Front matter (continued 3)

Charles Fechter

I can also take the reader back to another link with the past and tell him briefly something of Charles Fechter, also of Victorian fame, whose name opens up a mine of memories. In our early married days we lived in St. John's Wood; Fechter was our neighbour and once our guest. I regard him as the finest actor of the romantic drama I have ever seen. The eye, the voice, the grace—all so needed—were at his command. He was the original of the lover in La Dame aux Camélias. I was present at his début in London, so long ago as 1860, when, as Ruy Blas, he forsook the French for the English stage, and I saw his first performance of The Corsican Brothers, in which play he also acted originally in Paris. This was at the old Princess's Theatre in Oxford Street, which, a decade earlier, had been the scene of the Charles Kean Shakespearean revivals, most of which I saw in my 'teens. They were a great advance scenically on all that had been done by Macready, while their splendours and pageantry were in turn eclipsed first by Irving and afterwards by Tree; but genius has no part in plastering treacle on jam.

So vivid is my remembrance of Fechter's acting in Hamlet, which took the town by storm, that I can describe and illustrate much of it after a lapse of more than fifty years. He made the Prince a fair-haired, almost flaxen, Dane. Dickens said: "No innovation was ever accepted with so much favour by so many intellectuals as Fechter's Hamlet."

Quite recently I came across the impressions of Clement Scott, for many years one of the most prominent of our dramatic critics. He wrote: "Let me candidly own that I never quite understood Hamlet until I saw Fechter play the Prince of Denmark. Phelps and Charles Kean impressed me with the play, but with Fechter, I loved the play, and was charmed as well as fascinated by the player." He afterwards failed as Othello, while his performance of Iago was a triumph. It is a coincidence that Fechter should have received valuable help during his reign at the Lyceum from Kate Terry, whose younger sister, Ellen, in a similar position, did so much for Irving in the same theatre later on.

Fechter died in America in 1879. His last years were sad. But a decade or so before, the idol of the playgoing public, the compeer of all distinguished in the arts, the welcome guest of Charles Dickens at Gad's Hill, he died beyond the seas neglected, friendless, almost forgotten. Few actors at their zenith have held greater sway; few could compare with him in romantic parts; fewer still could claim to have stirred two nations of playgoers in different tongues; but such is the fleeting nature of our work, so faint the record of it left behind, that one might ask how many now can speak of Fechter as he really was, how few will even know his name? "Out, out, brief candle!" His talent was not confined to the stage, as a spirited bust of himself, his own work, now in the Garrick Club, will show.

Salvini

Later on, there came the eminent Italian actor, Salvini, whose visit to this country in 1875 may still be remembered by a dwindling few. He was the greatest tragedian I have seen—he was never a tenor trying to sing a bass song. On the stage the Italians, to my mind, have the advantage over other actors in being beyond question the finest pantomimists in the world—they can say so much without speaking. Those two great actresses, Ristori and Duse, made masterly use of this gift.

At an afternoon performance of Othello by Salvini, specially given at Drury Lane Theatre to the leading representatives of the English Stage, who chiefly composed the vast assemblage, I was present. Salvini's superbly delivered address to the Senate at once convinced the remarkable audience that no ordinary actor was before them—so calm, so dignified, so motionless—broken only by the portrayal of love as he caught sight of Desdemona entering on the scene. No ovation that I have taken part in equalled in enthusiasm the reception from his up-standing comrades at the close of the third act. His death scene I took exception to as being too shocking, too realistic, too like an animal dying in the shambles or on a battle-field. There I thought the Italian was surpassed by the Irishman, G. V. Brooke, the only actor I have seen who shared Salvini's natural gifts of voice and bearing, and who, but for his unfortunate intemperate habits, might have achieved lasting fame upon the stage. His death in Othello seemed to me as poetic in conception as it was pathetic in execution. Acting, although not speaking, the closing words, "Killing myself, to die upon a kiss," he staggered towards the bed, dying as he clutched the heavy curtains of it, which, giving way, fell upon his prostrate body as a kind of pall, disclosing, at the same time, the dead form of Desdemona. I agree with the great Frenchman who said: "Even when it assassinates, even when it strangles, tragedy remembers that it wears the crown and carries a sceptre."

In a little letter to my wife, Salvini wrote:

"CHÈRE MADAME,—Que vous êtes aimable! Je tiendrai votre joli cadeau comme un doux souvenir de votre sincère amitié. Ce sera un précieux talisman qui suivra le reste de ma carrière artistique, et qui, je suis sûr, m'apportera du bonheur."

The perfect Hamlet

In a conversation I had with Salvini, he modestly said his nationality and Southern blood made it comparatively easy for him to play the jealous Moor, while they stood in his way when he attempted the part of the Northern moody Dane, to which his robust physique was not suited. Salvini's performance, however, of Hamlet has left me memories almost as keen as those bequeathed by Fechter. In his arrangement of the play he acted the long speech of his father's ghost. You only heard, and hardly saw the Phantom. His scene with his mother was very fine: his management of the foils in the fight with Laertes as superb as it was original: his death the most touching I can recall: it was the "Kiss me, Hardy" of Nelson; he felt for Horatio's head and drew it down to his face as the spirit fled. To make a perfect Hamlet I should weld together ever to be remembered portions from the performances of Fechter, Salvini, Irving and Forbes-Robertson.

It is interesting to read what Macready, the greatest of the Victorian classic actors, said of this complex, fascinating character:

"It seems to me as if only now at fifty-one years of age, I thoroughly see and appreciate the artistic power of Shakespeare in this great human phenomenon: nor do any of the critics, Goethe, Schlegel, or Coleridge, present to me, in their elaborate remarks, the exquisite artistical effects which I see in this work, as long meditation, like long straining after light, gives the minutest portion of its excellence to my view."

From my childhood I have always looked upon Macready as the head of my craft, and regarded him with the reverence a young curate would feel, I suppose, towards the Archbishop of Canterbury.

I regret that I never saw Macready act. I was not ten years old when he left the stage. I had the pleasure, long afterwards, to know his son, Jonathan, a clever surgeon, whose son, Major Macready, I now know; and I rejoice in the friendship of the tragedian's youngest child, General Sir Nevil Macready, whom I first saw at his father's funeral, when he was lifted from a mourning coach—a little fellow of about ten.

My wife was the last stage link with Macready. At one of the farewell performances he gave when he retired she appeared as the child apparition in Macbeth.

I am wandering from my departed guests, but may mention that in my boyhood I saw much of that fine actor, Samuel Phelps, who had so wide a range and to whom no character seemed to come amiss. I have always felt, however, that he was a disciple of Macready, to whom undoubtedly he owed much, and whom he followed as Richelieu, Werner and Virginius.

I may just say that, in my early career, I have acted with Phelps, as well as with Charles Kean and G. V. Brooke, and it may surprise young actors of to-day to know that, in my provincial novitiate of four years and three months, I played no fewer than three hundred and forty-six different parts, with the advantage of repeating many of the Shakespearean characters with different leading actors.

A tribute from Got

I met and knew the great French comedian Edmond Got, for many years doyen of the Comédie française, in the far-off days of the Commune. The chief members of the troupe were here in exile for many months, when it was a privilege to entertain them. It was strange to learn that Got had served in the French cavalry before he went upon the stage. I append a gracious letter I received from him:

"Je veux vous remercier de la gracieuse hospitalité que vous avez bien voulu nous offrir, et vous prier de mettre aux pieds de Mme. Bancroft l'hommage de mon respect et de ma très sincère admiration.

"Quant à vous, monsieur, vous avez montré ce que peut obtenir de ses artistes un habile administrateur, doublé d'un parfait comédien, c'est-à-dire un ensemble que je souhaiterais rencontrer sur beaucoup de scènes parisiennes, et quelquefois sur la nôtre."

Two often welcomed guests were the brothers Coquelin, ainé and cadet. The elder was a great actor, the younger a good actor and a brilliant diseur. Coquelin, as well as his distinguished comrade, Mounet-Sully, also his eminent compatriot, Clemenceau, belonged to "The Vintage."

Coquelin

My friendship for Coquelin was one of many years. No stage-struck youth perhaps was more unlikely to succeed; but his teacher at the Conservatoire—the great Regnier—always argued that to make a really fine actor a man should have to fight against some physical drawback.

Coquelin was the most outspoken admirer of my wife's acting. He said: "her splendid vitality was contagious: her winning magnetism would fill the largest stage." If my saying so does not detract from this praise, I may add that he showered encomiums in a Parisian journal on my performance in The Dead Heart, when I acted with Irving. He once wrote to me:

"CHER BANCROFT,—Vous avez un excellent théâtre que vous dirigez en maître—et en maître artiste—que pouvez-vous désirer de plus? Ah, cette fois-ci, Bravo, et sans restriction. Cet orchestre qu'on ne voit pas, cette rampe presque imperceptible, cette absence du manteau d'Arlequin, ce cadre contournant la scène! Le spectateur est devant un tableau dont les personnages parlent et agissent. C'est parfait pour l'illusion et pour le plaisir artistique. Votre ami,—C. COQUELIN."

I have a valued souvenir of him in his autographed portrait as Cyrano.

In his home his gaiety was delightful, while his love for his simple old mother was enshrined in his heart as it would seem always to be in that of a good Frenchman.

The farewell words of Jules Claretie, the accomplished director of the Théâtre français, spoken by his grave, were indeed a tribute: "Coquelin was more than a stage king, he was a king of the stage, and has left a luminous trail in the heaven of art."

I was one of the group of English actors who went to Paris with our sculptured offering to his genius which is enshrined in the historic foyer, where, at a luncheon, I had the temerity to make a short speech in indifferent French, urged to do so by Madame Bartet, a brilliant actress, who helped me to frame some of its sentences.

And his poor brother. It is painful to think of cadet's bright nature being quenched by incurable melancholia: distressing indeed to imagine what his sufferings must have been before the evening when, in the middle of the play, he rushed through the stage door, clad as an abbé, to be seen no more at his beloved Comédie française. In an amusing account published in a leading Paris paper of a visit to see Robertson's comedy, School, he wrote:

"Les décors sont executés de main de maître. C'est le triomphe de l'exactitude. Les comédiens sont excellents. M. Bancroft joue dans la pièce un rôle de grand gommeux à monocle, et rien n'égale son élégance et sa stupidité. Madame Bancroft joue la pensionnaire gaie: cette petite femme est un mélange d'Alphonsine et de Chaumont—gaie, pimpante, mordante et d'une adresse! ... C'est la great attraction du Théâtre de Haymarket.

"Après je reviens rapidement en cab ("hansom") à mon hôtel, et je me demande en chemin pourquoi les cabs vont si vite? C'est tout simple; les cabs vont très vite parce que les cochers les poussent derrière."

No less an authority than David Garrick once said to an ambitious stage aspirant who sought his advice, that he might humbug the public in tragedy, but warned him not to try to do so in comedy, for that was a serious thing. This opinion was borne out by Voltaire, who, in his anxiety not to imperil the success he had achieved in tragedy, when he wrote his first comedy did so anonymously.

Joseph Jefferson

Having pleasant memories of two distinguished American actors—one a comedian, the other a tragedian—I will follow the high opinion held by the great Englishman of Thalia's children, and write first of Joseph Jefferson, incomparably the finest actor who has come to us from America, and who in his day made a powerful impression and won enduring fame by his performance of Rip Van Winkle and his new rendering of Bob Acres in The Rivals, which he admitted was not free from liberties with Sheridan. I can think of no actor who has been more beloved by audiences in his native land. I must, of course, use that expression, although his grandfather, or perhaps great-grandfather, was British, and an actor under David Garrick. He was, as it were, cradled on the stage.

Jefferson might also have made fame and money by his brush. His work was worthily hung upon the walls of the Royal Academy. I cherish two of his paintings: one, a gift to my wife in remembrance of a happy day we all spent together on the Thames, a charming example of one of its many backwaters near Cookham; the other—a purchase—of Shakespeare's church at Stratford-on-Avon—both reminiscent of Corot. The former always suggests to me the misty Hebrides and an appropriate background for the "Island that liked to be visited," in Barrie's Mary Rose.

Gazing, I remember, at the old Maidenhead bridge at sunset, Jefferson murmured: "What a lovely place is this England of yours! How I should just like to lift it in my arms and carry it right away."

When Edwin Booth, the American tragedian, came over to play in London, Millais gave him a dinner, and invited the leading players of the day to make his acquaintance. He was a fine actor; especially so, I thought, in The Fool's Revenge and Richelieu. When he drew the "awful circle" round the shrinking form of the young heroine and said to the villain of the play: "Set but a foot within that holy ground and on thy head—yea, though it wore a crown—I launch the curse of Rome!" you felt you were in the presence of high dramatic art. The performance at the Lyceum Theatre, in which he and Irving alternated the parts of Othello and Iago, created great interest. Booth was the better Othello; Irving the more attractive and less conventional Iago.

Booth would now and then dine with us on a Sunday evening—to help him bear a sorrow which is, at such times, the actor's lot, and which an extract from a letter to a close friend will best explain:

"I am tired in body and brain. The poor girl is passing away from us. For weeks she has been failing rapidly; and the doctors tell me that she is dying. You can imagine my condition: acting at random every evening, and nursing a half-insane, dying wife all day, and all night too, for that matter. I am scarce sane myself. I scribble this in haste at two in the morning, for I know not when I will have a chance to write sensibly again."

The room in which Edwin Booth died—which I have visited—at the Players' Club in Grammercy Park, New York, founded by himself, and where he had been so beloved, was left untouched after he had passed away, and, I understand, so remains.

When I was a lad of seventeen I went for a trip to New York, and during my stay I chanced to see Edward Askew Sothern—to give him his full name—play his world-renowned character, Lord Dundreary, for the first time in his life. Some years later, when we met upon the stage, I gave him my copy of the original playbill, which, of course, had great interest for him. The eccentric nobleman drew all playgoers for years in England as well as in America. At the time I mention I saw Sothern and Jefferson act together in a round of old English comedies. As young men they made giant successes in individual parts—Dundreary and Rip Van Winkle—the one a masterpiece of caricature, the other a veritable old Dutch master.

Another of Sothern's chief parts, in those days, was David Garrick, of which he was the original representative, long before the play was taken over and prominently associated with the career of Charles Wyndham.

Sothern was always kind to me, whether in my early days in the provinces or afterwards in town. He was my guest at the first dinner-party I had the courage to give. Among those who sat with him were Dion Boucicault, W. S. Gilbert, W. R. McConnell and Tom Hood. I was a young host, not having struck twenty-six. He was a fearless rider and hunting man. Once, after he had met with a bad accident, following the staghounds, I went to see him at his charming old house, called The Cedars, in Kensington, and found his bed placed in the middle of the room. The house, when I last saw it, had become a home for cripples.

Sothern was the king of practical-jokers and would stop at nothing in the way of thought, time or money, to carry out his wild projects. A poor game at its best, I have often thought in mature age; a selfish form of innings.

He was an intense admirer of my wife's art. Only after he had passed away did it come to my knowledge that in some stage experiences, published in America, with the title Birds of a Feather, he gave his judgment of her.

"Among the actresses I should certainly place Mrs. Bancroft and Mrs. Kendal in the foremost rank, their specialities being high comedy. Mrs. Bancroft I consider the best actress on the English stage; in fact, I might say on any stage."

Sam Sothern, so long a pleasant actor on our stage, is dead, so his father's name and fame are now successfully held by his son, Edward, in America.

Dion Boucicault

One of the most remarkable of Victorians in stage-land was Dion Boucicault, father of my life-long little friend, "Dot," the accomplished husband of Irene Vanbrugh. Boucicault produced his first comedy, London Assurance—a brilliant one in its day—about the date of my birth, when he himself was not more than twenty-one. He was a colossal worker as author, actor, and producer until 1890; a career as distinguished as it was lengthy. His delightful Irish plays, The Colleen Bawn, Arrah-na-Pogue and The Shaughraun, were among the joys of my youth. I first met Boucicault at Birmingham, where I was specially engaged to act his own part, the counsel for the defence in his drama The Trial of Effie Deans. I learnt much from him at the one rehearsal he travelled from London to attend. When about half way through the trial scene he took me aside and told me I was wrong in my treatment of the part, adding: "Let me rehearse the rest of the scene for you, and I am sure you will grasp my own idea of it directly." I saw at once how right he was, how wrong I had been. The result was a considerable success for me. In the early days of our managerial career we produced a comedy of his, How She Loves Him—clever, but not one of the best. A situation at the end of an act became very muddled, after being tried at rehearsal in several ways. An idea struck me, which was a distinct improvement, but I hardly dared to interfere with so great an autocrat, kind as he had always been. At last, in despair, I suggested to Boucicault that his original ending of the act was more effective than that he had changed it to. He said: "What was that?" I then boldly explained my own idea as if it were his. No doubt he saw through the strategy, but merely said: "Perhaps you're right," and rewarded my shrewdness by adopting the suggestion.

When, years afterwards, I asked his consent to my making some alterations in London Assurance and combining the fourth and fifth acts, he replied from Chicago: "Your shape of London Assurance will be, like all you have done, unexceptionable, and I wish I could be there to taste your brew."

Rest and rust

Later on, when my wife was taking only a small part in some of our plays, he wrote:

"MY DEAR FRIEND,—Will you feel offended with an old soldier if he intrudes on your plan of battle by a remark?

"Why are the Bancrofts taking a back seat in their own theatre; they efface themselves! Who made the establishment? with whom is it wholly identified? of what materials is it built? There—it's out!

"Tell Marie, with my love, that there is nothing so destructive as rest if persisted in; you must alter the vowel—it becomes rust, and eats into life. Hers is too precious to let her fool it away; she is looking splendid, and as fresh as a pat of butter. Why don't you get up a version of The Country Girl? Let her play Hoyden and you play Lord Foppington."

Boucicault was a perfect host, a brilliant talker and sympathetic listener. I first dined with him, when a young man, in the delightful company, I remember well, of Charles Reade, J. M. Bellew and Edmund Yates. On the menu was printed: "The wine will be tabled. Every man his own butler. Smiles and self-help." And there was cognac of 1803 from the cellars of Napoleon III. I had many years of unbroken friendship with Boucicault. His final words to me were in a letter from America, following on an illness:

"I doubt whether I shall cross the ocean again. I am rusticating at Washington, having recovered some strength, and am waiting to know if my lease of life is out, or is to be renewed for another term. I have had notice to quit, but am arguing the point ('just like you,' I think I hear you say), and nothing yet is settled between Nature and me."

He was a hard worker, and said his epitaph should be: "Dion Boucicault; his first holiday."

Where shall my pen wander next?

Montague and Coghlan

I can revive memories in the old—and tell a little to the young—of actors who became prominent as members of our companies at different times. Let me try to do so. First, there was Harry Montague. Without being an actor of high rank, he had a great value as a jeune premier. He was what I heard an American describe as "so easy to look at." His charm of manner made him a special favourite everywhere, and he was the original matinee idol. When in his company he had the gift of making you believe that he had thought but of you since your last parting, and, when he said "good-bye," that you would remain in his memory until you met again.

He was in America, acting in Diplomacy, when he died suddenly; as young in years as he always seemed in heart; for he was but midway between thirty and forty, that age upon the border-land when one has to own to being no more young, while resenting for a little while that ambiguous epithet, "middle-aged."

Charles Coghlan was an actor of a higher grade; gifted, cultivated and able: his acting as Alfred Evelyn and Charles Surface in our elaborate revivals of Money and The School for Scandal was of the highest character. It may be interesting to note that when he first joined our company his salary was £9 a week; during his last engagement we paid him £60, which would be doubled now. I asked him once to accompany me on a short holiday abroad, and found him a delightful companion. This was soon after the siege of Paris, when many of the terrible stains left on the fair city's face were sadly visible.

Coghlan often lived outside London, at places like Elstree and Kingsbury, generally in picturesque old houses. My wife and I rode out to one of them to luncheon. For a time he drove a rather ramshackle four-in-hand, and, naturally, was in constant financial trouble. He ended his career rather recklessly in America, at Galveston, and his body was washed out to sea from the catacombs by a flood. It was afterwards recovered and reburied.

The father of the happily present Dion and Donald Calthrop, a connection of Lord Alverstone, John Clayton (Calthrop) was also a fine actor. His performance in All for Her was of a high order, and he did some admirable work with Irving at the Lyceum. I also recall a remarkable piece of acting on his part in a play, adapted from the French, in which he appeared as a father whose brain was turned by his having accidentally shot his little son. Under our flag, he only acted in Diplomacy and Caste. He was then growing fat, and never knew of a strong wish I had to revive the Merry Wives of Windsor, with himself as Falstaff. He was otherwise engaged, unfortunately. This was when that brilliant actress Mrs. John Wood was with us, to play with my wife the two Merry Wives, supported by myself as the jealous Mr. Ford—I always found the portrayal of jealousy very amusing—and a troupe of able and suitable comedians.

Clayton gave remarkable performances in the joyous comedies by Pinero at the Court Theatre. He died young.

Arthur Cecil

Arthur Cecil comes next to my mind: an amiable gentleman and companion. It was I who, when he was "wobbling," as he did on every subject, induced him to go on the professional stage. He seemed to me to pass a large slice of his life in the effort—or want of effort—to make up his mind on trivial things, and so wasted at least one half of it.

At the dress rehearsal of Diplomacy—in which he gave a fine performance of Baron Stein—he appeared with a totally different make-up in each act. They were all clever and appropriate, but we, not he, had to decide for him which was to be finally adopted. He was very devoted to what Sir James Barrie christened "Little Mary." On one occasion, after dining at the Garrick Club, before his evening's work, having finished his meal with a double helping of orange tart, he was leaving the coffee-room, when he saw a friend seated near the door just beginning his dinner. Cecil sat down opposite to him for a few minutes to exchange greetings; he became so restless and agitated at the sight of a dish of stewed eels that at last he dug a fork into a mouthful, saying, "I must," and so wound up his meal. There are several similar stories extant, equally amazing, equally true.

Henry Kemble

Our old and staunch friend, Henry Kemble, a descendant of the illustrious stage family whose name he bore, was for years a valued member of our company; a capable but restricted actor, from his peculiarity of diction. My wife christened him "The Beetle," owing to a large brown Inverness cape he wore at night. Many are the amusing stories told of him. He fought the income tax strenuously, and on one occasion, being brought to bay, told the collector that he belonged to a precarious profession, and begged that Her Majesty might be asked not to look upon him as a source of income!

Kemble was well up in Shakespeare, and had a greater knowledge of the Bible than any actor I have known, except one.

This reminds me of a visit paid, at his instigation, on a New Year's Eve, in the company of his close friend, Arthur Cecil, to a midnight service held in one of the big churches. They entered reverently, just before the hour, and were about to kneel, when a verger touched Kemble on the shoulder and said: "I beg your pardon, gentlemen, but this is a service being held for fallen women."

Kemble suddenly made up his mind to retire from the stage and end his days in Jersey, not in a cloistered cathedral city, as he said would be the case. He, unfortunately, invested his savings in an annuity, as he only lived a few months after doing so. He came to see my wife, to whom he was much attached, to say good-bye, and brought her some fine Waterford glass as a farewell gift. When fatally ill, his last words were written to her on a telegraph form: "All over, dear, dear Lady B. Blessings on you all. Beetle." The doctor who attended him transcribed the words, and sent my wife the tremblingly-written farewell he had penned himself—a touching and kind act.

Another friend and comrade of those days was the humorous Charles Brookfield, son of Canon Brookfield, a distinguished preacher. My wife and I gave the young undergraduate what was practically his first engagement, and he remained a popular member of our company during the whole of our career at the Haymarket. Several of his performances showed marked ability, notably in Sardou's play, Odette, and Pinero's comedy, Lords and Commons. Many amusing stories are attributed to him. Against the accuracy of one of them I must rebel. It ran in this way: That at a time when Charles Wyndham was appearing in his favourite part of David Garrick, for a run, he was sitting in the club named after the great actor, just under one of his several portraits there, when Brookfield went up to Wyndham and said: "It really seems quite surprising, you grow more like Garrick every day." Wyndham gave a delighted smile; when Brookfield continued, in his peculiar cynical way: "Yes, every day, but less like him every night." A good story; but, unfortunately, Brookfield was never a member of the Garrick Club.

Charles Brookfield

I think it was Brookfield who, when a friend asked his advice, saying that a member of a club they frequented having called him a "mangy ass," whether he should appeal to the committee or consult a solicitor, quietly told him he thought it a case for a vet to decide.

He wrote various amusing comedies, and, later on, was appointed by the Lord Chamberlain to be joint examiner of plays.

Brookfield had his serious side, and wrote us the following letter, affectionately signed, when we retired from management:

"The sadness I feel at the prospect of never again working under your management is far too genuine for me to endeavour to convey it by any conventional expressions of regret. Although I have always appreciated your unvarying goodness to me, it is only by the depression of spirits and general apathy which I now experience, that I recognise how much my enjoyment of my profession was affected by the kind auspices under which I had the good fortune to practise it."

IX THE STAGE

II

"Pity it is that the animated graces of the player can live no longer than the instant breath and motion that presents them, or at best can but faintly glimmer through the memory of a few surviving spectators."

Henry Irving

I will now write of the man who was for many years the chief of the English stage, Henry Irving. He was a born leader and had the magnetism which compels the affection of his comrades; he knew that to be well served meant first to be well beloved. Although denied the advantages of early education, Irving had the learning which colleges may fail to teach; and in his later years would have graced, in manner and in aspect, any position in life. This personal attribute came to him gradually, when, as it were, he had recreated himself. Truth to tell, in the early part of his career he had none of it. In those distant days there was a strong smack of the country actor in his appearance, and a suggestion of a type immortalised by Dickens in Mr. Lenville and Mr. Folair.

We soon became friends and remained so throughout his remarkable career—the most remarkable in many respects that ever befell an actor. He told me an interesting incident of his early life. He was engaged, in the summer of 1867, to act in Paris. The enterprise proved a failure. The little troupe of players was disbanded and returned to London, with the exception of Irving, who, finding himself abroad for the first time, lingered in the bright city for a couple of months. He lived in a garret on a few francs a day, and paid nightly visits to the cheap parts of the theatre. Although he had no knowledge of the language, he was all the while studying the art of acting in its different grades and kinds.

When, in later years, he entertained in his princely fashion eminent foreign artists, in answer to compliments showered upon him in French, he would, without the slightest affectation—a failing from which he was free—answer simply: "I am sure all you are saying is very kind, but I don't understand a word of it."

Soon after his success as Digby Grant in James Albery's comedy, Two Roses, shortly before what proved to be the turning-point in his career—his becoming a member of the Lyceum company, then under the Bateman management—I had occasion to see a well-known dramatic agent, who, as I was leaving his office, said: "Oh, by the way, would Henry Irving be of use to you next season? I have reason to believe he would welcome such a change." The question was startling. I replied that I should be delighted, but feared it would be difficult, as Hare, Coghlan and myself would be in his way. How possible it is that a different answer might have influenced future events in theatre-land! Then came his memorable performance in The Bells, which gave him fame in a single night, followed by other early triumphs, Charles the First and Hamlet.

I once saw Irving on horseback, cantering in the Row on a Sunday afternoon: it was a singular experience. His companion was George Critchett, who gave up his practice one day in the week to hunt instead, and who was as much at home on a horse as Irving was plainly uncomfortable.

Later on, Irving was speaking to me of the success of one of our plays. I answered that in my belief the same could be achieved at the Lyceum (the theatre was not yet under his own management), if money were freely and wisely spent. But wide is the difference between spending and wasting. While the disasters which darkened his brilliant reign were sometimes, it must be conceded, the result of errors of judgment in the choice of plays, had he been in partnership with a capable comrade, to whose guidance he would sometimes have submitted, he might have realised a fortune, instead of allowing several to pass like water through his hands. As an artistic asset, Irving was often wasted and thrown away.

Let me turn for a moment from the stage side of this extraordinary man.

A toy theatre

In the gloaming of a Christmas Day, full forty years ago, my wife and I were sitting alone, when, to our amazement, Irving was announced. It was a bolt from the blue. After a pleasant talk, we asked him who was to have the pleasure of giving him his pudding and mince-pie. He answered that he should be all alone in Grafton Street with his dog. We told him that ourselves and our son George, then a small boy, comprised our party, and begged him to join us. Irving gladly said he would. At the time he was acting in The Corsican Brothers, of which famous melodrama Master George had his own version in his little model theatre, with an elaborate scene of the duel in the snow, represented by masses of salt smuggled from the kitchen; and this, with managerial pride, he told Irving he would act before him after dinner. To an audience of three the performance was solemnly gone through, being subjected to the criticisms, seriously pronounced and respectfully received, of the great man. I seem to hear his voice crying out: "Light not strong enough on the prompt side, my boy." For years a broken blade of one of the rapiers used in the duel at the Lyceum, given to him by Irving, was among the boy's proud possessions. I daresay he has it still. A memorable Christmas evening!

The idea occurred to me to give a supper to Irving before his first visit to America in 1883, and to let it have a distinctive character by inviting none but actors. Feeling that nowhere could be it so appropriately given as in the Garrick Club, I wrote to my fellow-members of the Committee to ask if, in the special circumstances, it might take place in the dining-room. Greatly to my delight, my request was granted, with the remark, that it was "an honour to the Club." The attractive room, so suitable for the purpose, its walls being lined with the portraits of those whose names recall all that is famous in the great past of our stage, was arranged to accommodate a party of a hundred, of whom there are but very few survivors. A humorous drawing of a supposed wind-up to the supper—Irving, Toole and myself staggering home, arm-in-arm—was among the early successes of Phil May. He made two copies of it. One of the three belonged to King Edward, which I afterwards saw at Sandringham, the others are owned by Pinero and myself.

In acknowledgment of a little present I sent Irving at this time he wrote:

"I shall wear your gift—and a rare one it is—as I wear you, the giver, in my heart. My regard for you is not a fading one. In this world there is not too much fair friendship, is there? And I hope it is a gratification to you—it is to me, old friend—to know that we can count alike upon a friend in sorrow and in gladness."

"The Dead Heart"

When Irving contemplated a production of The Dead Heart, he flattered me by saying that unless I appeared with him as the Abbé Latour he would not carry out the idea. I was then free from management, and tried to persuade him to let me undertake the part as a labour of love, but he would not listen. After a long talk—neither of us, I remember it all so well, looking at the other, but each gazing separately at different angles into Bond Street from the windows of the rooms he so long occupied at the corner of Grafton Street—he said that I must content him by being specially engaged, on terms which soon were settled.

It was a strange experience to re-enter a theatre to serve instead of to govern; and in one where the policy was so different. My wife and I had so often been content to choose plays without regard to ourselves: the policy of the Lyceum was upon another plane. The Dead Heart is a story of the French Revolution, on the lines of A Tale of Two Cities. The best scene in the play was between Irving and myself, in which we fought a duel to the death. A clever drawing of the scene—I regret failing to secure it when it was sold at Christie's—was made by Bernard Partridge. From all I have heard said of it, the fight must have been well done—real, brief, and determined. It was a grim business, in the sombre moonlit room, and forcibly gave the impression that one of the two combatants would not leave it alive. I confess that I had not the courage of Terriss, who found himself in a similar position with Irving when they fought a duel in The Corsican Brothers, and boldly attacked his chief by suggesting that a little of the limelight might fall on his side of the stage, as Nature was impartial.

A tribute from Irving

One night during the hundred and sixty on which The Dead Heart was acted, when we had acknowledged the applause which followed the duel, Irving put his arm round me as we walked up the stage together, and said: "What a big name you might have made for yourself had you never come across those Robertson plays! What a pity, for your own sake; for no actor can be remembered long who does not appear in the classical drama."

I fear egotism is getting the better of me. Irving once said:

"One point must strike all in connection with Bancroft's career—before he left the Haymarket, at the age of forty-four, he was the senior theatrical manager of London. In conjunction with that gifted lady who was the genius of English comedy, he popularised a system of management which has dominated our stage ever since, and the principle of which may be described as the harmony of realism and art."

It is to be much regretted that no really satisfactory portrait of Irving exists. The one painted by Millais, and given by him to the Garrick Club in 1884, is a beautiful work of art, but, to my mind, somewhat effeminate in its beauty. A portrait by Sargent, painted when Irving was fifty, and exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1888, was amazingly clever, but a somewhat painful likeness. The great painter showed something in the great actor—as he so often does in his sitters—which his gifted and searching eyes could not help seeing, and which, once having been shown, you cannot afterwards help seeing always. Irving hated the portrait, and when it was taken from the walls of the Academy it was never seen again. I heard Irving, at my table, tell Sir Edward Poynter that he hid it away in a garret, and when he left the old Grafton Street chambers, his solitary home for many years, he hacked the canvas to shreds with a knife. What a treasure lost!

Irving's hospitality was unbounded. At one of his many parties I recollect his saying to Frank Lockwood, when he was Solicitor-General: "The fortunate actor is the actor who works hard." He then pointed across the table to me, and added: "Look at that fellow, and remember what hard work meant in his case. 'B' is the only actor since Garrick who made a fortune purely by management of his own theatre—I mean without the aid of provincial tours and visits to America." After a pause he continued: "But he has paid the penalty of leaving his best work as an actor undone."

Knighthood

It will ever be remembered that Henry Irving was the first actor to receive from his Sovereign the honour of State recognition: so placing his calling on a level with the rest, no more to be looked at askance, but recognised as leading to a share of the distinctions enjoyed by his fellow-men.

For a year or more before the end it was manifest to those who loved him that the sword had worn out the scabbard—it hung so listlessly by his side. This I strongly realised the last time he sat at our table, and was struck by his plaintive manner to my wife and to me. He then had a flat in Stratton Street, and left us at midnight, saying that he must be home before the lift ceased running or he would have to be carried upstairs.

In affectionate remembrance I close my tribute to Henry Irving. His remarkable career has taken its place in the history of his country, for he was one of the leaders of men who earned the privilege, given to but few, to become the property of the world.

It may also be truly said of Irving, as of one of the most distinguished of his predecessors: "He who has done a single thing that others never forget, and feel ennobled whenever they think of, need not regret his having been, and may throw aside this fleshly coil like any other worn-out part, grateful and contented."

Although I knew and loved them from their boyhood, I find it difficult to write of Irving's sons, being, as they were, so overpowered by the dominant personality of the father.

"H.B." and Laurence

They both went to Marlborough. "H.B." afterwards to New College, Oxford. Laurence left school for Paris, to perfect his knowledge of French, his ambition and inclination being the diplomatic service. He then passed some three years in Russia, acquiring mastery of the difficult language. Unhappily, his wished-for career had to be abandoned for want of the imperative funds. "H.B." was called to the Bar, but lacked the necessary patience, and so abandoned a profession, as was thought by many competent judges, in which he was eminently qualified to take a high position; while his "hobby" until the end was criminology, and he wrote remarkable books on that fascinating subject.

Both sons drifted on to the stage. Before that step was taken I had seen "H.B." at Oxford give a striking performance, for one so young, of King John.

Later on, I had no wish to see him act a long round of his father's old parts.

Towards the end of the War he left his work at the Savoy Theatre and devoted himself to hard work in the Intelligence Department at the Admiralty, which proved to be a great strain upon him. We met frequently at that time, by appointment, at the Athenæum, hard by, and had luncheon together, as he did with his close friend, E. V. Lucas. It was manifest then that his fatal illness had begun.

Laurence was a more frequent guest of ours than Harry, especially at Christmas time, having no children to command his presence at home; he was not so trammelled on the stage as his brother; it was easier for him to escape from perpetual reminders. The performances I remember best on his part are his high-class acting in Typhoon and the admirable drawing of a character he played in The Incubus, who is, in point of fact, his mistress and has become sadly in the way. My wife and I saw the play together from a stage box, and were much amused at the end of it by a conversation between what we took to be a young married couple in the stalls, just beneath us.

The girl said: "Good play, isn't it?" The man answered: "Capital. I've only one fault to find with it." "What's that?" "Title." "Title, why it's a perfect title." The man: "Rotten title—it's nothing about an incubus." The girl: "It's all about an incubus." The man: "The thing was never once mentioned." The girl, in amazement: "What is an incubus?" The man: "Why, one of those things in which they hatch chickens."

The sons died at an age that is not closed to hope and promise, which now must be handed on to another generation—Laurence and Elizabeth, the children of Harry Irving, both gifted with good looks and charm. The boy distinguished himself during the War in the Air Force and now shows promise as a painter. My love descends to them.

J. L. Toole

Extremes meet; they always do and always will. The closest friend Henry Irving had was J. L. Toole. The strong affection between the two men, which lasted until the end, began when Toole was making a name on the stage in Edinburgh and Irving only a beginner. The famous comedian belonged, as it were, to "the City," and was educated at the City of London School. He was a close second to Sothern in inventing practical jokes, generally harmless, and would take as infinite pains to carry them through. I remember a silly story he loved to tell, how, after a bad baccarat night at Aix-les-Bains, he went to the bank to draw money on his letter of credit. Tapping at the guichet, he inquired of the clerk in feeble, broken English how much the bank would advance upon a gold-headed cane which he carried. As might be expected, the little window was slammed in his face. Nothing daunted, Toole made his way to the market-place hard by, and bought from various stalls some small fish, a bunch of carrots, and a child's toy; he then returned to the bank and arranged his purchases on the counter, with the addition of his watch, a half-franc piece and a penknife. When all was ready he again tapped at the window, and, in a tremulous voice, implored the clerk to accept these offerings in pledge for the small sum needed to save him from starvation. The clerk indignantly requested Toole to leave the establishment, explaining, in the best English at his command, that the bank only made advances upon letters of credit. At the last-named word Toole broke into smiles, and, producing his letter of credit, handed it to the astonished clerk, with the explanation that he would have offered it at first had he thought the bank cared about it, but the porter at his hotel had emphatically told him the bankers of Aix preferred fish.

Toole was never the same after the painful death of his son: he became more and more a slave to "late hours," but was still a delightful, buoyant companion, beloved by his comrades and friends.

Wilson Barrett was a good actor of the robust type. He had an adventurous career: sometimes high on the wave of success, at others deep down in the trough of the sea of failure, but always strictly honourable. At the old Princess's Theatre, in Oxford Street, he made large sums by good dramas like The Silver King and The Lights of London, and lost them through the failures of ambitious efforts, which included a youthful Hamlet, to be wiped out in turn by the enormous success of The Sign of the Cross, a religious drama that appealed to a large public which rarely entered theatres. The play provoked Bernard Shaw to say that Wilson Barrett could always bring down the house with a hymn, and had so evident a desire to personate the Messiah that we might depend upon seeing him crucified yet.

William Terriss

A restless, untamable spirit was born in William Terriss. He tried various callings before settling down to the one for which he was so eminently fitted. He embarked in the mercantile marine, but the craze only lasted a fortnight. Then came tea-planting in China. The next experiment was made in medicine, to be followed by an attack upon engineering. He then positively bluffed me into giving him an engagement, and made his appearance on the stage. Suddenly he decided to go sheep farming in the Falkland Islands. He made an early marriage, and his beloved Ellaline was born there. Of course he soon came back; returned to and left the stage again; next to Kentucky to try horse-breeding. Another failure brought him to his senses. Five years after he had first adopted the stage he was an actor in earnest and became one of its greatest favourites.

His career was chiefly identified with the Lyceum and the Adelphi; but he first became prominent by his acting as Thornhill in Olivia, under Hare's management at the Court Theatre. His bright, breezy nature was a tonic, and, like his daughter and her husband, Seymour Hicks, he carried sunshine about with him and shed it on all he met. He was as brave as a lion and as graceful as a panther.

Alas! one Saturday evening the town was horrified as the tragic news quickly spread that Terriss had been fatally stabbed by a malignant madman as he was entering the Adelphi Theatre to prepare for his evening's work. At his funeral there was an extraordinary manifestation of public sympathy.

Lionel Monckton told me a curious story of how when he reached home he found that a clock which Terriss gave him had stopped at the hour of the murder.

However briefly, I must record grateful thanks for past enjoyment given us by Corney Grain, as great a master in his branch of art as that friend of my youth, John Parry. His odd name was often wrongly thought to be assumed, as was that of a dramatist of those days, Stirling Coyne, who rejoiced in the nickname of "Filthy Lucre."

I always remember the stifled laughter of my wife and Corney Grain, who was present with ourselves at a dinner party, when a distinguished foreigner, accredited by Spain to the Court of St. James, was announced by a nervous manservant as the "Spanish Ham..."—a long pause being followed by a trembling sotto voce—"bassador."

"Gee Gee" and "Wee Gee"

George Grossmith, the elder—"Gee Gee"—is of course best remembered by his long connection with the Gilbert and Sullivan operas. To their great success he contributed a share of which he was justly proud. After he left the Savoy Theatre he toured as an entertainer, with excellent financial results, both here and from two visits to the United States. When he returned for the second time, I remember his saying to me, in his funny, plaintive way: "Do you know, my dear 'B,' things are really very sad. The first time I came back from America I found myself spoken of as 'Weedon Grossmith's brother,' and now, after my second visit, I am only 'George Grossmith's father.'"

I have always looked upon Weedon Grossmith—"Wee Gee"—as an admirable actor, and his death as bringing a personal loss, having valued his friendship and his company. On the stage I best remember him in Pinero's comedies, The Cabinet Minister and The Amazons, in A Pantomime Rehearsal, and, towards the end of his career, in a remarkable performance of a demented odd creature, who believed himself to be the great Napoleon. My wife was so impressed by the acting that she wrote to our little friend about it in a way which delighted him beyond words. Weedon was educated as a painter, and became an exhibitor at the Academy and other galleries. I have two charming examples from his brush, which I bought at Christie's.

The Great War dealt severe blows to the stage, many a young life of promise being taken. The toll was heavy; but they are honoured always by their comrades and remembered for their valour, as are those who served so bravely and survived. During those terrible years the stage also lost E. S. Willard, Lewis Waller, Herbert Tree, William Kendal and George Alexander—all men in the front rank; every one hard to replace.

I associate Willard with his success in The Silver King, and afterwards in Henry Arthur Jones's plays, The Middleman and Judah. In these he had a prosperous career through the United States—as in the part in which I best remember him—the old man in Barrie's comedy, The Professor's Love Story, a charming piece of artistic work. He owed a modest fortune to the appreciation he met with in America.

Willard had an ambition to build a theatre at the top of Lower Regent Street, where the County Fire Office, so long a London landmark, stood; but, granting the site to have been available, it had no depth: the theatre could only have been erected on a part of the Regent Palace Hotel, and reached by burrowing under the road—so far as my architectural knowledge serves me. With the demolition of the County Fire Office the last fragment of the old colonnade disappeared, which, I remember, in my boyhood extended on both sides of the Quadrant from the Circus to Vigo Street.

Early retirement from management prevented intimacy with several prominent actors, who otherwise might have been associated with our work. For instance, Lewis Waller was only once our guest, as things happened. Of his acting, my wife and I were among the warm admirers. The first play in which he commanded our attention was The Profligate, which Pinero wrote for Hare when his management of the Garrick Theatre began. One recalls with admiration his acting as Hotspur, Brutus, Faulconbridge, and King Henry V.

I am sorry I did not know him better, or see more of him. He was a great loss to the stage he loved.

Too many windows

It was, naturally, a satisfaction to my wife, as to me, when Herbert Tree became our successor at the Haymarket. We felt the future of the theatre to be secure for a while, and that its traditions would be worthily maintained. He did all sorts of good work there, ranging from Hamlet and Henry V to The Dancing Girl and Trilby, until he was responsible for building its beautiful opposite neighbour, the present His Majesty's Theatre, where he migrated. During its erection I was walking one day on the opposite side with Comyns Carr, who asked me what I thought of it. He seemed to be greatly amused by my answer: "Too many windows to clean."

Good fortune continued to smile upon the smaller house under the joint management of Frederick Harrison and Cyril Maude. Much of its deserved success was due, in those days, to the art of Winifred Emery, which was then approaching its best, before cruel disease came in the plenitude of her powers and robbed her of that very front position which is reached by so few, and which I think she would surely have attained in her maturity.

Herbert Tree was for many years a power and an authority upon our stage: he rendered its alluring profession great service. I still trust in the hope that successors may be found with something of his splendid courage, his boundless imagination, to follow in his firmest footsteps and leave as memorable marks.

In private life he was an amusing creature, a delightful companion, a perfect host. It was once said of him, not altogether without truth, that he walked in a dream, talked in a dream, ate in a dream, drank in a dream, smoked in a dream, and acted in a dream.

He had enormous energy in starting things, but less strength in carrying his ideas through: he grew tired quickly through his love of change.

I will end with a comic note, for which I am indebted to Pinero. It so happened that the names of Arthur Pinero and Herbert Tree were announced for knighthood in the same Honours List. A man who was an old friend of both wrote a letter of felicitation to each of them; but unfortunately he put his letters into the wrong envelopes. The one Pinero received was as follows: "My dear Tree. Hearty congratulations. You ought to have had it long ago. But why Pinero?" The distinguished dramatist sent this letter to the distinguished actor with the necessary explanation, and in return had from him the note intended for himself. This was it: "My dear Pinero. Hearty congratulations. You ought to have had it long ago. But why Tree?"

The Kendals

"Will" Kendal, until he "passed into the night," chanced to be my oldest theatrical friend. We first met at Birmingham, in our early struggling days, and not again until he had planted his feet firmly at the Haymarket. Mrs. Kendal I knew in the following year, when we acted together in the country. She was Madge Robertson then, and a "flapper" of fifteen, already foreshadowing her brilliant future. After the Kendals married, my wife and I had the great advantage of their services in our company for two seasons. When, later on, their successful partnership with Hare came to an end, they travelled much in America, where they became special favourites and amassed a large fortune.

Kendal was an actor in the foremost rank, being trained by some years of hard work in the provincial "stock companies," as we of the "old brigade" all were. There were certain parts he played to perfection. I never saw his equal as Captain Absolute in The Rivals, young Marlow in She Stoops to Conquer, and Charles Courtly in London Assurance.

It must be full five and forty years since George Alexander called upon my wife one Sunday afternoon with a letter of introduction from our dear friend, Sir Morell Mackenzie. We were sorry, for all our sakes, that we could only offer him encouragement. He had much in his favour; was acting with a travelling company in the Robertson comedies, and warmly recommended for a London engagement, which he soon received from Irving at the Lyceum. Many pleasant tributes from Ellen Terry were paid to him during his stay there, and he rendered yeoman service to his chief. Alexander's long and successful management of the St. James's Theatre was beyond reproach, and for years gave stability to the stage and good repute to those who worked with him. He was a staunch friend to English dramatists and produced plays written by Arthur Pinero, Henry Arthur Jones, Alfred Sutro, Anthony Hope, Claude Carton, Haddon Chambers, Louis Parker, Stephen Phillips, Oscar Wilde, and Henry James: a worthy record.

"Mrs. Tanqueray"

The finest feather in Alexander's managerial cap—his panache—was the production of Pinero's great play, The Second Mrs. Tanqueray. He alone had the courage—a quality most essential in theatrical enterprise—to risk what thirty years ago was a dangerous undertaking, the truth and humanity of the play, which has kept it vigorously alive, being at the time of its production lost sight of in the sensation caused by the selection of such a daring scheme and subject for the stage. That fears existed for the success of the play on that score may now excite wonder in the minds of the present advanced generation.

The part of Paula has been a vehicle for the widely differing genius and conceptions of so many eminent actresses—Mrs. Patrick Campbell, Duse, Jane Hading, Mrs. Kendal, Miss Gladys Cooper, and numerous other distinguished foreigners—that special interest attaches to the curious incidents surrounding the first production of the play and the original casting of the heroine.

The play was in the first instance offered to Hare, who very decidedly refused it. On Hare's rejection, it was offered to Alexander, who, though greatly impressed by its strength, also, but reluctantly, declined it. Pinero then proposed to Alexander that he should do the play at a matinée, without being asked for any author's fee. This proposal was agreed to; and the play was announced for a series of morning performances. It happened, however, that Alexander's forthcoming production was Liberty Hall, a comedy written by Claude Carton, who, not unnaturally, represented to Alexander that the performances of The Second Mrs. Tanqueray in the afternoons might militate against the success of the regular evening bill. (An odd little coincidence is that one of the characters in Liberty Hall was originally named Tanqueray—a name which Carton, out of consideration for Pinero, changed to Harringay.) Alexander thereupon undertook that, if Pinero would release him from his agreement to give morning performances of The Second Mrs. Tanqueray, he would at the earliest opportunity put the play into the evening bill. In these circumstances the play was produced towards the end of the season of 1893.

The first Paula

In the ordinary course the original Paula would have been Winifred Emery, but the expected arrival of one of her daughters robbed her of the chance. The choice at the time was very limited, actresses of prominence all being engaged. It happened, however, that at the Adelphi a young and handsome lady of no long stage experience, named Mrs. Patrick Campbell, was acting in a drama by G. R. Sims. There were doubts whether the methods of an actress who had graduated at the Adelphi were suitable to the St. James's, but Pinero suggested to Alexander that they should see what impression she produced upon them in a talk with her in a room. The interview took place, and after it Pinero told Alexander that, if she would act on the stage as she talked in his office, he felt pretty sure that she was the woman for the part. But her engagement was dependent on her release by the management of the Adelphi. Word promptly came that this was refused, and once more the author of the play and the manager of the St. James's were up to their necks in difficulties. Pinero then proposed to Alexander that he should wind up the matter by engaging Miss Elizabeth Robins, who had lately made a striking success in Ibsen's Hedda Gabler, and he proceeded to do so.

As was the custom then, the date and hour were fixed for the author to read his play to the actors and actresses who were to represent it. Alexander was engaged to have luncheon that day in Portland Place, and Pinero arranged to call for him on his way to the theatre. As he drove up in a hansom, Alexander came out of the house in a state of great excitement, crying out: "We can get Mrs. Campbell!"

It appeared that he had only just heard from her that, thanks to pressure put upon them by G. R. Sims, the managers of the Adelphi had consented to release her. On reaching the St. James's Theatre, Pinero said to Alexander: "Look here; this is your job. I will go for a walk in St. James's Park and come back in half an hour to read my play either to Miss Robins or Mrs. Campbell, as it may turn out."

Alexander went to his room, rang the bell, asked if Miss Robins had arrived, and on learning that she was in the theatre requested her to come and see him. She soon entered, holding the book of the play. Alexander told her that an unexpected condition of things had arisen. He would put his cards on the table. Did Miss Robins know that the part of Paula had been first offered to Mrs. Campbell, who, in fact, had been engaged to play it? He was answered: "Yes." Alexander then said: "She has been set free, and is in the theatre. What am I to do?"

Pointing to the book in her hand, Miss Robins replied: "Mr. Alexander, this is the chance of my life. It is also the chance of Mrs. Campbell's life. She is a friend of mine, and I will not take the chance from her."

It was, in my opinion, a great mistake on Alexander's part to add the cares of the London County Council to the management of an important theatre. The strain, I have no doubt, shortened his life, which was of great service to his calling.

Sir Frank Benson

"Alec" was always my good friend; and when he summoned a meeting of the leading actors and managers in 1916, the year the Shakespearean Tercentenary was to be celebrated at Drury Lane Theatre, he put the matter so strongly to those assembled that there was no gainsaying his suggestion that I should there and then be invited to speak the address on the occasion if, as he hoped, I would undertake the task. It was no mean effort, and I am afraid that egotism is again fast getting the better of me and urging me to print the result of my labour. My excuse is that the event had national importance: a dramatic episode being the knighthood conferred by the King on Frank Benson, who had given the best years of his life to spreading the love of Shakespeare throughout the land.

Here is the address:

"I am proud, indeed, that it was thought fitting by my comrades to give me the unsought honour, on this great day, of addressing you on their behalf. I thank them for the privilege with all my heart, and promise to bear in mind the wise counsel of Polonius, 'brevity is the soul of wit!' I can only speak from my point of view. There are debts which can never be paid in full; there is homage which never can be amply rendered; there is love no tongue can truly tell. All these are Shakespeare's. As every tribute must fall short of what is really due, I resolved to speak my own words—the best in my power to frame—rather than be but the echo of an abler brain.

"In my early days in theatreland, with the audacity of youth, I acted many characters in Shakespeare's plays and then laid some budding leaves of a modest chaplet at the shrine of the master whose works have made the stage eternal. Now, in my old age, I rejoice in the remembrance that I have been what William Shakespeare was—an actor. With a boundless prodigality he has enriched this England which claims his birth—the dear land he loved so deeply and called:

"We owe to Shakespeare the most alluring, the most entrancing creations in our mother-tongue. How much poorer should we be if we lacked the imperishable charm of those Princesses of the drama—Juliet, Rosalind, Ophelia, Beatrice, Viola, Miranda, Portia, Imogen, Desdemona, and Cordelia. They are not withered by age, nor stricken by decay. The Angel of Death passes them by. They are celestial and immortal. What joy that mighty pen must have given for three hundred years to the gifted women who have portrayed those matchless heroines.

"As Shakespeare is 'for all time,' so is he for all men the 'guide, philosopher, and friend.' From whom can even monarchs surer look for majesty? Who so inspires the statesman with true patriotism? Who so teaches the gentleman his conduct; the preacher simple piety; the soldier chivalry and courage? Who gives the poet nobler themes; the painter loftier models; the lover sweeter idols; a son such sound advice? Who so plainly tells the player of his faults? and by whom is youth so upheld by hope, or declining years so soothed with consolation?

"I remember well a visit I paid upon a dusky evening to Westminster Abbey. As I walked beneath its stately roof, to the sounds of the organ, twilight shadows were cast down the sacred aisles. It seemed easy under such influence to believe the legend that, while writing the awful scene between Hamlet and his father's ghost, Shakespeare passed a long night alone within those hallowed walls. In the fading light I looked upon the monument in Poets' Corner and read the lines from The Tempest as they are inscribed there:

'The cloudcapt towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve; And like the baseless Fabric of a Vision Leave not a wrack behind.'

What grandeur, what pathos, are in the words; but we will not believe them—at least not of him. The lustre—the undying lustre—Shakespeare's transcendent genius has shed upon the world marches down the ages undimmed by time."

I lately came across a tribute to Shakespeare which provoked alike my admiration and surprise: the author being that brilliant wit and humorist, Douglas Jerrold. These are his words:

"The great magician who has left immortal company for the spirit of man in his weary journey through this briary world—has bequeathed scenes of immortal loveliness for the human fancy to delight in—founts of eternal truth for the lip of man to drink, and drink—and for all time to be renovated with every draught."

Charles Wyndham

Of that accomplished and delightful comedian, Charles Wyndham, there are bright thoughts of the happiness he gave to playgoers during an exceptionally prolonged career. Its only blemish, indeed, was its length, when the inevitable decay, which at last declines to be warded off, became manifest towards the end.

His early successes were made at the Criterion Theatre, in plays of an amusing and frivolous kind, such as The Great Divorce Case, Pink Dominoes and Betsy. These were followed by far better work, of a higher kind, and the production of those admirable comedies by Henry Arthur Jones, The Case of Rebellious Susan and The Liars.

I confess to having thought, had I remained longer on the stage, how happy I should have been to have played some types of those delightful, helpful, elderly men, who often make life pleasanter to the young, and were so perfectly acted by Wyndham.

He retained his youthful appearance until late in life: the preservation of his "figure" was amazing, and he remained a good walker to the end, but never carried a cane.

To recall a peculiarity of his hard working days, I have frequently known him stop at a post office and scrawl a hurried letter or send a telegram to himself, as a reminder of something important that he had to remember or to do.

The memory of Charles Wyndham should always be held in high regard for his unbounded generosity and devoted service to the Actors' Benevolent Fund. It was a pleasure and a privilege to me to propose that Lady Wyndham should be chosen to follow in his footsteps as its president.

Charles Hawtrey was a very old friend. We knew him first at his father's well-known preparatory school for Eton, where I sent my son. The next phase came soon afterwards, when he confided to us his wish to go upon the stage; a wish my wife and I at once encouraged. This appeared a little before we commenced our Haymarket career with a revival of Lord Lytton's comedy, Money. We said he could appear as a young member in the club scene, with a few lines to speak. Hawtrey enthusiastically accepted the offer. Unfortunately, an illness prevented its fulfilment, or he would have been the companion of Fred Terry in making his first appearance on that eventful evening.

Our paths in life, both on and off the stage, were much asunder, but we were always the best of friends, and I remember with pleasure a strong wish he expressed, during one of our meetings at Marienbad, when a scheme was on foot to build a theatre for him in the Haymarket, that he might christen it "The Bancroft." My wife and I were sorry when the scheme fell through.

He leaves the happiest memories to his shoals of friends—from the early days, of The Private Secretary; the middle stage, of Lord and Lady Algy and The Man from Blankley's; to end, with the gay maturity of Ambrose Applejohn's Adventure,—and laughter all the way.

Charles Hawtrey was the actor I have alluded to who had the widest knowledge of the Bible of any layman I have known.

John Hare

My intimate and affectionate relations, both private and professional, with John Hare make me a little shy of writing about him with the warmth his long and brilliant career upon the stage deserves. I was his oldest professional friend, having been a member of the company he first joined. In the following year my wife offered him an engagement, and for ten years he was prominent among the attractive company of the old Prince of Wales's Theatre. No young actor was, perhaps, so fortunate as himself, appearing as he did in three such successive and distinctive character parts as Lord Ptarmigant, the sleepy old Peer in Society, Prince Perovsky, the courtly Russian diplomat in Ours, and Sam Gerridge, the humble gasfitter in Caste. The delicacy and finish of Hare's acting was of great service to the Robertson comedies, in all of which he appeared.

When he left us it was to enter into friendly managerial rivalry. I applauded the step as a wise one on his part; but, after so many years of close intimacy, I felt the wrench. From that moment the dressing-room he and I had shared knew me no more, and I found a lonely corner on another floor.

And a friendly rivalry it was. If we had our Diplomacy, he had his Olivia, a delightful play, in which Ellen Terry made so conspicuous a success and Terriss laid the firm foundation of his fine career. My sole disappointment in connection with this beautiful production was that Hare had not plucked up the courage to attack the part of the dear old Vicar himself.

It is not for me to dwell upon his career, which was always to the credit of his calling, or enumerate his successes, only naming Pinero's brilliant works, The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith and The Gay Lord Quex. In the first of them Mrs. Patrick Campbell clinched her previous triumph; in the second Irene Vanbrugh seized the opportunity of rushing to the front, where she has remained ever since.

On an occasion when Hare proposed my health in distinguished company, it was pleasant to listen to words which were too flattering to allow of their repetition.

Meissonier of our stage

I am inclined to say that Hare's best and most complete individual work was his delightful portrait of old Benjamin Goldfinch in A Pair of Spectacles, a performance which gave us something of the simplicity and benevolence of the immortal Samuel Pickwick. I think of Hare, in all he did, as the Meissonier of our stage.

X ONE OTHER EMPTY CHAIR

The time has come for me to offer my apology for this book. In my lonely, but not unhappy, old age, the most void of all the Empty Chairs which now surround me is the one so long filled by my partner for more than fifty years.

Let me begin by saying that the foundation of our fortunes was due, solely, to her courage in gallantly deciding that danger was preferable to dullness, and in producing Society, the first of the Robertson comedies, against adverse advice and the fact that the manuscript had been "turned down" by the leading London managers of the day. It may be that the brave decision was also pleasant to her because at the time our mutual attachment was steadily ripening, and, although the part she was willing to take was not prominent, the character which would fall to my lot was a good one and likely to advance my position, if I played it well.

The return to Nature

To the exceptional and startling success upon production of Robertson's five delicate little comedies, and to the frequently-recurring revivals of them, we owed much. They appeared just when they were wanted to revive interest in the drama. Nature was Robertson's goddess, and he looked upon the bright young manager as the high-priestess of the natural school of acting.

When the prolific fountain ceased, through the early and untimely death of Robertson, the choice of plays until the end of our career was left to me. I was honoured and helped by implicit confidence in my judgment; no word of rebuke passed her lips for a mistake, no word of praise was withheld when it was thought merited. No spark of professional jealousy was born to her; she always loved to act with the ablest and best equipped of her comrades. She had no place for the more sordid side of life, and was as free from extravagance as she was indifferent about money. Her life from childhood was passed in the service of the public until I thought the time had come for it to be less strenuous.

It may be that for the early withdrawal from triumphant scenes of the great gifts of so famous an actress I was to blame—if blame there was. I plead excuse in a painful remembrance of pitiful words, written by a powerful pen, on lingering too long upon the stage; words which drew the sad picture of a much-loved servant of the public clinging to the faded chaplet won as its idol in earlier days; of clutching at the withered trophy after the time had come for its graceful surrender to youth and promise, and before the admiration once so showered upon her should be replaced by indulgence—indulgence to be followed by compassion, compassion in its turn by indifference. Indulgence—compassion—indifference. The mere utterance of such words causes one pain. Twilight in art—as in nature—must be mournful: surely a sweeter picture is the splendid sinking of an early autumnal sun.

It will mean happiness to me to lay a few flowers at her feet, gathered in the gardens of those who knew and loved her. So I have asked three dear friends, a man of letters, a dramatist, and an actor, to help me in that task.

Macready and the child

The first tribute is from the pen of W. L. Courtney:

"MY DEAR B,—

"I gladly avail myself of the opportunity you give me to pay a tribute to the memory of Lady Bancroft.

"She herself has told us the sort of impression she made on those around her when she was a child; and because that early verdict passed on her is singularly prescient, it is worth recalling. Macready is the first witness. Marie Wilton—to use her maiden name, which was soon to be famous on the stage—acted the parts of the boy Fleance and the apparition of a child in the caldron scene to Macready's Macbeth at the close of his career, and was invited by the great actor to visit him in his room. 'Well,' he said, 'I suppose you hope to be a great actress some day. And what do you intend to play?' The answer came at once: 'Lady Macbeth.' 'Oh, is that all! Well, I like your ambition. You are a strange little thing and have such curious eyes. But you must change them before you play Lady Macbeth, or you will make your audience laugh instead of cry.' The story shows that Macready had quickly noticed two things about the child. Her eyes, which were not so much curious as unusual and always alive, were laughing, merry, twinkling eyes, the eyes of one who would never allow her outlook on the world to be other than genial and good; who could bear misfortune with as much courage as good fortune. He had noticed also what was almost the first thing that the spectator observed about Marie Bancroft's performance in almost every one of her parts, and that was the inscrutable fashion in which she at once established the best relations with her audience. It was in its way a little bit of magic, the secret of which she retained. The effect was irresistible. She came down to the footlights, or stayed where she was, without movement, and instantly flashes of mutual goodwill passed between her and the audience, even before the musical tones of her voice were heard. Sometimes, as with an actress like Eleonora Duse, time has to elapse while she is, so to speak, making herself at home. Marie Bancroft had undoubtedly what I have called a little bit of magic. Whatever the part that she was to play, there was always the comfortable feeling when she was on the stage that everything was going well, and that success was practically assured. In the series of her parts in the Robertsonian drama she was, of course, helped by the author's knowledge of her and of her temperament; but whether she was a schoolgirl or supposed to be grown up; whether the part belonged to the upper or the lower levels of society: in every case sympathy was instantly linking her with the eager and attentive house. She no sooner came than she saw what was wanted, and she conquered with what seemed consummate ease and economy of effort. I have never seen an actress who more rapidly and easily made her presence known on the stage as a gracious, winsome, affectionate creature, filled with human kindness, and always ready to believe the best of people and of things.

Dickens and the girl

"And so the judgment of Charles Dickens is established as surely as that of Macready. 'I really wish,' said Dickens in a letter to John Forster, 'I really wish you would go to see The Maid and the Magpie burlesque at the Strand Theatre. There is the strangest thing in it that I have ever seen on the stage. The boy Pippo, by Miss Marie Wilton, while it is astonishingly impudent—must be or it could not be done at all—is so stupendously like a boy and unlike a woman that it is perfectly free from offence. I have never seen such a curious thing; the manner, the appearance, the levity, impulse and spirits of it are so exactly like a boy that you cannot see anything like her sex in association with it. I call her the cleverest girl I have ever seen on the stage in my time, and the most original.' That is, of course, a tribute to her cleverness, which made her the best of burlesque actresses. If Macready's judgment refers to the seriousness of her ambition, Charles Dickens calls attention to her extraordinary versatility, her power of identifying herself with any part she assumed, and the rapidity with which she comprehended all that was implicit in it. Of the burlesques of those days Marie Wilton was the acknowledged queen, inspiring the whole of the silly or serious business with her inimitable gaiety and amazing ability.

"The more general the sympathy an actress possesses with human nature, the wider will be her interpretation of a part. We talk about building up a character. It is only saying in other words that the primary duty of the heroine in a play is to make us understand, not only what she is in the play, but what she might be under other conditions. The extraordinary thing about Marie Bancroft, when she left burlesque for modern comedy, is that from the first she interpreted the character she was representing in the largest, most sympathetic manner, as having an inner nature or temperament of much more subtle value than came out in the actual presentation. Superficially, the characters of Polly Eccles and Naomi Tighe—both great favourites with Marie Bancroft—can be easily described. They are bright, garrulous, happy creatures, full of fun, quick in tongue, responsive to humour, and always amusing to watch. But as we left the theatre, after seeing her act them, we were aware that they are something more. Behind the drolleries of Naomi Tighe beats an extremely warm heart, a genuine comradeship, and an especial love, of course, of her dear friend, Bella. But in Polly Eccles there was still more. I was always surprised to think that Marie Bancroft should have preferred the schoolgirl Naomi to the high-hearted, devoted friend who was Polly Eccles, in whom we have touches of a fuller personality than could be found either in Naomi or in Mary Netley of Ours.

The fulfilment

"These, however, were, after all, the earlier creations in comedy of an artist destined to do much finer work. Her full powers were proved later on, especially in Peg Woffington. The picture showed traces of the same handiwork; and indeed the audience would never have been satisfied if Marie Bancroft had not set her unmistakeable seal on this character as on others. There was something in the pathos of the main situation, however; something, too, in the exquisite sympathy between Peg and Triplet, which touched the very source of tears. What we saw here was the fulfilment of a promise discerned in her earlier creations, an admirable example of the many-sided presentment of a character, so that it becomes something of daily experience. The humorous eyes, the sensitive mouth, the face ever ready to suggest laughter and fun, the attractive little touches of temperament and feeling—those had come together to form a beautiful presentment of a gracious and affectionate being, who could help others in their distress, because she herself had come through deep waters.

"There is one point which it would be wrong to pass over without comment. There is sometimes talk of jealousy between artists. Of the spirit of emulation, the spirit of ambition, the desire to do the best possible under the given conditions—of these, which are part and parcel of a noble nature, Marie Bancroft had her full share. But it was always noticed that she had no touch of professional jealousy. She often sank her own importance as an actress, cheerfully taking a small part. Both she and you had made up your minds not to allow consideration of your own parts to bias your judgment in the refusal or acceptance of plays. You judged the plays on their merits—not on the ground that parts in them would or would not suit either of you. With the utmost readiness Marie Bancroft played second parts to Madame Modjeska, to Mrs. John Wood, to Mrs. Patrick Campbell, as well as to Mrs. Kendal and to Ellen Terry. Self-abnegation of this kind is sufficiently rare to be worthy of comment. Its value, is, of course, obvious. Without it some of your most successful productions would never have been given.

"Many critics, especially young ones, are inclined to decry the value of Robertson's plays; but the fact remains that, with those comedies as your material, Marie Bancroft and you initiated a revolution in English drama. In those plays she rejoiced in characters exactly suited to her genius, characters to which she could give all her laughter and sense of fun, in creating personalities which will always live in the memories of those who saw them. She not only acted; she possessed that constructive instinct which enabled her to pass judgment on and vastly to improve the comedies submitted to her. Of this, there is no better example than what happened with Charles Reade's play, Masks and Faces, when Reade, moved to tears by her performance of the ending which at one rehearsal she substituted for that which he had written, very wisely gave way to the superior imaginative perception of Marie Bancroft, the actress of Peg Woffington.

Personality

"In final retrospect, we come back to the 'curious eyes' and the laughter-provoking face which Macready discovered. In all arts we have to recognise the personal element, which makes the work of one man so different from that of another. We do not mistake the inimitable touch of a Millais or confuse it with that of a Sargent. We do not read a page of Henry James and imagine that it could have been written by George Meredith. In the same way an actor portraying a character puts into it so much of himself that we contrast his representation with that of another actor—quite as good, perhaps, but of a different quality. This element of personality is called 'style,' and it is by style that an artist lives and betrays his or her idiosyncrasy. And no one had a more appealing style than Marie Bancroft, who could do with our hearts what she pleased. The roguish eyes, the inimitable smile, the sense of humour, the joy of living—all those were hers; and it was by some wonderful combination of all dramatic gifts that she won her complete and perfect triumph. Those (alas! now how few) who in old days sat spellbound, as they saw her winning the palms of victory in many a famous play, will confess with unbounded gratitude how much of happy memory they owe to the grace, the skill, the charm, the sympathy of Marie Bancroft.

"Yours sincerely, "W. L. COURTNEY."

The second tribute is from Arthur Pinero:

"MY DEAR B.,

"It is my firm belief that the most ardent and persistent lover of the drama, after a long life of playgoing, and when the footlights illuminating his own private and personal drama are beginning to burn low, can, if he be honest with himself, count his red-letter nights in the theatre, at a liberal estimate, on the fingers of both hands. Such is the case with me at any rate. Many distinguished and moving performances, memorable in their way, have I witnessed; but the real, unmistakeable red-letter nights—heart and brain clutching—how few! Some premieres at the old Lyceum, under the management of the Batemans and, subsequently, of Irving himself, two or three representations at the Théâtre Français—notably Mounet Sully's acting, as it was thirty years ago, in Œdipe Roi—Duse's earliest appearance in England in La Dame aux Camélias; to recall these things gives one a catch in the breath—these and the first time I saw Marie Wilton as 'Polly Eccles.'

A red-letter night

"This particular red-letter night happened at the Standard Theatre in Shoreditch in, I think, August, 1873. (You, in whose honour a University should create the degree of Master of Dates, so curious, so infallible—occasionally, to the ladies, so disconcerting—is your memory, will correct me if I am wrong as to the month or year.) The company of the dainty little Prince of Wales's Theatre had carried their delicate art to that not too salubrious quarter of the town, and were delighting the East-enders in Robertson's Caste. Nowadays it is the critical habit to sniff at Robertson and his simple, humane comedies; but the work of a writer for the stage should be judged in relation to the period which produced it, and, so judged, Robertson was a man of vision and courage. There is no dramatist now writing, 'advanced' or otherwise, who is not in a measure indebted to Robertson. But how lucky he was in the people who interpreted him! Take Caste, for instance. Lydia Foote—her appealing 'Esther Eccles' was approached in later years only by Olga Brandon in a revival of the piece at the Criterion—the highly capable Mrs. Leigh Murray, the unctuous Honey, John Hare, most refined of miniaturists, the fascinating Coghlan—who had succeeded Frederick Younge, whom I never saw, as 'George D'Alroy'—-yourself as 'Hawtree'—a monumental picture of Swelldom, unequalled, in its combination of grotesqueness and good breeding, by any stage Swell of my time—even Sothern's 'Dundreary' couldn't touch your 'Hawtree'—and, above and beyond you all, the glorious actress who used to figure in the playbills as 'Miss Marie Wilton (Mrs. Bancroft),' and was to become Lady Bancroft; what a wonderful—what an unmatchable—troupe!

"Enter Polly"

"That red-letter night in unsavoury Shoreditch! Outside the theatre, the thick air of a warm evening, presently to be fouled by the fumes of the naphtha lamps of the gutter tradesmen; the incessant bawling of those gentry; the garish display of cheap wares in the shop-windows; the jostling and shoving of the loiterers on the pavement; and the sensation of complete happiness, almost choking in its intensity, because one was going to the play! And the fight for a front seat in the pit; the contentment, after a terrific struggle resulting in a torn jacket and the limpest of shirt-collars, at finding oneself in possession of about eight inches of bare board; and the settling down to enjoy the blended odours, peculiar to the popular theatre of that day, of gas and stale orange-peel, than which no more agreeable smell could greet the nostrils of a stage-struck youth! Then the tuning-up by the orchestra—joyful discord—and the unheeded playing of a 'selection'; and then the rising of the curtain, the sudden hush of voices, and lo! there is the poor, shabby room on the ground-floor of the lodging-house in Stangate! George appears, followed by Hawtree; they talk, and I wonder that their talk should be so different from the talk I had heard in other plays; then comes 'Papa Eccles,' who 'can tell a real gentleman with half a sov'; then, when Papa, the half-sovereign in his dirty fist, has shuffled away to meet a friend round the corner, Esther steals in; and then—oh, then!—'Enter Polly, D.R.H.,' as the stage direction says, and in a moment the audience is enraptured by the brightest, freshest, sweetest little woman that ever gladdened ears and eyes in or out of a playhouse!