her heart would break.

She moved away from him and stumbled to the other end of the boat, where she collapsed onto the cushions and cried like her heart was breaking.

“Have I deserved this,” she cried, “that you in smiling guise should come to me as an emblem of happiness? You have stolen my love from me, and oh, your poor, poor, wretched wife!”

“Have I deserved this?” she cried. “That you should come to me smiling, as a symbol of happiness? You’ve taken my love away, and oh, your poor, poor, miserable wife!”

She was a good, honest, womanly girl, and even in her own anguish of heart did not forget she was not the only sufferer from such treachery.

She was a decent, honest, feminine girl, and even in her own heartache, she didn't forget that she wasn't the only one suffering from such betrayal.

In a torrent of words he told her how he had married when a student at the ’Varsity—married beneath him—how his life had ever since been misery. How the pretty girl-bride had developed into a vulgar woman, how for years she and her still commoner family had dogged his footsteps, how he had paid and paid to be rid of her, how his whole existence[Pg 354] had been ruined by the indiscretion of his youth, and the wiles of the designing landlady’s daughter, how he had never felt respect and love for woman until he had met her, Number II. on the Left.

In a flood of words, he told her how he had married when he was a student at university—married someone beneath him—how his life had been misery ever since. He described how his pretty young bride had turned into a shallow woman, how for years she and her even more common family had followed him around, how he had spent so much money trying to get rid of her, how his entire existence[Pg 354] had been ruined by the mistakes of his youth and the tricks of the landlady’s daughter, and how he had never felt respect and love for a woman until he met her, Number II. on the Left.

It was a tragic moment in both their lives. He felt the awful sin he had committed in not telling her from the first that he could never marry. He felt the injustice of it all, the punishment for his own folly that had fallen upon him, and she, poor soul, not only realised the shock to her ideal, but the horrible barrier that had risen between them.

It was a tragic moment in both their lives. He felt the terrible mistake he had made in not telling her right from the start that he could never marry. He felt the unfairness of it all, the consequences of his own foolishness that had descended upon him, and she, poor thing, not only recognized the blow to her dream but also the dreadful barrier that had come between them.

They travelled up to town together, both silent—each feeling that all the world was changed. They parted at Victoria—she would not let him see her home.

They traveled up to town together, both quiet—each sensing that the entire world had shifted. They parted at Victoria—she wouldn’t let him see her home.

The idol of two years was rudely shattered, the happy dreams of life had suddenly turned to miserable reality.

The idol of two years was abruptly destroyed, and the joyful hopes for the future had suddenly turned into a harsh reality.

He returned to his chambers, where he cursed himself, and cursed his luck, as he walked up and down his rooms all night, and realised the root of the misery lay in the deception he had practised. He, whose life had been ruined by the deception of a designing, low-class minx, had himself in his turn committed the selfsame sin of misrepresentation. The thought was maddening; his remorse intense. But alack! the past cannot be recalled, and the curse that had followed him for many years he had, alas! cast over a sinless girl.

He went back to his room, cursing himself and his luck as he paced back and forth all night, realizing that the source of his misery was the deception he had engaged in. He, whose life had been destroyed by the trickery of a scheming, low-class woman, had himself committed the same sin of dishonesty. The realization was infuriating; his guilt was overwhelming. But unfortunately, the past can't be changed, and the curse that had haunted him for so many years he had, sadly, inflicted on an innocent girl.

[Pg 355]

Sarah Hopper returned to her cheap little lodging at Islington, for after two years’ hard work her salary was still only 30s. a week, and throwing herself into an arm-chair, she sat and thought. Her head throbbed as if it would burst, her eyes seemed on fire as she reviewed the whole story from every possible side. She had been a blind fool; she had trusted in a man she believed a good man, the web of fate had entangled her, and this—this was the end. She could never see him again.

Sarah Hopper went back to her rundown little place in Islington because, after two years of hard work, her salary was still just 30s. a week. Throwing herself into an armchair, she sat and thought. Her head throbbed as if it would explode, and her eyes felt like they were on fire as she went over the entire situation from every angle. She had been a blind fool; she had trusted a man she thought was good, the web of fate had caught her, and this—this was the end. She could never see him again.

By morning she was in a high state of fever, and when the landlady came to her later in the day she was so alarmed at her appearance she sent at once for the doctor. The doctor came.

By morning, she had a high fever, and when the landlady checked on her later in the day, she was so shocked by her appearance that she immediately called for the doctor. The doctor arrived.

“Mental shock,” he said.

“Trauma,” he said.

Days went by and in wild delirium the little chorus girl lay upon her bed in the lodging, till one night when the landlady had fallen asleep the broken-hearted girl managed to scramble up, and getting a piece of paper and an envelope wrote:

Days passed, and in a state of wild delirium, the little chorus girl lay on her bed in the apartment until one night, when the landlady had fallen asleep. The heartbroken girl managed to get up and, grabbing a piece of paper and an envelope, wrote:

“You have killed me, but for the sake of the honest love of those two years, I forgive you all.”

“You've killed me, but for the sake of the genuine love we shared over those two years, I forgive you completely.”

She addressed it in a firm hand to Alan Murray, and crawling back into bed fell asleep.

She wrote it out clearly for Alan Murray, then crawled back into bed and fell asleep.

A few hours later the landlady awoke; all was silent in the room—so silent, in fact, that she began to wonder. The wild raving had ceased, the restless head was no longer tossing about on the pillow. Drawing back the muslin curtains to let the light of early morning—that soft gentle light of a summer[Pg 356]’s day—pour into the room, she went across to the bed.

A few hours later, the landlady woke up; everything was quiet in the room—so quiet, in fact, that she started to worry. The wild raving had stopped, and the restless head was no longer moving around on the pillow. Pulling back the sheer curtains to let the soft, gentle light of a summer[Pg 356] morning fill the room, she walked over to the bed.

The kindly old woman bent over the broken-hearted girl to find her sleeping peacefully—the sleep of death.

The gentle old woman leaned over the heartbroken girl to see her sleeping peacefully—the sleep of death.

Printed and bound by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.

Printed and bound by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ltd., London and Aylesbury.

Transcriber’s Note:

Transcriber's Note:

The spelling, punctuation, hyphenation and accentuation are as the original with the exception of apparent typographical errors, which have been corrected.

The spelling, punctuation, hyphenation, and accentuation are as in the original, except for obvious typos, which have been fixed.

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

The cover image was made by the transcriber and is in the public domain.

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Behind theLimelight

MRS. ALEC-TWEEDIE

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

CHAPTER VI DESIGNING THE DRESSES Sarah Bernhardt's dresses and wigs—A great musician's hair—Costs of production—Percy Anderson—Ulysses—The Eternal City—A dress parade—Costumes—Over-complication—An understudy—Miss Fay Davis—A London fog—The challenges of an engagement.

Behind the
Limelight

CHAPTER VI

DESIGNING THE DRESSES

Sarah Bernhardt's dresses and wigs—A great musician's hair—Costs of production—Percy Anderson—Ulysses—The Eternal City—A dress parade—Costumes—Over-complication—An understudy—Miss Fay Davis—A London fog—The challenges of an engagement.