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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
A friend of Mr. Kendal’s had the Town Hall bells rung in honour of the
event, and the young couple were ready to start off for their
honeymoon, when Henry Compton, the great actor, who was “billed”
for the following nights, was telegraphed for to his brother’s
deathbed.
At once the arrangements had to be altered. As You Like It was
ordered, and Mr. and Mrs. Kendal were caught just as they were
leaving the town, and bidden to play Orlando and Rosalind to the
Touchstone of Buckstone. The honeymoon had to be postponed.
The young couple found the house unusually full on their wedding
night, although they believed no one knew of their marriage until
they came to the words, “Will you, Orlando, have to wife this
Rosalind?” when the burst of applause and prolonged cheering
assured them of the good wishes of their public friends.
Another little romance of the stage happened to the Forbes
Robertsons. Just before I sailed for Canada, in August, 1900, Mr.
Johnston Forbes Robertson came to dinner. He had been away in
Italy for some months recruiting after a severe illness, and was just
starting forth on an autumn tour of his own.
“Have you a good leading lady?” I inquired.
“I think so,” he replied. “I met her for the first time this morning,
and had never seen her before.”
“How indiscreet,” I exclaimed. “How do you know she can act?”
“While I was abroad I wrote to two separate friends in whose
judgment I have much confidence, asking them to recommend me a
leading lady. Both replied suggesting Miss Gertrude Elliott as suitable
in every way. Their opinions being identical, and so strongly
expressed, I considered she must be the lady for me, and
telegraphed, offering her an engagement accordingly. She accepted
by wire, and at our first rehearsal this morning promised very well.”
I left England almost immediately afterwards, and eight or ten
weeks later, while in Chicago, saw a big newspaper headline
announcing the engagement of a pretty American actress to a well-
known English actor. Naturally I bought the paper at once to see
who the actor might be, and lo! it was Mr. Forbes Robertson. It
seemed almost impossible: but impossible things have a curious
knack of being true, and the signed photograph I had with me of
Forbes Robertson, among those of other distinguished English
friends, proved useful to the American press, who were glad of a
copy for immediate reproduction. Almost as quickly as this
handsome couple were engaged, they were married. Was not that a
romance?
Mr. Forbes Robertson originally intended to be an artist, and his
going on the stage came about by chance. He was a student at the
Royal Academy, when his friend the late W. G. Wills was in need of
an actor to play the part of Chastelard in his Mary Stuart, then being
given at the Princess’s Theatre. It was difficult to procure exactly the
type of face he wanted, for well-chiselled features are not so
common as one might suppose. Young Forbes Robertson possessed
those features, his clear-cut profile being exactly suitable for
Chastelard. Consequently, after much talk with the would-be artist,
who was loth to give up his cherished profession, W. G. Wills
introduced his friend to the beautiful Mrs. Rousby, with the result
that young Forbes Robertson undertook the part at four days’ notice.
Thus it was his face that decided his fate. From that moment the
stage had been his profession and art his hobby; but a newer craze
is rapidly driving paints and brushes out of the field, for, like many
another, the actor has fallen a victim to golf.
There is no finer elocutionist on the stage than Forbes Robertson,
and therefore it is interesting to know that he expresses it as his
opinion that:
“Elocution can be taught.”
From a painting by Hugh de T. Glazebrook.
MR. J. FORBES-ROBERTSON.
Phelps was his master, and he attributes much of his success to
that master’s careful training. What a pity Phelps cannot live among
us again, to teach some of the younger generation to speak more
clearly than they do.
Bad enunciation and noisy music often combine to make the
words from the stage inaudible to the audience. Why an old farmer
should arrive down a country lane to a blare of trumpets is
unintelligible: why a man should plot murder to a valse, or a woman
die to slow music, is a conundrum, but such is the fashion on the
stage. One sometimes sits through a performance without hearing
any of what ought to be the most thrilling lines.
Johnston Forbes Robertson has lived from the age of twenty-one
in Bloomsbury. His father was a well-known art critic until blindness
overtook him, and then the responsibility of the home fell on the
eldest son’s shoulders. His father was born and bred in Aberdeen,
and came as a young man to London, where he soon got work as a
journalist, and wrote much on art for the Sunday Times, the Art
Journal, etc. His most important work was The Great Painters of
Christendom.
The West Central district of London, with its splendid houses, its
Adams ceilings and overmantels, went quite out of fashion for more
than a quarter of a century. With the dawn, however, of 1900,
people began to realise that South Kensington stood on clay, was
low and damp, and consequently they gradually migrated back to
the Regent’s Park and those fine old squares in Bloomsbury. One
after another the houses were taken, and among Mr. Forbes
Robertson’s neighbours are George Grossmith and his brother
Weedon, Mr. and Mrs. Seymour Hicks, Lady Monckton, “Anthony
Hope,” and many well-known judges, aldermen, solicitors, and
architects.
In the old home in Bloomsbury the artistic family of Forbes
Robertson was reared. Johnston, as we know, suddenly neglected
his easel for the stage; his sister Frances took up literature as a
profession; and his brothers, known as Ian Robertson and Norman
Forbes, both adopted the theatrical profession. So the Robertsons
may be classed among the theatrical families.
Who in the latter end of the nineteenth century did not weep with
Miss Terry?—who did not laugh with her well-nigh to tears? A great
personality, a wondrous charm of voice and manner, a magnetic
influence on all her surroundings—all these are possessed by Ellen
Terry.
 In the days of their youth Mrs. Kendal and Miss Ellen Terry played
together, but many years elapsed between then and the Coronation
year of Edward VII., when they met again behind the footlights, in a
remarkable performance which shall be duly chronicled in these
pages.
Like Mrs. Kendal, Miss Ellen Terry began her theatrical life as a
child. She was born in Coventry in 1848—not far from Shakespeare’s
home, which later in life became such an attractive spot for her. Her
parents had theatrical engagements at Coventry at the time of her
birth, so that verily she was cradled on the stage. She was one of
four remarkable sisters, Kate, Ellen, Marion, and Florence, all clever
actresses and sisters of Fred Terry; while another brother, although
not himself an actor, was connected with the stage, Miss Minnie
Terry being his daughter. Altogether ten or twelve members of the
Terry family have been in the profession.
Ellen Terry, like Irving, Wyndham, Hare, Mrs. Kendal, and Lady
Bancroft, learnt her art in stock companies.
Miss Ellen Terry has always had the greatest difficulty in learning
her parts, and as years have gone on, even in remembering her lines
in oft-acted plays; but every one knows how apt she is to be
forgetful, and prompt her over her difficulties. Irving, on the other
hand, is letter-perfect at the first rehearsal, and rarely wants help of
any kind.
Ellen Terry is so clever that even when she has forgotten her
words she knows how to “cover” herself by walking about the stage
or some other pretty by-play until a friend comes to her aid.
Theatrical people are extremely good to one another on these
occasions. Somebody is always ready to come to the rescue. After
the first week everything goes smoothly as a rule, until the strain of
a long run begins to tell, and they all in turn forget their words,
much to the discomfiture of the prompter.
Forgetting the words is a common thing during a long run. I
remember Miss Geneviève Ward telling me that after playing Forget-
Me-Not some five hundred times she became perfectly dazed, and
that Jefferson had experienced the same with Rip van Winkle, which
he has to continually re-study. Miss Gertrude Elliott suffered
considerably in the same way during the long run of Mice and Men.
Much has been said for and against a long run; but surely the
“against” ought to have it. No one can be fresh and natural in a part
played night after night—played until the words become hazy, and
that dreadful condition “forgetting the lines” arrives.
At a charming luncheon given by Mr. Pinero for the American
Gillette, when the latter was creating such a furore in England with
Sherlock Holmes, I ventured to ask that actor how long he had
played the part of the famous detective.
“For three years,” he replied.
“Then I wonder you are not insane.”
“So do I, ma’am, I often wonder myself, for the strain is terrible,
and sometimes I feel as if I could never walk on to the stage at all;
but when the theatre is full, go I must, and go I do; though I literally
shun the name of Sherlock Holmes.”
We quickly turned to other subjects, and discussed the charm of
American women, a theme on which it is easy for an English woman
to wax eloquent.
If a man like Gillette, with all his success, all his monetary gain,
and no anxiety—for he did not finance his own theatres—could feel
like that about a long run, what horrors it must present to others
less happily situated.
Long runs, which are now so much desired by managers in
England and America, are unknown on the Continent. In other
countries, where theatres are more or less under State control, they
never occur. Of course the “long run” is the outcome of the vast
sums expended on the production. Managers cannot recoup
themselves for the outlay unless the play draws for a considerable
while. But is this the real end and aim of acting? Does it give
opportunity for any individual actor to excel?
But to return to Ellen Terry. She has played many parts and won
the love of a large public by her wonderful personality, for there is
something in her that charms. She is not really beautiful, yet she can
look lovely. She has not a strong voice, yet she can sway audiences
at will to laughter or tears. She has not a fine figure, yet she can
look a royal queen or simple maiden. Once asked whether she
preferred comedy or tragedy, she replied:
“I prefer comedy, but I should be very sorry if there were no sad
plays. I think the feminine predilection for a really good cry is one
that should not be discouraged, inasmuch as there are few things
that yield us a truer or a deeper pleasure; but I like comedy as the
foundation, coping-stone, and pillar of a theatre. Not comedies for
the mere verbal display of wit, but comedies of humour with both
music and dancing.”
Miss Ellen Terry has a cheery disposition, invariably looks on the
bright side of things, and not only knows how to work, but has
actually done so almost continuously from the age of eight.
One of Miss Terry’s greatest charms is her mastery over
expression. It is really strange how little facial and physical
expression are understood in England. We are the most
undemonstrative people. It is much easier for a Frenchman to act
than for an Englishman; the former is always acting; the little shrug
of the shoulders, the movement of the hand and the head, or a wink
of the eye, accompany every sentence that falls from his lips. He is
full of movement, he speaks as much with his body as with his
mouth, and therefore it is far less difficult for him to give expression
to his thoughts upon the stage than it is for the stolid Britisher,
whose public school training has taught him to avoid showing
feeling, and squeezed him into the same mould of unemotional
conventionality as all his other hundreds of schoolfellows. There is
no doubt about it that everything on the stage must be exaggerated
to be effective. It is a world of unreality, and the more pronounced
the facial and physical expression brought to bear, the more effective
the representation of the character.
To realise the truth of these remarks, one should visit a small
theatre in France, a theatre in some little provincial town, where a
quite unimportant company is playing. They all seem to act, to be
thoroughly enamoured of their parts, and to play them with their
whole heart and soul. It is quite wonderful, indeed, to see the
extraordinary capacity of the average French actor and actress for
expressing emotion upon the stage. Of course it is their
characteristic; but on the other hand, the German nation is quite as
stolid as our own, and yet the stage is held by them in high esteem,
and the amount of drilling gone through is so wonderful that one is
struck by the perfect playing of an ordinary provincial German. At
home these Teutonic folk are hard and unemotional, but on the
boards they expand. One has only to look at the German company
that comes over to London every year to understand this remark.
They play in a foreign tongue, the dresses are ordinary, one might
say poor, the scenery is meagre, there is nothing, in fact, to help the
acting in any way; and yet no one who goes to see one of their
performances can fail to be impressed by the wonderful
thoroughness and the general playing-in-unison of the entire
company. Of course they do not aim so high as the Meiningen
troupe, for they were a State company and the personal hobby of
the Duke whose name they bore. We have no such band of players
in England, although F. R. Benson has done much without State aid
to accomplish the same result, and in many cases has succeeded
admirably.
We have heard a great deal lately about the prospect of a State-
Aided Theatre and Opera in London; and there is much to be said
for and against the scheme. Municipal administration is often
extravagant and not unknown to jobbery, neither of which would be
advisable; but the present system leads to actor-managers and
powerful syndicates, which likewise have their drawbacks. There is
undoubtedly much to be said both for and against each system, and
the British public has to decide. Meantime we learn that the six
Imperial theatres in Russia (three in St. Petersburg and three in
Moscow), with their schools attached, cost the Emperor some
£400,000 a year. “It is possible to visit the opera for 5d., to see
Russian pieces for 3d., French and German for 9d.” These cheap
seats are supposed to be a source of education to the populace, but
there are expensive ones as well.
Some Englishmen understand the art of facial expression. A little
piece was played for a short time by Mr. Charles Warner, under the
management of Mrs. Beerbohm Tree. The chief scene took place in
front of a telephone, through which instrument the actor heard his
wife and child being murdered many miles away in the country, he
being in Paris. It was a ghastly idea, but Charles Warner’s face was a
study from the first moment to the last. He grew positively pale, he
had very little to say, and yet he carried off an entire scene of
unspeakable horror merely by his facial and physical expression.
Some of our actors are amusingly fond of posing off the stage as
well as on. One well-known man was met by a friend who went
forward to shake his hand.
“Ah, how do you do?” gushed the Thespian, striking an attitude,
“how do you do, old chap? Delighted to see you,” then assuming a
dramatic air, “but who the —— are you?”
And this was his usual form of greeting after an effusive
handshake.
In a busy life it is of course impossible to remember every face,
and the nonentities should surely forgive the celebrities, for it is so
easy to recognise a well-known person owing to the constant
recurrence of his name or portrait in the press, and so easy to forget
a nonentity whom nothing recalls, and whose face resembles dozens
more of the same type.
One often hears actors and actresses abused—that is the penalty
of success. Mediocrity is left alone, but, once successful, out come
the knives to flay the genius to pieces; in fact, the more abused a
man is, the more sure he may feel of his achievements. Abuse
follows success in proportion to merit, just as foolish hopes make the
disappointments of life.
 CHAPTER III

THEATRICAL FOLK

Miss Winifred Emery—Amusing Criticism—An Actress’s Home Life—

Cyril Maude’s first Theatrical Venture—First Performance—A
Luncheon Party—A Bride as Leading Lady—No Games, no Holidays
—A Party at the Haymarket—Miss Ellaline Terriss and her First
Appearance—Seymour Hicks—Ben Webster and Montagu Williams
—The Sothern Family—Edward Sothern as a Fisherman—A Terrible
Moment—Almost a Panic—Asleep as Dundreary—Frohman at
Daly’s Theatre—English and American Alliance—Mummers.

A NOTHER striking instance of hereditary theatrical talent is Miss

Winifred Emery, than whom there is no more popular actress in
London. This pretty, agreeable little lady—who, like Mrs. Kendal and
Miss Terry, may be said to have been born in the theatre—is the only
daughter of Samuel Sanderson Emery, a well-known actor, and
grand-daughter of John Emery, who was well known upon the stage.
Her first appearance was at Liverpool, at the advanced age of eight.
The oldest theatrical names upon the stage to-day are William
Farren and Winifred Emery. Miss Emery’s great-grandfather was also
an actor, so she is really the fourth generation to adopt that
profession, but her grandmother and herself are the only two
women of the name of Emery who have appeared on playbills.
As is well known, Miss Emery is the wife of Mr. Cyril Maude, lessee
with Mr. Frederick Harrison—not the world-renowned Positivist writer
—of the Haymarket Theatre.
Although Mrs. Maude finds her profession engrossing, she calls it a
very hard one, and the necessity of being always up to the mark at a
certain hour every day is, she owns, a great strain even when she is
well, and quite impossible when she is ill.
 Some years ago, when she was even younger than she is now,
and not overburdened with this world’s gold, she was acting at the
Vaudeville. It was her custom to go home every evening in an
omnibus. One particularly cold night she jumped into the two-horse
vehicle and huddled herself up in the farthest corner, thinking it
would be warmer there than nearer the door in such bitter weather.
She pulled her fur about her neck, and sat motionless and quiet.
Presently two women at the other end arrested her attention; one
was nudging the other, and saying:
“It is ’er, I tell yer; I know it’s ’er.”
“Nonsense, it ain’t ’er at all; she couldn’t have got out of the
theayter so quick.”
“It is ’er, I tell yer; just look at ’er again.”
The other looked.
“No it ain’t; she was all laughing and fun, and that ’ere one looks
quite sulky.”
The “sulky one,” though thoroughly tired and weary, smiled to
herself.
I asked Miss Emery one day if she had ever been placed in any
awkward predicament on the stage.
“I always remember one occasion,” she replied, “tragedy at the
time, but a comedy now, perhaps. I was acting with Henry Irving in
the States when I was about eighteen or nineteen, and felt very
proud of the honour. We reached Chicago. Louis XI. was the play. In
one act—I think it was the second—I went on as usual and did my
part. Having finished, as I thought, I went to my room and began to
wash my hands. It was a cold night, and my lovely white hands
robbed of their paint were blue. The mixture was well off when the
call boy shouted my name. Thinking he was having a joke I said:
“‘All right, I’m here.’
“‘But Mr. Irving is waiting for you.’
 “‘Waiting for me? Why, the act isn’t half over.’
“‘Come, Miss Emery, come quick,’ gasped the boy, pushing open
the door. ‘Mr. Irving’s on the stage and waiting for you.’
“Horrors! In a flash I remembered I had two small scenes as Marie
in that act, and usually waited in the wing. Had I, could I have
forgotten the second one?

Photo by Window & Grove, Baker Street, W.

 MISS WINIFRED EMERY AND MR. CYRIL MAUDE IN “THE SCHOOL
FOR SCANDAL.”
“With wet red hands, dry white arms, my dress not properly
fastened at the back, towel in hand, along the passage I flew. On
the stage was poor Mr. Irving walking about, talking—I know not
what. On I rushed, said my lines, gave him my lobster-coloured wet
hand to kiss—a pretty contrast to my ashen cheeks, and when the
curtain fell, I dissolved in tears.
“Mr. Irving sent for me to his room. In fear and trembling I went.
“‘This was terrible,’ he said. ‘How did it happen?’
“‘I forgot, I forgot, why I know not, but I forgot,’ I said, and my
tears flowed again. He patted me on the back.
“‘Never mind,’ he said kindly, ‘but please don’t let it occur again.’”
Once when I was talking to this clever little lady the conversation
turned on games.
“Games!” she exclaimed. “I know nothing of them: as a child I
never had time to play, and when I was sixteen years old I had to
keep myself and my family. Of late years I have been far too busy
even to take up golf.”
Mrs. Maude has two charming daughters, quaint, old-fashioned
little creatures, and some years their junior is a small brother.
The two girls were once invited to a fancy dress ball in Harley
Street: it happened to be a Saturday, and therefore matinée day.
Their mother arranged their dresses. The elder was to wear the
costume of Lady Teazle, an exact replica of the one reproduced in
this volume, and which Mrs. Maude wore when playing that part,
while the younger was to be dressed as a Dutch bride, also a copy of
one of Miss Emery’s dresses in the Black Tulip. They all lunched
together, and as the mother was going off to the theatre, she told
the nurse to see that the children were dressed properly, and take
them to the house at a certain hour.
 “Oh, but, mummy, we can’t go unless you dress us,” exclaimed the
elder child; “we should never be right.” And therefore it was settled
that the two little people should be arrayed with the exception of the
final touches, and then driven round by way of the Haymarket
Theatre, so that their mother might attend to their wigs, earrings,
hat or cap, as the case might be.
What a pretty idea. The mother, who was attracting rounds of
applause from a crowded house every time she went on the stage,
running back to her dressing-room between the scenes, to drop
down on her knees and attend to her little girls, so that they should
be all right for their party.
Admiring the costume of the younger one, I said:
“Why, you have got on your mother’s dress.”
“No, it’s not mother’s,” she replied. “It’s my dress, and my shoes,
and my stockings—all my very own; but it’s mother’s gold cap, and
mother’s earrings, and mother’s necklace, and mother’s apron—with
a tuck in,” and she nodded her wise little head.
This was a simple child, not like the small American girl whose
mother was relating wonderful stories of her precocity to an
admiring friend, when a shrill voice from the corner called out:
“But you haven’t told the last clever thing I said, mamma,”
evidently wishing none of her brilliant wit to be lost.
They looked sweet, those two children of Mrs. Maude’s, and the
way the elder one attended upon her smaller sister was pretty to
see.
In a charming little house near the Brompton Oratory Mrs. Maude
lived for years, surrounded by her family, perfectly content in their
society. She is in every sense a thoroughly domesticated woman,
and warmly declares she “loves housekeeping.”
One cannot imagine a happier home than the Maudes’, and no
more charming gentleman walks upon the stage than this well-
known descendant of many distinguished army men. Mr. Maude was
at Charterhouse, one of our best public schools, and is a most
enthusiastic old Carthusian. So is General Baden-Powell, whose
interest in the old place went so far as to make him spend his last
night in England among his old schoolfellows at the City
Charterhouse when he returned invalided on short leave from the
Transvaal. The gallant soldier gave an excellent speech, referring to
Founders’ Day, which they were then commemorating, and delighted
his boy hearers and “Ancient Brethren” equally.
On Charterhouse anniversaries Mr. Maude drops his jester’s cap
and solemnly, long stick in hand, takes part in the ceremony at the
old Carthusian Church made popular by Thackeray’s Newcomes.
Cyril Maude was originally intended for another profession, but, in
spite of family opposition, elected to go upon the stage, and as his
parents did not approve of such a proceeding, he commenced his
theatrical career in America, where he went through many
vicissitudes. He began in a Shakespearian rèpertoire company,
playing through the Western mining towns of the States, where he
had to rough it considerably.
“I even slept on a bit of carpet on a bar-room floor one night,” he
said; “but our beautiful company burst up in ’Frisco, and I had to
come home emigrant fashion, nine days and nine nights in the train,
with a little straw mattress for my bed, and a small tin can to hold
my food. They were somewhat trying experiences, yet most
interesting, and gave great opportunities for studying mankind. I
have played in every conceivable sort of play, and once ‘walked on’
for months made up as Gladstone in a burlesque, to a mighty dreary
comic song.”
So Mr. Maude, like the rest who have climbed to the top, began at
the bottom of the ladder, and has worked his way industriously up to
his present position, which he has held at the Haymarket since 1896,
and where—he laughingly says—he hopes to die in harness.
Cyril Maude gives rather an amusing description of his first
theatrical performance. When he was a boy of eighteen his family
took a house at Dieppe for six months, and he was sent every day to
study French with Monsieur le Pasteur.
“One day, when I had been working with him for three or four
weeks, he asked me what I was going to make my profession.
“‘Comédien,’ I replied.
“‘Comment? Comédien? Etes-vous fou?’ he exclaimed, horrified
and astounded at such a suggestion, and added more gravely, ‘I am
quite sure you have not the slightest idea how to act; so, my boy,
you had better put such a ridiculous idea out of your head and stick
to your books. Besides, you must choose a profession fit for a
gentleman.’
“Of course I felt piqued, and as I walked home that evening I just
wondered if there were not some way by which I could show the old
man that I could act if I chose.
“The Pasteur had a resident pupil of the name of Bishop, a nice
young fellow, and to him I related my indignation.
“‘Of course you can act,’ he said; so between us we concocted the
brilliant idea that I should dress up as Bishop’s aunt and go and call
upon the Pasteur, with the ostensible view of sending another
nephew to his excellent establishment. Overjoyed at the scheme I
ransacked my mother’s wardrobe, and finally dressed myself up to
resemble a somewhat lean, cadaverous English old maid.
“I walked down the street to the house, and to my joy the servant
did not recognise me. The old man received me with great cordiality
and politeness. I told him in very bad French, with a pronounced
Cockney accent, that I was thinking of sending another of my
nephews to him if he had room. At this suggestion the Pasteur was
delighted, took me upstairs, showed me all the rooms, and made
quite a fuss over me. Then he called ‘my nephew,’ who nearly gave
the show away by choking with laughter when I affectionately
greeted him with a chaste salute. This was the only part of the
business I did not really enjoy! As we were coming downstairs, the
Pasteur well in front, I smiled—perhaps I winked—at Bishop, anyhow
I slipped, whereupon the polite old gentleman turned round, was
most désolé at the accident, gave me his arm, and assisted me most
tenderly all the rest of the way to the dining-room, his wife following
and murmuring:—
“‘Prenez garde, madame, prenez garde.’
“Having arrived at the salle-à-manger the dear old Pasteur said he
would leave me for a moment with his wife, in case there was
anything I might like to discuss with her, and to my horror I was left
closeted with madame, nervously fearing she might touch on
subjects fit only for ladies’ ears, but not for the tender years of my
manly youth. Needless to say I escaped from her clutches as quickly
as possible.
“For two days I kept up the joke. Then it became too much for
me, and as we were busily working at French verbs, in the curé’s
study, I changed my voice and returned to the old lady’s Cockney
French intonations, which was not in the least difficult, as my own
French was none of the brightest. The Pasteur turned round, looked
hard at me for a moment, and then went back to the verbs. I
awaited another opportunity, and began again. This time he almost
glared at me, and then, clapping his hands to his head and bursting
into laughter, he exclaimed:
“‘Mais c’était vous, c’était vous la tante de Bishop?’
“It turned out he had written that morning to Bishop’s real aunt,
accepting her second nephew as a pupil, and arranging all the
details of his arrival. How surprised the good lady must have been.”
June 3rd, 1899, was the eleventh anniversary of Cyril Maude and
Winifred Emery’s wedding day, and they gave a delightful little
luncheon party at their pretty house in Egerton Crescent, where they
then lived. The host certainly looked ridiculously young to have been
married eleven years, or to be the father of the big girl of nine and
the smaller one of six who came down to dessert.
Their home was a very cosy one—not big or grand in those days,
but thoroughly carried out on a small scale, with trees in the gardens
in front, trees in the back-yard behind, and the aspect was
refreshing on that frightfully hot Oaks day.
Winifred Emery had a new toy—a tiny little dog, so small that it
could curl itself up quite happily in the bottom of a man’s top hat,
but yet wicked enough to do a vast amount of damage, for it had
that morning pulled a blouse by the sleeves from the bed to the
floor, and had calmly dissevered the lace from the cambric.
The Maudes are a most unconventional theatrical pair. They love
their home and their children, and seem to wish to get rid of every
remembrance of the theatre once they pass their own front door.
And yet it is impossible to get rid of the theatre in the summer, for
besides having eight performances a week of The Manœuvres of
Jane at that time—which was doing even better business at the end
of nine months than it was at the beginning—those unfortunate
people were giving charity performances every week for seven
consecutive weeks, which of course necessitated rehearsals apart
from the performances themselves. Really the charity distributed by
the theatrical world is enormous.
We had a delightful luncheon: much of my time was spent gazing
at Miss Ellaline Terriss, who is even prettier off the stage than she is
on.
When Mrs. Maude said she had been married for eleven years,
with the proudest air in the world Mrs. Hicks remarked:
“And we have been married nearly six.”
But certainly to look at Ellaline Terriss and Seymour Hicks made it
seem impossible to believe that such could be the case. Hard work
seems to agree with some people, and the incessant labour of the
stage had left no trace on these young couples.
After luncheon the Maudes’ eldest little girl recited a French poem
she had learnt at school, and it was quite ridiculous to see the small
child already showing inherited talent. She was calm and collected,
and when she had done and I congratulated her, she said in the
simplest way in the world:
 “I am going to be an actress when I am grown up, and so is
Baby,” nodding her head at the other small thing of six, for the boy
had not then arrived to usurp “Baby’s” place.
“Oh yes, so am I,” said little six-year-old. But when I asked her to
recite something, she said:
“I haven’t learnt yet, but I shall soon.”
The Maudes were then eagerly looking forward to some weeks’
holiday which they always enjoy every autumn.
“I like a place where I need not wear gloves, and a hat is not a
necessity,” she said. “I have so much dressing-up in my life that it is
a holiday to be without it.”
Somehow the conversation turned on a wedding to which they
had just been, and Winifred Emery exclaimed:
“I love going to weddings, but I always regret I am not the bride.”
“Come, come,” said her husband, “that would be worse than the
Mormons. However many husbands would you have?”
“Oh, I always want to keep my own old husband, but I want to be
the bride.” At which he laughed immoderately, and said:
“I declare, Winifred, you are never happy unless you are playing
the leading lady.”
“Of course not,” she retorted; “women always appreciate
appreciation.”
They were much amused when I told them the story of my small
boy, who, aged about seven, was to go to a wedding as a page in
gorgeous white satin with lace ruffles and old paste buttons.
“I don’t want to go,” he remarked; “I hate weddings”—for he had
officiated twice before. Something he said leading me to suppose he
was a little shy, I soothingly answered:
“Oh, well, every one will be so busy looking at the bride that they
will never look at you.”
 To which the small gentleman indignantly replied:
“If they aren’t even going to look at me, then I don’t see why I
need go at all!”
So after all there is a certain amount of vanity even in a small boy
of seven.
“I cannot bear a new play,” Mrs. Maude once said. “I am nervous,
worried, and anxious at rehearsal, and it is not until I have got on
my stage clothes that it ceases to be a trouble to me. Not till I have
played it for weeks that I feel thoroughly at home in a new part.
“It is positively the first real holiday I have ever had in my life,”
she exclaimed to me at the time of her illness; “for although we
always take six weeks’ rest in the summer, plays have to be studied
and work is looming ahead, whereas now I have six months of
complete idleness in front of me. It is splendid to have time to tidy
my drawers in peace, ransack my bookshelves, see to a hundred and
one household duties without any hurry, have plenty of time to
spend with the children, and actually to see something of my
friends, whom it is impossible to meet often in my usually busy life.”
So spoke Miss Winifred Emery, and a year later Mrs. Kendal wrote,
“I’ve had ten days’ holiday this year, and am now rehearsing literally
day and night.”
After that who can say the life of the successful actress is not a
grind? A maidservant or shopgirl expects her fortnight’s holiday in a
twelvemonth, while one of the most successful actresses of modern
times has to be content with ten days during the same period. Yet
Mrs. Kendal is not a girl or a beginner, she is in full power and at the
top of her profession.
All theatrical life is not a grind, however, and it has its brighter
moments. For instance, one beautiful warm sunny afternoon, the
anniversary of their own wedding day—the Cyril Maudes gave an “At
Home” at the Haymarket. Guests arrived by the stage door at the
back of the famous theatre, and to their surprise found themselves
at once upon the stage, for the back scene and Suffolk Street are
almost identical. Mrs. Maude, with a dear little girl on either side,
received her friends, and an interesting group of friends they were.
Every one who was any one seemed to have been bidden thither.
The stage was, of course, not large enough for this goodly throng,
so a great staircase had been built down from the footlights to
where the stalls usually stand. The stalls, however, had gone—
disappeared as though they had never existed—and where the back
row generally cover the floor a sumptuous buffet was erected. It was
verily a fairy scene, for the dress-circle (which at the Haymarket is
low down) was a sort of winter garden of palms and flowers behind
which the band was ensconced.
What would the players of old, Charles Mathews, Colley Cibber,
Edmund Kean, Liston, and Colman, have said to such a sight? What
would old Mr. Emery have thought could he have known that one
day his grand-daughter would reign as a very queen on the scene of
his former triumphs? What would he have said had he known that
periwigs and old stage coaches would have disappeared in favour of
closely-cut heads, electric broughams, shilling hansoms with C
springs and rubber tyres, or motor cars? What would he have
thought of the electric light in place of candle dips and smelling
lamps? How surprised he would have been to find neatly coated men
showing the audience to their seats at a performance, instead of fat
rowdy women, to see the orange girls and their baskets superseded
by dainty trays of tea and ices, and above all to note the decorous
behaviour of a modern audience in contrast to the noisy days when
Grandpapa Emery trod the Haymarket boards.
Almost the most youthful person present, if one dare judge by
appearances, was the actor-manager, Cyril Maude. There is
something particularly charming about Mr. Maude—there is a merry
twinkle in his eyes, with a sound of tears in his voice, and it is this
combination, doubtless, which charms his audience. He is a low
comedian, a character-actor, and yet he can play on the emotional
chord when necessity arises. He and his co-partner, Mr. Harrison, are
warm friends—a delightful situation for people so closely allied in
business.
 Immediately off the stage is the green-room, now almost unused.
Formerly the old green-room on the other side of the stage was a
fashionable resort, and the green-rooms at the Haymarket and Drury
Lane were crowded nightly at the beginning of the last century with
all the fashionable men of the day. Kings went there to be amused,
plays began at any time, the waits between the acts were of any
length, and general disorder reigned in the candle and oil-lighted
theatres—a disorder to which a few visitors did not materially add.
All is changed nowadays. The play begins to the minute, and ends
with equal regularity. Actors do not fail to appear without due notice,
so that the under-study has time to get ready, and order reigns both
before and behind the footlights. Therefore at the Haymarket no one
is admitted to the green-room, in fact, no one is allowed in the
theatre “behind the scenes” at all, except to the dressing-room of
the particular star who has invited him thither.
Mrs. Maude made a charming hostess at that party.
I think the hour at which we were told on the cards “to leave” was
6.0, or it may have been 6.30; at any rate, we all streamed out
reluctantly at the appointed time, and the stage carpenters streamed
in. Away went the palms, off came the bunting, down came the
staircase, and an hour later the evening audience were pouring in to
the theatre, little knowing what high revelry had so lately ended.
Some people seem to be born old, others live long and die young;
judging by their extraordinary juvenility, Mr. Seymour Hicks and his
charming wife, née Ellaline Terriss, belong to the latter category.
They are a boyish man and a girlish woman, in the best sense of
lighthearted youthfulness, yet they have a record of successes
behind them, of which many well advanced in years might be proud.
No daintier, prettier, more piquante little lady trips upon our stage
than Ellaline Terriss. She is the personification of everything
mignonne, and whether dressed in rags as Bluebell in Fairyland, or
as a smart lady in a modern play, she is delightful.
It is a curious thing that so many of our prominent actors and
actresses have inherited their histrionic talents from their parents
and even grandparents, and Mrs. Hicks is no exception, for she is
the daughter of the late well-known actor, William Terriss. She was
not originally intended for the stage, and her adoption of it as a
profession was almost by chance. A letter of her own describes how
this came about.
“I was barely sixteen when Mr. Calmour, who wrote The Amber
Heart and named the heroine after me, suggested we should
surprise my father one day by playing Cupid’s Messenger in our
drawing-room, and that I should take the leading part. We had a
brass rod fixed up across the room, and thus made a stage, and on
the preceding night informed a few friends of the morrow’s
performance. The news greatly astonished my father, who laughed. I
daresay he was secretly pleased, though he pretended not to be. A
couple of months passed, and I heard that Miss Freke was engaged
at the Haymarket to play the part I had sustained. Oh, how I wished
it was I! Little did I think my wish was so near fulfilment. I was
sitting alone over the fire one day when a telegram was handed to
me, which ran:
“‘Haymarket Theatre. Come up at once. Play Cupid’s Messenger,
to-night.’
“I rushed to catch a train, and found myself at the stage door of
the theatre at 7.15 p.m. All was hurry and excitement. I did not
know how to make-up. I did not know with whom I was going to
appear, and Miss Freke’s dress was too large for me. The whole
affair seemed like a dream. However, I am happy to say Mr. Tree
stood by and saw me act, and I secured the honour of a ‘call.’ I
played for a week, when Mr. Tree gave me a five-pound note, and a
sweet letter of thanks. My father then said that if it would add to my
happiness I might go on the stage, and he would get me an
engagement.”
How proud the girl must have been of that five-pound note, for
any person who has ever earned even a smaller sum knows how
much sweeter money seems when acquired by one’s own exertions.
Five-pound notes have come thick and fast since then, but I doubt if
any gave the actress so much pleasure as Mr. Beerbohm Tree’s first
recognition of her talent.
Thus it really was quite by accident Miss Terriss entered on a
theatrical career. Her father, knowing the hard work and many
disappointments attendant on stage life, had not wished his
daughter to follow his own calling. But talent will out. It waits its
opportunity, and then, like love, asserts itself. The opportunity came
in a kindly way; the talent was there, and Miss Terriss was clever
and keen enough to take her chance when it came and make the
most of it. From that moment she has never been idle, even her
holidays have been few and far between.
Every one in London must have seen Bluebell in Fairyland, which
ran nearly a year. Indeed, at one time it was being played ten times
a week. Think of it. Ten times a week. To go through the same lines,
the same songs, the same dances, to look as if one were enjoying
oneself, to enter into the spirit and fun of the representation, was
indeed a herculean task, and one which the Vaudeville company
successfully carried through. But poor Mrs. Hicks broke down
towards the close, and was several times out of the bill.
Photo by London Stereoscopic Co., Ltd., Cheapside, E.C.
MR. AND MRS. SEYMOUR HICKS.
It is doubtful whether Seymour Hicks will be better known as an
actor or an author in the future, for he has worked hard at both
professions successfully. He was born at St. Heliers, Jersey, in 1871,
and is the eldest son of Major Hicks, of the 42nd Highlanders. His
father intended him for the army, but his own taste did not lie in that
direction, and when only sixteen and a half he elected to go upon
the stage, and five years later was playing a principal light comedy
part at the Gaiety Theatre. Like his wife, he has been several times
in America, where both have met with success, and when not acting,
at which he is almost constantly employed, this energetic man
occupies his time by writing plays, of a light and musical nature,
which are usually successful. One of the Best, Under the Clock, The
Runaway Girl, Bluebell in Fairyland, and The Cherry Girl have all had
long runs.
When the Hicks find time for a holiday their idea of happiness is
an out-of-door existence, with rod or gun for companions. Most of
our actors and actresses, whose lives are necessarily so public, love
the quiet of the country coupled with plenty of exercise when able to
take a change. The theatre is barely closed before they rush off to
moor or fen, to yacht or golf—to anything, in fact, that carries them
completely away from the glare of the footlights.
Another instance of theatrical heredity is Ben Webster, whose
talent for acting doubtless comes from his grandfather. Originally
young Ben read for the Bar with that eminent and amusing man, Mr.
Montagu Williams. It was just at that time that poor Montagu
Williams’s throat began to trouble him: later on, when no longer able
to plead in court, he was given an appointment as magistrate. I only
remember meeting him once—it was at Ramsgate. When walking
along the Esplanade one day—I think about the year 1890—I found
my father talking to a neat, dapper little gentleman in a fur coat,
thickly muffled about the throat. He introduced his friend as
Montagu Williams, a name very well known at that time. Alas! the
eminent lawyer was hardly able to speak—disease had assailed his
throat well-nigh to death, and the last time I saw that wonderful
painter and charming man Sir John Everett Millais, at a private view
at the Royal Academy, he was almost as speechless, poor soul.
Well, Montagu Williams was made a magistrate, and young Ben
Webster, realising his patron’s influence was to a certain extent
gone, and his own chances at the Bar consequently diminished,
gladly accepted an offer of Messrs. Hare and Kendal to play a
companion part to his sister in the Scrap of Paper, then on tour. He
had often acted as an amateur; and earned some little success
during his few weeks’ professional engagement, so that when he
returned to town and found Montagu Williams removed from active
practice at the Bar, he went at once to Mr. Hare and asked for the
part of Woodstock in Clancarty. Thus he launched himself upon the
stage, although his grandfather had been dead for three years, and
so had not directly had anything to do with his getting there.
Old Grandfather Ben seems to have been a very irascible old
gentleman, and a decidedly obstinate one. On one occasion his
obstinacy saved his life, however, so his medical man stoutly
declared.
The doctor had given Ben Webster up: he was dying. Chatterton
and Churchill were outside the room where he lay, and the medico
when leaving told them “old Ben couldn’t last an hour.”
“Ah, dear, dear!” said Chatterton; “poor old Ben going at last,” and
he sadly nodded his head as he entered the room.
“Blast ye! I’m not dead yet,” roared a voice from the bed, where
old Ben was sitting bolt upright. “I’m not going to die to please any
of you.”
He fell back gasping; but from that moment he began to get
better.
Another eminent theatrical family, the Sotherns, were born on the
stage, so to speak, and took to the profession as naturally as ducks
to water, while their contemporaries the Irvings and Boucicaults have
done likewise.
It must have been towards the end of the seventies that my
parents took a house one autumn in Scarborough. We had been to
Buxton for my father’s health, and after a driving tour through
Derbyshire, finally arrived at our destination. To my joy, Mr. Sothern
and his daughter, who was then my schoolfellow in London, soon
appeared upon the scene. He had come in consequence of an
engagement to play at the Scarborough Theatre in Dundreary and
Garrick, and had secured a house near us. Naturally I spent much of
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