Dynamite The Story of Class Violence In America

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Dynamite The Story of Class Violence In America Louis
Adamic Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Louis Adamic
ISBN(s): 9781904859741, 1904859747
Edition: Illustrated
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Year: 2008
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we not advised by Mr. Hobhouse to abandon a policy of “pinpricks”,
and “do as the men had done”?
There were many funny incidents connected with the Suffrage
Movement, and not the least funny was Mr. Austen Chamberlain’s
reason why women ought not to have the vote: “Because women
are women, and men are men.” It was Mr. Chamberlain who said
that women ought not to mix at all in political affairs. My sister
Decima wrote to him at once, to ask if by that statement he meant
that he wished women to discontinue working for the Tariff Reform
League, and she received a prompt answer “in the negative”.
My first public speech was made at the Queen’s Hall. They rang up
at very short notice to ask if I would “say a few words”. Rather
fearful as to my powers of oratory, I went. I remember Christabel
Pankhurst was in the chair. I began to speak, and a small blood
vessel broke in my lip. I stood there speaking, and between
sentences mopping up the small but persistent stream of blood.
When my own handkerchief was no longer of any use, Christabel
passed me another. By the time I finished my speech a small pile of
“gory” looking handkerchiefs lay at my feet, and not a woman on the
platform had a handkerchief left. It was a horrible experience for a
“raw hand”.
What a fighter Christabel Pankhurst was! The hall might be in an
uproar, but it did not daunt Christabel; she spoke, and, if no one
listened, she went on speaking until they did! She was a brilliant
speaker, who never let her brilliance get above the heads of her
audience, and never let them feel she was “talking down to them”. I
have never known any woman, who was so ready-witted; no one
ever “caught her out”.
A man once got up and asked, “Now, Miss Pankhurst, putting all
the fun of talking in public on one side, don’t you really wish you
were a man?” Miss Pankhurst gave the question a second’s
consideration, looked carefully at the speaker, then gave her head
that queer little jerk which always heralded some unexpected
answer—the crowds knew it, and used to watch for it. “Don’t you?”
was all she said. Another occasion a man got up and commenced a
long, rambling question as to what would happen to “the home” if
he got into Parliament and his wife got into Parliament too. It took
him a long time to say it all, and he drew a really very touching
picture. “I don’t know your wife, sir,” said Christabel; “I’ve never
seen her; she might, of course, be returned for Parliament; but you
—oh! (very soothingly) I don’t think you need worry!” Taking the
audiences on the whole, they liked her. If there was a row that even
she could not talk down, it was an extraordinary thing. They liked
her humour, they liked her doggedness, her pugnacity, and her
youthful enjoyment of any and every joke, even if one was turned
against her. The famous Pantechnicon was Christabel’s idea.
Everyone has heard of it, and it is exactly the same story as the
“Wooden Horse of Troy”, only “the horse” was a furniture van, the
occupants were Suffragists, and “Troy” was the sacred precincts of
the House of Commons.
Mrs. Pankhurst had all the fighting spirit, but she lacked the quick
humour of her daughter. She was a wonderful woman, who had
worked all her life “for women”, and worn herself out bodily—not
mentally—in doing so. I have seen and heard her often, but never
without a sense of deep admiration for her brain and her endurance.
Those of us who remember will recall the placards in those days:
“Arrest of Mrs. Pankhurst”, followed a fortnight later by “Mrs.
Pankhurst Released”—that was after hunger striking—then, “Illness
of Mrs. Pankhurst”. About three weeks later, when she had regained
a little of her strength, you saw, “Arrest of Mrs. Pankhurst”. (That
was under “the Cat and Mouse Act”.) That weary round used to go
on, until you wondered how human brain, let alone human body,
could stand it. But stand it she did, and came back again and again.
I wonder now if all that she suffered, and all that she gained, ever
enters the minds of the women voters who go to the polling-booths
on election days?
Not only may they remember Mrs. Pankhurst, there are other
figures “that remain”—Flora Drummond, Annie Kenny, Mrs. Howe
Martin, Lady Constance Lytton, and Mrs. Despard. The last was, as
Mrs. Nevinson once said, “not a woman, but an inspiration”. She was
born fifty years too soon; she was an old lady when the Suffrage
Movement first began to be a real “thing” in practical politics. It was
a living example of mind over matter that made it possible for her to
work as she did. She was, I suppose, the most picturesque figure in
the movement; she looked what she is—an aristocrat. You will find
her type in the Spanish pictures of Tiapolo. I can think of one at the
moment which hangs in the Scottish National Gallery; Mrs. Despard
might have sat for the court lady on the left. Now she has become
an Irish citizen, and lives outside Dublin, devoting her time to trying
to alleviate the sufferings of her adopted countrymen. That I do not
see eye to eye with her aims and methods does not shake my belief
that those aims and methods are actuated from nothing but rooted
beliefs. It was Mrs. Despard who said once, during the most
strenuous part of the Suffrage campaign, “Oh! then ’twas good to be
alive, but to be young was very heaven!” An idealist, even something
of a fanatic, but with her eyes fixed on the stars and her heart full of
high purpose and great faith in her cause—that is Mrs. Despard as I
saw, and still see, her.
Of the sufferings (and I use the word advisedly) of the women
who “dared greatly”, I will not write, and for two reasons—first, the
fight is over, we gained our objective, and removed from the Statute
Book the clause which classed women with “lunatics”; and, secondly,
because if I did write, and write truly of the things I know, no one
would believe me, and I even doubt if anyone could print what I
could write, and write in all truth. So I leave that side, and ask you
to believe that, even if we admit (and I reserve my own opinion)
that many of the things which the Suffragists did were foolish,
unnecessary, destructive, even wicked, they had punishment meted
out to them in not only full measure, but “pressed down and running
over”; and I can tell you only that the courage with which they met
that punishment was worthy of the great cause for which they
fought, whatever their methods—the Emancipation of Women.
The Actresses’ Franchise League was formed after the Women’s
Social and Political Union, and after the Women’s Freedom League.
It was “non-party and non-political”. Though it did not advocate the
extreme measures, it did not condemn; its policy was “The aim is
everything”. I remember our first meeting at the Criterion; Sir
Johnston Forbes Robertson took the chair and spoke for us. He, like
his mother before him, has been a warm supporter of anything
which will lead to better conditions for women. The meeting was a
great success, and from that time we, the Actresses’ Franchise
League, took its place with the other franchise societies. I remember,
in one of the processions which were organised from time to time,
the Actresses sent a contingent. Cissy Loftus, May Whitty, Lena
Ashwell, and I were marching four abreast. We all wore white
dresses, with sprays of pink roses, except Lena Ashwell, who was in
mourning. At the end of Northumberland Avenue there was a long
wait; we were held up for some time. A man who was passing
looked at us and recognised Lena Ashwell. He turned to his friend
and said, “See ’er, that third one in that line? I’ll tell you ’oo she is;
she’s the ‘Bad Girl of the Family’!”
I think in most of us the work cultivated a sense of humour, but it
was certainly due to a lack of that valuable commodity in someone
that I was asked to hand in my resignation to the A.F.L. My husband
wrote a one-act play, called Her Vote, the story of a “fluffy” young
woman who, after persuading everyone she meets that it is “their
duty” to attend a big Suffrage meeting, does not go herself, because
her “young man” has taken tickets for a fashionable ball. That,
roughly, was the story. I played the sketch, and it really was very
funny. Two days later, at a meeting of the League, “someone” got up
and stated that they had seen the sketch, and that evidently “Eva
Moore preferred Kisses to Votes”, and suggested that I should be
told not to play the sketch again, or resign. I resigned; I felt that
one could work as well for a cause outside a society as in one. I may
say that I was asked to go back, which I did, still reserving the right
to myself to play in any play, without the assumption that I was
working anti-Suffrage propaganda. That line, “Prefers Kisses to
Votes”, has always struck me as so very excellent, it should be used
in a play.
 I did, however, call down upon my head a terrible storm, and quite
innocently. At a time when “forcible feeding” was being resorted to
very much, two girls, who were Suffragists, were presented at Court.
They were both of very good social position, and very charming. One
of them, on being presented to the King, said “Your Majesty, won’t
you stop forcible feeding?” She was promptly hustled out of the
presence, and the Press the following day was full of “the insult
offered to the King”. It may have been, probably was, the wrong
time to do it; it was probably the wrong way to attempt to do it; but
I did feel, and still feel, that the girl must have called up every ounce
of courage she possessed to say what she did. At a meeting next
day I ventured to say just what I have written here, ending with:
“Whatever one may feel about the wisdom or the propriety of her
action, you must take off your hat to the girl for her courage.” Then
the storm burst. That evening I found headlines in the papers: “Eva
Moore takes off her hat to the woman who insulted the King”, and so
on; it was astonishing. The result was rather dreadful; men I had
never seen wrote to me, wrote the most abusive, indecent letters I
have ever read or even dreamed could be written, letters which left
me gasping that people who could write at all should descend to
using such epithets and expressions. Had I not already been a
Suffragist, those letters would have made me one! However, it came
to an end and I survived, though I admit at the time it distressed me
very much indeed.
A disagreeable experience was when I was called to give evidence
in the case of “Pankhurst and Pethick Lawrence v. the Crown”. Mrs.
Pankhurst was alleged to have spoken against the Crown and His
Majesty’s Government at the Albert Hall meeting, and the Pethick
Lawrences, as chief organisers of the meeting, were involved. That,
so far as my memory serves me, was the case. I was to give
evidence for Mrs. Pankhurst. I was instructed not to answer too
quickly, not to answer too slowly, and no first night has ever brought
such a torture of nerves as did that cross-examination at the Old
Bailey. I remember very little about it all, except the grim air which
seemed to brood over everything, and the fear that I might “say
something wrong”. Sir Rufus Isaacs was “for the Crown”, and I was
in the witness-box. I remember after some time he said, “—and so
you suggest so-and-so, Miss Moore?” It was a question very like the
old story, “Do you still beat your wife?”—whichever way you
answered, you were wrong. I admit frankly I was paralysed with
fright; I tried to collect my wits, tried to think of some “really telling”
answer; no inspiration came. At last I said, with what dignity I could
muster, “I suggest nothing”, and heard him say the most welcome
words which, I think, have ever struck my ears, “You may stand
down!”
And we were told we went through that kind of ordeal because we
liked it and loved the notoriety! What imagination some people have!
Some day, when we look back from a distance of years, the things
will fall into their right perspective, and we shall be able to tell
stories which will fire the imagination of those who hear them; such
stories will be the Pantechnicon; the story of “Charlie” Marsh, lying
hidden on the roof of Birmingham Town Hall, followed by three
months’ imprisonment, during the whole of which time she was
forcibly fed; the story of Lilian Lenton, who hid for two days in the
organ loft in Leeds Town Hall; the story of Theresa Billington and the
Dog Whip, and many others. We are still too near them as actual
happenings, we still let our political opinions, on either side, colour
our feelings; but in the future we shall see them for what they were:
as brave attempts to fight whole-heartedly for a great cause.
I think of the great public funeral accorded to Emily Davidson, and
remember that a martyr is “one who suffers death or grievous loss in
defence or on behalf of any belief or cause”; the worthiness or
unworthiness of the cause is a question which only the martyr can
answer to his or her own soul. Emerson says: “A man does not come
the length of the spirit of martyrdom without some flaming love”,
and I believe that it was a “flaming love” for their sister-women
which was the driving-force behind all they did.
I look back, no longer “dreaming dreams”, but seeing “visions”—
and the visions I see are of women coming from all parts of
England, from the factories of Lancashire, from Yorkshire, from the
hunting-fields, from offices, schools, and from every place where
women might be found, who wanted to see the dawn of the new
era, giving up much which made life pleasant and easy, braving
scorn, ridicule, and often bodily danger, to do what they might to
“right a wrong”. I like to remember that “I did what I could” and
was, at anyrate, one of the rank and file in that great army.
I go back to August, 1914, and think how all those women put
aside their political ambitions, even their demand for recognition,
and declared a truce, so that they might concentrate against a
common enemy which threatened their country. “I hated war,” one
of them said to me, speaking of ’14, “I was and always had called
myself a pacifist, but, when the war came, well, I worked with the
rest of us, to help to win it.”
The war was over, and at a luncheon given at the Savoy I met Mr.
Lloyd George. I told him that I had not seen him for a long time, and
reminded him that the last time was when I came, as a member of a
deputation on behalf of Women’s Suffrage, to see him at 10
Downing Street. “Yes,” he said, “I remember. Well, I always told
Christabel Pankhurst you should all have the vote, and I kept my
word!” After nearly forty years of “constitutional methods”, of spade-
work and propaganda, and after nearly a decade of active work—
nearly ten years during which constitutional methods were flung to
the winds, and the women fought for the franchise as “the men had
fought”—they won that which they demanded: their political
freedom—obtained, as all freedom has been obtained, “with a great
price”, and that “great price” was years of self-sacrifice, culminating
in the European War.
So political swords were turned to ploughshares, for, as Mrs.
Pankhurst used to say, “Remember when you have gained the vote
your work is only beginning”; and the women of England were at
last able to say, each one, “I am a citizen of no mean city.”
 CHAPTER VIII
PEOPLE I HAVE MET

“There is so much in Nature—so many sides.”

—Love and the Man.

I f all these “impressions that remain” seem—what, indeed, they

are—very disjointed, remember that Life as one lives it is, after
all, a “patchy” and disjointed business.

Mrs. John Wood.—I have spoken elsewhere of Mrs. John Wood,

and the following incident happened when I was playing under her
management at the Court Theatre. I came to the theatre by
Underground, and one night the train stopped and was held up
between Kensington and Sloane Square Stations. I looked nervously
at my watch, and saw the time was rapidly approaching when I
ought to be in my dressing-room. Still the train remained stationary.
I began to feel rather desperate, so decided to do all I could to “get
ready” in the train. I was wearing buttoned boots—I undid the
buttons; I was wearing a dress with many small buttons down the
front—I undid them all, keeping my coat buttoned tight to hide the
state of “undress”. (I remember an unfortunate man who was in the
same carriage, gazing at me, evidently thinking I was a dangerous
lunatic and wondering what I should do next.) At last the train
moved, and I got out and rushed into the theatre, gained my
dressing-room, and began to tear off my clothes. I did not attempt
to “make up”—there was no time; I directed all my energies to
getting into my stage frock—which, by the way, was a dress for a
“drawing-room”, with train and feathers all complete. The stage
manager, who was not blessed with the capacity for doing the right
thing at the right moment, chose the moment when I was struggling
into this very elaborate costume to come to the door and to begin to
expostulate with me for being late. “What has made you so late,
Miss Moore?”, “Do you know you should have been in the theatre
half an hour ago?”, “Do you know you’ll be off?”, and so on, until in
sheer exasperation I called to him (and I do not regret it), “Oh! for
Heaven’s sake, go away, you fool!” He did. He went and told Mrs.
John Wood that I had been very rude to him, and she sent for me,
after the performance, to “know why”. I told her the whole story,
and as it was unfolded to her I saw her lips begin to quiver and her
eyes dance with amused understanding. When I finished, she gave
her verdict. I know she felt the discipline of the theatre must be
upheld at all costs, but she saw the humour of it. “I understand,”
she said. “We will say no more about it, this time—but it must not
happen again!”
 Photograph
by The
Dover
Street
Studios,
Ltd.,
London, W.
To face p.
102

Eliza

“Eliza Comes to Stay”

A Manager in the Suburbs.—I had been playing “Eliza”. We had

played to capacity all the week, at a certain suburban theatre which
shall be nameless. On the Saturday night the local manager came to
me; he was very delighted at the “business”, and said so with great
enthusiasm. The play was “great”, I was “great”, the business was
equally “great”. “And now,” he concluded “you will have a little
something with me, to drink to your return to this theatre.” I said it
was very kind of him, but that I really didn’t want the “little
something”; but he seemed rather hurt, and so I consented. I do not
know exactly what nectar I expected him to send into my room, but
I certainly did not expect a small bottle of Guinness’s stout, which
was what he did send.

Simone le Barge.—She was playing in London with George

Alexander, and was present at a very representative theatrical lunch.
The thing which struck her most, so she told me, was that everyone
was married or going to be married. There was George Alexander
and his wife; Fred Terry and his wife; Cyril Maude and his wife; H. B.
Irving and his wife; Martin Harvey and his wife; Oscar Asche and Sir
Herbert Tree, both with their wives; Harry and I, and so on. It
astonished her! She said, in the tone of one who sees “strange
things and great mystries”: “Dans la France—c’est impossible!”

A Scotch Landlady.—I arrived in Glasgow one Sunday, and I feel

rather about Glasgow as poor Dan Leno did. “They tell me this is the
second city of our Empire; when I find a real ‘outsider’, I’m going to
back it for a place!” However, when I arrived by the night train from
the South, I found the landlady cleaning the house with the vigour
of twenty women. I had to sit in her room until my own were
cleaned. When finally this was accomplished to her satisfaction, I
was allowed to take possession. I unpacked and took out some
sewing, which was a series of small flannel garments I was making
for Jack, then a baby. She walked into my room, and saw what I was
doing; she fixed me with a “cold eye”. “Sewin’!” she ejaculated. I
explained they were for my baby, etc., but the cold eye still remained
cold. “On the Sawbath!” she said. “Weel, Ah ca’ it naething but
impious,” and with that she walked out and left me alone with my
“impiety”.

Dan Leno.—I have no real right to include Dan Leno. I never met
him, but my sister Decima did, and someone else who did told me
this story, which I think is worth repeating. Leno lived at Brixton (I
am told that, as all good Americans go to Paris when they die, so all
good music hall artists go to Brixton when they die), and he used on
Sunday mornings to potter round his garden wearing carpet slippers,
an old pair of trousers, his waistcoat open, and no collar; quite
happy, and enjoying it immensely. He went round, on one of these
Sunday mornings, to a “hostelry” for liquid refreshment, and met
there a “swell comedian” who knew him. This gentleman, who
appeared on the halls dressed rather in the manner of Mr. George
Lashwood, was faultlessly dressed in a frock coat, the regulation
dark grey trousers, and looked rather “stagily” immaculate. He
looked at Dan with disapproval, and proceeded to expostulate with
him. “Danny, boy, you shouldn’t come out dressed like that. After all,
you are England’s leading comedian, and—well—you ought to make
yourself look smart. Let people know who you are!” Then, with
pride, he added: “Look at me, boy; why don’t you do like I do?”
Leno looked at him gravely. “Like you?” he repeated. “Look like you?
—I never come out in my ‘props’, old boy.”

Mr. Henry Arthur Jones years ago said a thing to Harry that has
ever lived in my memory. They were discussing acting and plays,
and Mr. Jones said “A play is as good as it is acted.” That remark
sums up the whole question. A play can only be seen and valued
through the acting; it’s the only art that has to be judged through
the medium of other personalities, and not by the creator. When I
once saw a revival of one of Harry’s plays, that had not the
advantage of his personal supervision, I realised how completely
true Mr. Jones’s remark was.

A Scottish Soldier.—It was during the war. I was walking up

Regent Street, and there I saw him, fresh from France, hung round
like a Christmas tree, obviously knowing nothing of London, and,
being a Scot, far too proud to ask his way. I ventured to speak to
him, for, as in the old days girls suffered from “scarlet” fever, during
the war I suffered from “khaki” fever. “Do you want to get to a
railway station?” I asked. “Aye; Paddington.” As it happened, I too
was going to Paddington, and I said so. “I am going there myself; if
you will come with me, I can tell you where to find the platform. We
will get on the ’bus that comes along; I’ll show you the way.” He
looked at me, not unkindly, but with the scorn of a true Scot for the
simplicity of a Southerner who underrates the intelligence of the
men from “over the Border”. “Ye wull, wull ye?” he said. “Aye—well—
ye wull not. Ah’ve been warrrrned aboot lassies like you!” And he
walked away with great dignity and self-possession.

Ellen Terry.—I have seen her, as you have seen her—and if by

chance you have not done so, you have missed one of the things
that might well be counted “pearls of great price”—on the stage,
looking perfectly beautiful, with the beauty which did not owe its
existence to wonderful features or glorious colouring, but to that
elusive “something” that the limitations of the English language force
me to describe as “magnetism”; but the most lovely picture I carry
in my mental gallery is of her in her own house at Chelsea. A letter,
signed by all the actresses of Great Britain, was to be sent to the
Queen concerning a big charity matinée. It had been most carefully
worded, and a most wonderful copy made. Mrs. Kendal had signed
it, and I was deputed to take it to Ellen Terry for her signature.
When I got to her house, she was ill in bed, neuralgia in her head,
and I was shown into her bedroom. I don’t know if you could look
beautiful with your head swathed in flannel, suffering tortures from
neuralgia; I know I couldn’t; but Ellen Terry did. She looked rather
as she did in The Merry Wives of Windsor. If you can imagine
“Mistress Ford” sitting up in an old four-poster bed, still wearing her
“wimple”, and looking sufficiently lovely to turn Ford’s head, and
Falstaff’s head, and everybody else’s head a dozen times—that was
Ellen Terry as I saw her then. I gave her the letter, this carefully
made “fair copy”, for her to sign. She read the letter, slowly, pen in
hand. Some phrase failed to please her, and saying “No, I don’t think
that will do”, she took her pen, scored through some words, and
substituted others, handing the letter back to me, with “I think that
is better, don’t you?” Have you seen her writing? It is rather large,
very black, very distinct, and very pretty; I did not dare to say that
no letter could be given to the Queen with corrections—a Queen had
made them, and it was not for me to remark on what she did. I said
I was sure it was an improvement, and took my precious letter away
for other signatures. What happened to the letter eventually,
whether another copy was made or not—that has all vanished from
my mind; but the picture of lovely “Mistress Ford” remains.

A ’Bus Driver.—In the old days I used to walk from the Strand to
Piccadilly and catch my ’bus there. It saved a penny. One old ’bus
driver—there were horse ’buses then, of course—used to wait for
me. I used to climb on to the top of the ’bus, and he used to talk to
me, and take an enormous interest in “how I was getting on”. Years
afterwards I was at Paddington, and as I came out of the station I
saw, seated on the box of a cab, my old friend of the ’bus. He told
me he had “got on”, and had bought a cab, a four-wheeler; that he
had never “lost sight of me”; and that he still thought of me, and
always should think of me, as “his Miss Moore”. Bless his red face! I
wonder what he is driving now. Taxis and motor ’buses may be very
good things in their way, but they lost us the “real” ’bus driver and
the “real” cab driver.

A “Tommy” from the Second London General Hospital.—I was playing

“Eliza” at the Brixton Theatre, and on the Saturday the manager, the
late Newman Maurice, asked a party of wounded boys from the
London General Hospital to come, as our guests, to the matinée. I,
in my turn, asked if they would come round to my dressing-room, at
the end of the play, for tea and cigarettes; they came, and in a
terrific state of excitement, too. All talking at once, they tried to tell
me the reason, and after some time I began to understand. One of
their number had been “shell-shocked”, and so badly that he had
lost his speech; he had been watching the play that afternoon and
suddenly began to laugh, and, a second later, to the delight Of his
companions, to speak! I have never seen such congratulations, such
hand-shakings, such genuine delight, as was expressed by those
boys over their comrade’s recovery. One of the boys that afternoon
was a mass of bandages; you could not see anything of his face and
head but two bright eyes, so badly had he been wounded. When I
went to Canada, two years ago, this man was waiting for me at the
hotel at Vancouver. He was no longer wrapped in bandages, but he
had been so certain that I should not know him again that he had
brought photographs of himself, taken while still in hospital,
“complete with bandages”, to prove his identity! As a matter of fact
—how or why, I cannot say—I did remember him at once.

George Bernard Shaw.—I once rehearsed for a play of his at the

Haymarket Theatre. I remember he used to sit at rehearsals with his
back to the footlights, tilting his chair so far on its hind legs that it
was only by the intervention of heaven that he did not fall into the
orchestra. There he sat, always wearing kid gloves, firing off short,
terse comments on the acting, and rousing everybody’s ire to such
an extent that the fat was in the fire, and finally the production was
abandoned, after five weeks’ rehearsal! It was produced later, and
was a very great success, Henry Ainley playing the lead. When
Bernard Shaw and Granville Barker went into management at the
Court Theatre, Harry and I met Shaw one day, and Harry asked how
the season “had gone”. “Well,” said Bernard Shaw, “I’ve lost £7000,
and Barker’s lost his other shirt.”

Mrs. Kendal.—She came to a reception the other day at Sir Ernest

and Lady Wilde’s, to which I had taken my little daughter, Jill. “Look,
Jill,” I said, as she entered the room, “that is Mrs. Kendal.” She
looked, and her comment is valuable, as showing the impression
which “The Old General” made on the “new recruit”: “How perfectly
beautiful she looks.” I lunched with her, not long ago, at her house in
Portland Place, and I remarked how charming her maids looked. She
nodded. “When anyone is coming to see me, I always say to my
servants, ‘A clean cap, a clean apron, look as nice as you can; it is a
compliment we owe to the visitors who honour this house’.” We sat
talking of many things, and Mrs. Kendal said reflectively: “Think of
all the things we have missed, people like you and me, through
leading—er—shall we say, ‘well-conducted lives’! And, make no
mistake, we have missed them!” What an unexpected comment on
life from Mrs. Kendal! and yet, I suppose, true enough. I suppose, as
“Eliza” says, one “can be too safe”, and perhaps it might be, at all
events, an experience to “be in danger for once”.

Ella Shields.—I met her again in Canada. She had come from the
States, where, in common with many other artists who are assured
successes in England, she had not had the kindest reception.
Canada, on the other hand, delighted in her work, and gave her a
wonderful ovation wherever she went. One day we went out walking
together, and she gave me the best lesson in “walking” I have ever
had. I have never seen anyone who moved so well, so easily, and so
gracefully. I told her that I wished I could walk with her every day,
to really learn “how she did it”.

Arthur Bourchier.—When both Harry and I were playing in

Pilkerton’s Peerage, Arthur Bourchier suddenly made a rule that no
one was to leave their dressing-room until called by the call-boy,
immediately before their entrance on to the stage. One night the
call-boy forgot, and Harry was not called, as he should have been.
Bourchier came off, and there was a bad “wait”. He turned to me
and whispered, in an agonised voice, “Go on and say something”,
which I declined to do. At that moment Harry rushed on to the
stage, and, as he tore past Bourchier, very, very angry at missing his
“cue”, shook his fist in Bourchier’s face, saying fiercely “Damn you!”
After his scene he came off, still very angry, and went up to
Bourchier. The storm burst. “There you are!” Harry said; “you see
the result of your damned, idiotic rules——”, and much more in the
same strain. Bourchier, in a soothing voice, said: “It’s all right, it’s all
right, Harry—I’ve sacked the call-boy!”
 The German Production of “Old Heidelberg.”—Before George
Alexander produced this play, it was done at the old Novelty Theatre
by a German company, under the direction of Herr Andresson and
Herr Berhens. Alexander asked me to go and see it, with Mrs.
Alexander, which we did. I have rarely seen such a badly “dressed”
play. The one real attempt to show the “glory” of the reigning house
of “Sachsen-Karlsburg” was to make the footmen wear red plush
breeches. The “State apartments” were tastefully furnished in the
very best period of “Tottenham Court Road” mid-Victorian furniture.
After the performance was over, Herr Berhens came to see us in the
box. I did not know quite what to say about the production, so I
murmured something rather vague about the “back cloth looking
very fine.” Herr Berhens bowed. “So it should do,” he said, “the
production cost £25!”

Rudge Harding.—He is a “bird enthusiast”, and will sit and watch

them all day long, and half the night too, if they didn’t get tired and
go to roost. Rudge Harding was coming to stay with us at “Apple
Porch”—our house in the country, near Maidenhead. Harry met him
at the station, saying breathlessly, “Thank God you’ve come! We
have a bottle-throated windjar in the garden; I was so afraid it might
get away before you saw it!” Harding said he had never heard of the
bird (neither, for that matter, had anyone else, for Harry had evolved
it on his way to the station). Needless to say, on arriving at “Apple
Porch”, the “bottle-throated windjar” could not be located, but Harry
had “recollected” many quaint and curious habits of the bird. He
possessed a large three-volume edition of a book on birds—without
an index—and for three days Rudge Harding searched that book for
the valuable additional information on the bird which Harry swore it
must contain. He might have gone on looking for the rest of his visit,
if Harry had not tired of the game and told him the awful truth!

Morley Horder.—He is now a very, very successful architect, and is,

I believe, doing much of the planning for the re-building of North
London. He designed “Apple Porch” for us, and when it was in
process of being built we drove over one day with him to see it. We
had then a very early type of car, a Clement Talbot, with a tonneau
which was really built to hold two, but on this occasion held three—
and very uncomfortable it was—Morley Horder, Phillip Cunningham,
and I. Horder, a very quiet, rather retiring man, with dark eyes and
very straight black hair, said not a word the whole journey.
Cunningham chatted away, full of vitality and good humour. When
we finally reached “Apple Porch”, Cunningham got out and turned to
Morley Horder. “Now then,” he said, “jump out, Chatterbox!”

Eric Lewis.—There is no need to speak of his work, for everyone

knows it, and appreciates the finish and thought which it conveys.
He played “Montague Jordon” in Eliza for us, for a long time, and
has been the “only Monty” who ever really fulfilled the author’s idea.
Others have been funny, clever, amusing, eccentric, and even rather
pathetic; Eric Lewis was all that, and much more. He is, and always
has been, one of the kindest of friends, as time has made him one
of the oldest.

Fred Grove.—Another of the “ideals” of the evergreen play, Eliza.

He has played “Uncle Alexander” a thousand times and more, each
time with the same care and attention to detail. He has evolved a
“bit of business” with a piece of string, which he places carefully on
the stage before the curtain goes up; never a week has passed,
when he has been playing the part, but some careful person has
picked up that piece of string and taken it away, under the
impression that they were making the stage “tidy”. What a wonderful
memory Fred Grove has, too! Ask him for any information about
stage matters—any date, any cast—and the facts are at his finger-
tips at once. He has made a very large collection of books on the
stage, and among them a copy of the poems written by Adah Isaacs
Menken, the “first female Mazeppa”, who married the famous Benicia
Boy, a great prize-fighter of his day. The poems were considered so
beautiful that some of them were attributed to Swinburne, who
declared he had nothing to do with them beyond giving them his
deep admiration. Fred Grove is one of the people who never forget
my birthday; Sydney Paxton is another.

Clemence Dane.—My sister Ada knew her first, and it was at her
suggestion that I went down to see “Diana Courtis” (the name she
used for the stage) play at Hastings. We were about to produce
Sandy and His Eliza, the title of which was changed later to Eliza
Comes to Stay. I decided she was exactly the type I wanted to play
“Vera Lawrence”, the actress, and engaged her at once. It was not
until she began to write that she changed her name from “Diana
Courtis” to “Clemence Dane”. I remember we were doing a flying
matinée, to Southend, and I took Jill, then a very tiny girl, with me.
All the way there she sat on “Diana Courtis’s” knee and listened to
wonderful stories, Kipling’s Just So Stories. When they came to an
end, Jill drew a deep breath and said, “What wouldn’t I give to be
able to tell stories like that!” “Yes,” responded the teller of the
stories, “and what wouldn’t I give to be able to write them!” She
designed and drew our poster, which we still use, for Eliza—Cupid
standing outside the green-door, waiting to enter. I have a wonderful
book, which “Clemence Dane” made for me; all the characters in
Eliza, everyone mentioned, whether they appear or not, are drawn
as she imagined them. To be naturally as versatile as this—actress,
artist, and writer—seems to me a dangerous gift from the gods, and
one which needs strength of character to resist the temptation to do
many things “too easily” and accomplish nothing great. Clemence
Dane has three books, and what I shall always regard as a great
poem in blank verse, to prove that she has resisted the temptation.
 CHAPTER IX
PERSONALITIES

“You are surprised that I know such nice people?”

—Fools of Nature.

T he Pageantry of Great People! If I could only make that pageant

live for you as it does for me! I know it is impossible; it needs
greater skill than mine to make the men and women live on paper. It
is only possible for me to recall some small incident which seems
typical of the individual. In itself, that may be a poor way of drawing
mental pictures; but it is the only way I can attempt with the
smallest hope of success. Great people, whether great in art, wit, or
greatness of heart, demand great skill to depict them, so, having
excused myself for my inevitable shortcomings, I will set to work. If
I fail utterly, I ask you to remember it is due to lack of skill, and not
lack of appreciation. If I seem to recall these “big” people chiefly
through incidents that seem humorous, it is because I like to
remember the things which have made me, and others with me,
laugh. If the stories do not appear very laughable, then you must
make allowances again, and believe that they “were funny at the
time”, perhaps because when they happened I was young. We all
were young, and the world was a place where we laughed easily—
because we were happy.

Sir Herbert Tree.—I begin my Pageant with Herbert Tree because

he was a great figure; he stood for a very definite “something”. You
might like or dislike him, but you had to admit he was a personality.
He certainly posed, he undoubtedly postured; but how much was
natural and how much assumed, I should not like to attempt to
decide. There was something wonderfully childlike about him; he
would suddenly propound most extraordinary ideas in the middle of
a rehearsal—ideas which we knew, and for all I know Tree knew too,
were utterly impossible. I remember during the rehearsals of Carnac
Sahib, when we were rehearsing the scene in the Nabob’s palace,
Tree suddenly struck an attitude in the middle of the stage and
called for Wigley (who, by the way, he always addressed as
“Wiggerley”), who was “on the list” as either stage manager or
assistant stage manager, but whose real work was to listen to Tree
and to prompt him when necessary—which was very often. Tree
called “Wiggerley”, and “Wiggerley” duly came. “I’ve got an idea,”
said Tree. “Wiggerley” expressed delight and pleasure, and waited
expectant. “Those windows” (pointing to the open windows of the
“palace”); “we’ll have a pair of large, flopping vultures fly in through
those windows. Good, I think; very good.” The faithful “Wiggerley”
agreed that the idea was brilliant, and stated that “it should be seen
to at once”. Tree was perfectly satisfied. The vultures never
appeared, and I have not the slightest belief that “Wiggerley” ever
looked for any, or indeed ever had the smallest intention of doing so.
Tree was very fond of Harry, and used often to ask him to go back
to supper, after the theatre, when Tree lived in Sloane Street. One
evening he asked him to “come back to supper”, and Harry, for some
reason, wanted to come straight home; probably he had a very nice
supper of his own waiting. Tree persisted. “Oh, come back with me;
there’s stewed mutton; you know you like stewed mutton”, and
finally Harry gave way. They drove to Sloane Street, and walked into
the dining-room. There was on the table a large lace cloth, and—a
bunch of violets! That was all. Tree went up to the table, lifted the
violets and smelt them, an expression of heavenly rapture, as of one
who hears the songs of angels, on his face. He held them out to
Harry (who smelt them), saying “Aren’t they wonderful?”, then,
taking his hand and leading him to the door, he added “Good-night,
good-night.” Harry found himself in the street, Tree presumably
having gone back either to eat or smell the violets in lieu of supper.
When he produced Much Ado, playing “Benedick”, he introduced a
scene between “Dogberry” and “Verges”, and also some
extraordinary business when Sir Herbert sat under a tree and had
oranges dropped on him from above. Harry and I went to the first
night, and he resented each “introduction” more fiercely than the
last. He sank lower and lower in his stall, plunged in gloom, and
praying that Tree would not send for him at the end of the play and
ask “what he thought of it all”. However, Tree did, and we found
ourselves in the “Royal Room”, which was packed with people, Tree
holding a reception. I begged Harry to be tactful, and Harry had
made up his mind not to give Tree the opportunity of speaking to
him at all, if it could be avoided. Tree saw him and came towards us;
Harry backed away round the room, Tree following. Round they
went, until Harry was caught in the corner by the stair. Tree put the
fateful question, “What do you think of it?” By this time Harry’s
“tact” had taken wings, and he answered frankly, if rather harshly,
“Perfectly dreadful!” I fancy Tree must have thought the world had
fallen round him; he couldn’t believe he was “hearing right”. He
persisted, “But my scene under the tree?” Back came Harry’s
answer, “Awful!” “And the scene between Dogberry and Verges?”
Again, “Perfectly appalling!” Tree stared at him, then there was a
long pause. At last Tree spoke: “Yes, perhaps you’re right.”
Here is a picture of Tree at a dress rehearsal of, I think, Nero.
Tree, attired in a flowing gold robe, moving about the stage, with
what was apparently a crown of dahlias on his head. The crown was
rather too big, and, in the excitement of some discussion about a
“lighting effect”, it had slipped down over one eye, giving Tree a
dissipated appearance, not altogether in keeping with his regal
character. Lady Tree (I don’t think she was “Lady” Tree then) called
from the stall: “Herbert, may I say one word?” Tree turned and
struck an “Aubrey Beardsley” attitude; with great dignity he replied,
“No, you may not”, and turned again to his discussion.
 A wonderful mixture of innocence and guile, of affectations and
genuine kindness, of ignorance and knowledge, of limitations and
possibilities, that was Herbert Tree as I read him. But a great artist,
a great producer, and a very great figure.

William Terriss.—“Breezy Bill Terriss”, the hero of the Adelphi

dramas. Handsome, lovable, with a tremendous breadth of style in
his acting that we see too seldom in these days of “restraint”. His
“Henry VIII.” to Irving’s “Wolsey” was a magnificent piece of acting.
There is a story told of him, when Irving was rehearsing a play in
which there was a duel—The Corsican Brothers, I think. At the dress
rehearsal (“with lights” to represent the moon, which lit the fight),
Irving called to “the man in the moon”: “Keep it on me, on me!”
Terriss dropped his sword: “Let the moon shine on me a little,” he
begged; “Nature is at least impartial.” Everyone knows of his tragic
death, and his funeral was a proof of the affection in which he was
held—it was practically a “Royal” funeral. When, a few months ago,
Marie Lloyd was buried, the crowds, the marks of affection, the very
real and very deep regret shown everywhere, reminded me of
another funeral—that of “Breezy Bill Terriss”.

Marie Loftus.—One of the names which recall the time when there
were still “giants” on the music hall stage. I don’t mean to imply that
Variety does not still possess great artists, but there seems to be no
longer that “personal” feeling, the affection, admiration—I might
almost say adoration—which was given to the “giants”; and Marie
Loftus was “of them”. I saw her years ago at the Tivoli, when she
came on with a “baby” in her arms, playing a “comic-melodrama”. I
remember she “threw snow over herself”, and finally committed
suicide by allowing a small toy train to run over her. Perhaps it does
not sound amusing, perhaps we have all grown too sophisticated; if
so, we are losing something—and something very well worth
keeping. The Second time I saw Marie Loftus was at the Chelsea
Palace, about two years ago. I saw her do a “Man and Woman” act,
one half of her dressed as a woman, the other half as a man. These
“two” people fought together—it was a masterpiece. I shall never
forget the unstinted praise which it called forth from Harry, who was
with me. I saw her not long ago, not on the stage; she was then
looking forward to an operation on her eyes, which she hoped would
make it possible for her to “work” again. Whether she does so or
not, I shall always look back on those two evenings—one at the
Tivoli, the other many years later at Chelsea—as occasions when I
saw a very brilliant artist at work.

Sir Henry Irving.—I saw him first when I stayed with Florrie Toole,
when I first went on the stage, and Irving came to see her father. I
do not remember anything he said or anything he did, but I do
remember the impression which the appearance of the two men
(and, after all, it was more truly an indication of their character than
it is of most people) made upon me. Toole, short and eminently
cheerful—you could not imagine him anything but what he was, a
natural comedian, with all a comedian’s tricks of speech; and Irving,
tall, thin, with something of the monastic appearance, which stood
him in such good stead in “Becket”, dignified, and to all but his
friends rather aloof. And the one attracted the other so that they
were unchangeable friends. I have heard that Irving could be very
bitter, very cruelly sarcastic: I know he could be the most truly
courteous gentleman who ever stepped, and I will give an instance
which was one of the finest illustrations of “fine manners” that I ever
witnessed. A most wonderful luncheon was given at the Savoy to Mr.
Joe Knight, a critic, on his retirement. The whole of the theatrical
profession was there, and Irving was in the chair. Harry and I were
present. He was rather unhappy at the time, because he had been
“pilled” for the Garrick Club; he felt it very much—much more then
than he would have done a few years later. He was quite young
then, and took it rather to heart. After the lunch we went up to
speak to Sir Henry, who, as he shook hands with Harry, said in a
tone half humorous, half sardonic, and wholly kindly, “I understand
you have been honoured by the Garrick Club as I have been”;
adding, still more kindly, “only to me it happened twice.” If anything
could have salved the smart in Harry’s mind it was to know he
shared the treatment which had been given to Sir Henry Irving; that
is why I cite this incident as an example of real courtesy.

H. B. Irving.—Often so detached that his very detachment was

mistaken for rudeness or unkindness; with mannerisms which, to
those who did not know him, almost blotted out the very genuine
goodness of heart which lay underneath them. Yet again with a
queer lack of knowledge of “who people were” and what went on
around him, as the following story will show. This was told me by a
man who knew him well and witnessed the incident. “Harry” Irving
was playing Waterloo on the variety stage, and on the same “bill”, on
this particular week, were George Chirgwin (the White-Eyed Kaffir)
and Marie Lloyd. One evening there was a knock at the door of
Irving’s dressing-room, and a dresser told him “Miss Lloyd would like
to speak to you in her dressing-room, please, sir!” “H. B.” turned to
James Lindsay, who was in the room, and asked blandly, “Who is
Miss Lloyd, Jimmy? Ought I to answer the summons? I don’t know
her, do I?” Jimmy explained that Miss Lloyd was certainly
accustomed to people coming when she sent for them, and that
“anyway she was distinctly a lady to meet, if the opportunity arose”.
Irving went, and was away for over half an hour; when he returned
he sat down and said earnestly, “You were quite right. She is
distinctly a lady to know. Most amusing. I must meet her again. Her
humour is worth hearing, perhaps a little—er—but still most
amusing.” “But why did she want you at all?” Jimmy asked. “Ah!”
said Irving, “that is the really amusing thing! She didn’t want me!
She really wanted a man called George Chirgwin, who is apparently
a friend of hers. The dresser mixed the names, poor fool.” The
sequel is from Marie Lloyd herself. Someone asked her about the
incident. “I remember,” she said, “I remember it quite well. I sent for
Chirgwin, to have a chat, and in walks this other fellow. I didn’t
know who he was, and he didn’t say who he was; and I’m certain he
didn’t know me. He sat down and chatted; at least, I chatted; he
seemed quite happy, so I went on, and presently he wandered out
again. He seemed a nice, quiet fellow.” Try and read under all that
the simplicity of two great artists, and you will realise that it is not
only an amusing incident, but a light on the character of both.

Lawrence Irving.—I think—no, I am sure—that he would, had he

lived, have been a very great actor; his performance in Typhoon was
one of the finest things I have ever seen. He was a man full of
enthusiasms. I can remember him talking to Harry of Tolstoi, for
whom he had a great admiration, and being full of excitement about
his work. Once he was at our house, and Harry and he were arguing
about some writer as if the fate of the whole world depended upon
the decision they came to. Harry offered Lawrence a cigar, and had
at once poured upon his head a torrent of reasoned invective against
“smoking” in general and cigars in particular. It was “a disgusting
and filthy habit”, men who smoked were “turning themselves into
chimneys”, and so on. The next morning Harry was going by the
Underground to town, and on the opposite platform saw Lawrence
Irving smoking a perfectly enormous cigar. Harry, delighted, called
out, “What about ‘filthy habits’ and ‘chimney pots’ now!” in great
glee. Lawrence took the cigar from his lips and looked at it seriously,
as if he wondered how it got there at all. Then he climbed down
from the platform, over the rails to the other side, where Harry
stood, simply to give him an explanation, which, he said, he “felt
was due”. He was smoking “to see how it tasted”!
 Photograph
by Bassano,
London, W.
To face p.
124

Harry as Lord Leadenhall

“The Rocket”

W. S. Gilbert.—He was Jill’s God-father, and I have a photograph

of him, which he signed “To Eva, the mother of my (God) child.” And
that was typical of Gilbert; he could make jokes from early morning
to set of sun—and did. Once, many years ago, when Decima was
playing at the Savoy, I had hurt my knee, and for some reason she
told Gilbert. I think it was because she wanted to be excused a
rehearsal so that she might come back to be with me “when the
doctor came”. Gilbert insisted that I should be taken to his own
doctor, Walton Hood, and that at once. So, without waiting for my
own doctor to arrive, off we went to Walton Hood. He looked at my
knee, tugged at it, something clicked, and he said “Walk home”,
which I did, putting my foot to the ground for the first time for a
month. I am sure it is due to W. S. Gilbert that I am not now a
cripple.

Sir Charles Hawtrey.—Once upon a time (which is the very best

way of beginning a story) Charles Hawtrey owed Harry some money
—a question of royalties, as far as I remember. Harry was “hard
up”—in those days we were all often “hard up”, and didn’t mind
owning it, though I don’t suppose we really liked it any better then
than we do now—so away went “H. V.” to see Charles Hawtrey at
the Haymarket. He was shown into his room, and the question was
discussed. Mr. Hawtrey decided that “of course you must have it at
once”. He took Harry into an adjoining office, where upon a table
were numbers of piles of money, all with a small label on the top of
the pile, each label bearing a name. Hawtrey’s hand hovered above
the piles of money, and alighted on one. “You shall have this one,”
he said, and prepared to hand it over to Harry, when a voice called
from an inner office, “You can’t take that one, sir; that belongs to
So-and-so.” Again the actor-manager’s hand went wandering over
the table, and he had just announced “You shall have this one”,
when the same voice called out the same warning. This went on for
several minutes, until at last Hawtrey turned to Harry. “They all
seem to belong to somebody,” he said; “but never mind, I’ll go out
now and borrow it for you!” This story might be called “A New Way
to Pay Old Debts.”

Anthony Hope.—I might call him Sir Anthony Hope Hawkins, but I
knew him first (and shall always think of him) as Anthony Hope. I
have met a good many brilliant authors, but very few who were as
brilliant “out of their books” as in them. Anthony Hope is the
exception. He used to give the most delightful supper parties at his
flat in Savoy Mansions, supper parties where everyone seemed to
shine with the brilliance inspired by their host. He—well, he talked as
he wrote—polished, clever witticisms. Speaking of him reminds me
of a holiday Harry and I spent at Hazleborough one summer, years
ago. We were staying at a bungalow there, and soon after we
arrived a note was delivered to Harry. It was from “The Mayor of
Hazleborough”, and stated that he had heard of the arrival of the
“well-known dramatist, Mr. H. V. Esmond”, and begged that the said
“Mr. H. V. Esmond” would open the local bazaar, which was to be
held in a few days’ time. I thought Harry ought to say “Yes”; Harry
was equally certain that he should say “No”, and added that he had
brought no suitable clothes with him. A note was finally dispatched
to the Royal Castle Hotel, from which “the Mayor” had written, to
say that “Mr. Esmond regretted, etc.” Later we were sitting in the
garden. I was still maintaining that it had been a mistake to refuse,
and Harry equally certain that he had done the best thing in
refusing, when three heads appeared over the fence and three
voices chanted in unison, “Ever been had?”—Anthony Hope, May
and Ben Webster, who had sent the letter, and were indeed,
combined, “The Mayor of Hazleborough”.

Mrs. Patrick Campbell.—Harry knew her much better than I did.

They had been at the same theatre for a long time, in different
plays, and he admired her tremendously. He used to say that one of
the most beautiful pictures he had ever seen was one evening when
he went home to her flat, somewhere in Victoria, with her husband,
Patrick Campbell. It was very late, and she had gone to bed, but she
got up and came into the dining-room in her nightdress. She curled
herself up in a large armchair, wrapped a skin rug round her, and,
with her hair falling loose on her shoulders, Harry said she was one
of the most lovely things he had ever seen in his life. He even railed
at Kipling, after this incident, for daring to describe any woman as “a
rag, and a bone, and a hank of hair”. The meeting with Mrs.
Campbell that I remember was this: A matinée was to be given,
Royalty was to be present, and I was asked to approach Mrs.
Campbell if she would consent to appear. She was then playing, I
think, at the Haymarket. I went, and Harry went with me. We were
shown into her dressing-room. For some reason, which neither he
nor I could ever quite fathom, she did not wish to remember who he
was. She repeated his name in a vague, rather bored voice: “Mr.
Esmond? Esmond?”; then, as if struck with a sudden thought, “You
write plays, don’t you?” Harry, entering into the spirit of it all, said
very modestly that he “tried to do so”. More inspiration seemed to
come to her: “Of course—yes! Sisters—you have had an enormous
success with Sisters in America, haven’t you?” (I should say here
that he never wrote a play called Sisters in his life.) He smiled and
agreed: “Tremendous!” “It is so interesting to meet clever people—
who write successful plays,” she added. The conversation went on
along these lines for some time. When we left, she said “Good-bye”
to me, and turned to Harry with “Good-night, Mr.—er—Esmond.” An
extraordinary incident, possibly an extraordinary woman, but a very
great actress.

Marie Lloyd.—I can give two “flashlights” of Marie Lloyd. One,

when I saw her at the Tivoli, when she wore a striped satin bathing-
costume, and carried a most diminutive towel; the other, when I saw
her at the Palladium, and spent one of the most enjoyable thirty
minutes of my life. Was she vulgar? I suppose so; but it was a
“clean” vulgarity, which left no nasty taste behind it; it was a happy,
healthy vulgarity, and when it was over you came home and
remembered the artistry which was the essential quality of all she
said and did. I met her at a charity concert I arranged at the
Alhambra during the war; I know she came all the way from
Sheffield to appear. We had an auction sale of butter, eggs,
pheasants, and so forth. Poor Laurie de Freece was the auctioneer,
and he was suffering from a very bad throat; his voice was
dreadfully hoarse. He stuck bravely to his work, and when he got to
the pheasants Marie Lloyd could bear it no longer. She put her head
round the side of the “back cloth” and said, “Five pounds, me—Marie
Lloyd. I can’t bear to hear you going on with that voice; it’s awful.”
When Harry died, she said to a woman who knew both Marie Lloyd
and me, “I did think of sending her a wire, and then I thought of
writing a letter (Marie Lloyd, who never wrote letters if she could
avoid doing so!), then somehow—I didn’t do either. Will you just say
to Eva Moore that you’ve seen me, and say, ‘Marie’s very sorry’?”
Already she is becoming almost a legendary figure; men and women
will tell stories of Marie Lloyd long after the songs she sang are
forgotten. Personally, to me she will always rank as one of the
world’s great artists, and I like to remember that, when I was given
the sympathy of so many loving men and women, Marie Lloyd too
was “very sorry”.
 CHAPTER X
STORIES I REMEMBER

“When you know as much of life as I do, you will see a jest in everything.”—Bad
Hats.

“T ell me a story”—that was what we used to ask, wasn’t it? And

when the story was told it was of knights, and lovely ladies,
and giants who were defeated in their wickedness by the prince, and
the story ended—as all good stories should end—“and they lived
happy ever after”.
As we grew older we still wanted stories, but, because we found
life lacked a good deal of the laughter we had expected to find, we
wanted stories to make us laugh. I am going to try and tell you “true
stories that will make you laugh”. If they are new, so much the
better; but if they are old—well, are you too old yourself to laugh
again?

Frank Curzon objected, and very rightly, to ladies wearing large

hats at matinées. He objected so strongly that everyone heard of the
fight to the death between Frank Curzon and the matinée hat, “The
Lady and the Law Case”. One day, at a meeting of West End
managers, when arrangements were being made for some big
matinée, Frank Curzon proposed something which Herbert Tree
opposed. There was some argument on the matter, and at last Tree
launched his final bolt: “My friend, Frank Curzon,” he said, “is
evidently talking through his matinée hat.”
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