visit to America in 1883, and to let it have a distinctive character
by inviting none but actors. Feeling that nowhere could be it so
appropriately given as in the Garrick Club, I wrote to my
fellow-members of the Committee to ask if, in the special
circumstances, it might take place in the dining-room. Greatly to my
delight, my request was granted, with the remark, that it was "an
honour to the Club." The attractive room, so suitable for the
purpose, its walls being lined with the portraits of those whose
names recall all that is famous in the great past of our stage, was
arranged to accommodate a party of a hundred, of whom there are but
very few {185} survivors. A humorous drawing of a supposed wind-up
to the supper--Irving, Toole and myself staggering home,
arm-in-arm--was among the early successes of Phil May. He made two
copies of it. One of the three belonged to King Edward, which I
afterwards saw at Sandringham, the others are owned by Pinero and
myself.
In acknowledgment of a little present I sent Irving at this time he
wrote:
"I shall wear your gift--and a rare one it is--as I wear you, the
giver, in my heart. My regard for you is not a fading one. In this
world there is not too much fair friendship, is there? And I hope it
is a gratification to you--it is to me, old friend--to know that we
can count alike upon a friend in sorrow and in gladness."
[Sidenote: "The Dead Heart"]
When Irving contemplated a production of _The Dead Heart_, he
flattered me by saying that unless I appeared with him as the Abbé
Latour he would not carry out the idea. I was then free from
management, and tried to persuade him to let me undertake the part as
a labour of love, but he would not listen. After a long
talk--neither of us, I remember it all so well, looking at the other,
but each gazing separately at different angles into Bond Street {186}
from the windows of the rooms he so long occupied at the corner of
Grafton Street--he said that I must content him by being specially
engaged, on terms which soon were settled.
It was a strange experience to re-enter a theatre to serve instead of
to govern; and in one where the policy was so different. My wife and
I had so often been content to choose plays without regard to
ourselves: the policy of the Lyceum was upon another plane. _The
Dead Heart_ is a story of the French Revolution, on the lines of _A
Tale of Two Cities_. The best scene in the play was between Irving
and myself, in which we fought a duel to the death. A clever drawing
of the scene--I regret failing to secure it when it was sold at
Christie's--was made by Bernard Partridge. From all I have heard
said of it, the fight must have been well done--real, brief, and
determined. It was a grim business, in the sombre moonlit room, and
forcibly gave the impression that one of the two combatants would not
leave it alive. I confess that I had not the courage of Terriss, who
found himself in a similar position with Irving when they fought a
duel in _The Corsican Brothers_, and boldly attacked his chief by
suggesting that a little of the limelight might fall on his side of
the stage, as Nature was impartial.
{187}
[Sidenote: A tribute from Irving]
One night during the hundred and sixty on which _The Dead Heart_ was
acted, when we had acknowledged the applause which followed the duel,
Irving put his arm round me as we walked up the stage together, and
said: "What a big name you might have made for yourself had you never
come across those Robertson plays! What a pity, for your own sake;
for no actor can be remembered long who does not appear in the
classical drama."
I fear egotism is getting the better of me. Irving once said:
"One point must strike all in connection with Bancroft's
career--before he left the Haymarket, at the age of forty-four, he
was the senior theatrical manager of London. In conjunction with
that gifted lady who was the genius of English comedy, he popularised
a system of management which has dominated our stage ever since, and
the principle of which may be described as the harmony of realism and
art."
It is to be much regretted that no really satisfactory portrait of
Irving exists. The one painted by Millais, and given by him to the
Garrick Club in 1884, is a beautiful work of art, but, to my mind,
somewhat effeminate in its {188} beauty. A portrait by Sargent,
painted when Irving was fifty, and exhibited at the Royal Academy in
1888, was amazingly clever, but a somewhat painful likeness. The
great painter showed something in the great actor--as he so often
does in his sitters--which his gifted and searching eyes could not
help seeing, and which, once having been shown, you cannot afterwards
help seeing always. Irving hated the portrait, and when it was taken
from the walls of the Academy it was never seen again. I heard
Irving, at my table, tell Sir Edward Poynter that he hid it away in a
garret, and when he left the old Grafton Street chambers, his
solitary home for many years, he hacked the canvas to shreds with a
knife. What a treasure lost!
Irving's hospitality was unbounded. At one of his many parties I
recollect his saying to Frank Lockwood, when he was
Solicitor-General: "The fortunate actor is the actor who works hard."
He then pointed across the table to me, and added: "Look at that
fellow, and remember what hard work meant in his case. 'B' is the
only actor since Garrick who made a fortune purely by management of
his own theatre--I mean without the aid of provincial tours and
visits to America." After a pause he continued: "But he has paid the
{189} penalty of leaving his best work as an actor undone."
[Sidenote: Knighthood]
It will ever be remembered that Henry Irving was the first actor to
receive from his Sovereign the honour of State recognition: so
placing his calling on a level with the rest, no more to be looked at
askance, but recognised as leading to a share of the distinctions
enjoyed by his fellow-men.
For a year or more before the end it was manifest to those who loved
him that the sword had worn out the scabbard--it hung so listlessly
by his side. This I strongly realised the last time he sat at our
table, and was struck by his plaintive manner to my wife and to me.
He then had a flat in Stratton Street, and left us at midnight,
saying that he must be home before the lift ceased running or he
would have to be carried upstairs.
In affectionate remembrance I close my tribute to Henry Irving. His
remarkable career has taken its place in the history of his country,
for he was one of the leaders of men who earned the privilege, given
to but few, to become the property of the world.
It may also be truly said of Irving, as of one of the most
distinguished of his predecessors: "He who has done a single thing
that others never forget, and feel ennobled whenever they {190} think
of, need not regret his having been, and may throw aside this fleshly
coil like any other worn-out part, grateful and contented."
Although I knew and loved them from their boyhood, I find it
difficult to write of Irving's sons, being, as they were, so
overpowered by the dominant personality of the father.
[Sidenote: "H.B." and Laurence]
They both went to Marlborough. "H.B." afterwards to New College,
Oxford. Laurence left school for Paris, to perfect his knowledge of
French, his ambition and inclination being the diplomatic service.
He then passed some three years in Russia, acquiring mastery of the
difficult language. Unhappily, his wished-for career had to be
abandoned for want of the imperative funds. "H.B." was called to the
Bar, but lacked the necessary patience, and so abandoned a
profession, as was thought by many competent judges, in which he was
eminently qualified to take a high position; while his "hobby" until
the end was criminology, and he wrote remarkable books on that
fascinating subject.
Both sons drifted on to the stage. Before that step was taken I had
seen "H.B." at Oxford give a striking performance, for one so young,
of _King John_.
Later on, I had no wish to see him act a long round of his father's
old parts.
{191}
Towards the end of the War he left his work at the Savoy Theatre and
devoted himself to hard work in the Intelligence Department at the
Admiralty, which proved to be a great strain upon him. We met
frequently at that time, by appointment, at the Athenæum, hard by,
and had luncheon together, as he did with his close friend, E. V.
Lucas. It was manifest then that his fatal illness had begun.
Laurence was a more frequent guest of ours than Harry, especially at
Christmas time, having no children to command his presence at home;
he was not so trammelled on the stage as his brother; it was easier
for him to escape from perpetual reminders. The performances I
remember best on his part are his high-class acting in _Typhoon_ and
the admirable drawing of a character he played in _The Incubus_, who
is, in point of fact, his mistress and has become sadly in the way.
My wife and I saw the play together from a stage box, and were much
amused at the end of it by a conversation between what we took to be
a young married couple in the stalls, just beneath us.
The girl said: "Good play, isn't it?" The man answered: "Capital.
I've only one fault to find with it." "What's that?" "Title."
"Title, why it's a perfect title." The man: "Rotten title--it's
nothing about an incubus." {192} The girl: "It's all about an
incubus." The man: "The thing was never once mentioned." The girl,
in amazement: "What is an incubus?" The man: "Why, one of those
things in which they hatch chickens."
The sons died at an age that is not closed to hope and promise, which
now must be handed on to another generation--Laurence and Elizabeth,
the children of Harry Irving, both gifted with good looks and charm.
The boy distinguished himself during the War in the Air Force and now
shows promise as a painter. My love descends to them.
[Sidenote: J. L. Toole]
Extremes meet; they always do and always will. The closest friend
Henry Irving had was J. L. Toole. The strong affection between the
two men, which lasted until the end, began when Toole was making a
name on the stage in Edinburgh and Irving only a beginner. The
famous comedian belonged, as it were, to "the City," and was educated
at the City of London School. He was a close second to Sothern in
inventing practical jokes, generally harmless, and would take as
infinite pains to carry them through. I remember a silly story he
loved to tell, how, after a bad baccarat night at Aix-les-Bains, he
went to the bank to draw money on his letter of credit. Tapping at
the _guichet_, he inquired of the clerk in feeble, {193} broken
English how much the bank would advance upon a gold-headed cane which
he carried. As might be expected, the little window was slammed in
his face. Nothing daunted, Toole made his way to the market-place
hard by, and bought from various stalls some small fish, a bunch of
carrots, and a child's toy; he then returned to the bank and arranged
his purchases on the counter, with the addition of his watch, a
half-franc piece and a penknife. When all was ready he again tapped
at the window, and, in a tremulous voice, implored the clerk to
accept these offerings in pledge for the small sum needed to save him
from starvation. The clerk indignantly requested Toole to leave the
establishment, explaining, in the best English at his command, that
the bank only made advances upon letters of credit. At the
last-named word Toole broke into smiles, and, producing his letter of
credit, handed it to the astonished clerk, with the explanation that
he would have offered it at first had he thought the bank cared about
it, but the porter at his hotel had emphatically told him the bankers
of Aix preferred fish.
Toole was never the same after the painful death of his son: he
became more and more a slave to "late hours," but was still a
delightful, {194} buoyant companion, beloved by his comrades and
friends.
Wilson Barrett was a good actor of the robust type. He had an
adventurous career: sometimes high on the wave of success, at others
deep down in the trough of the sea of failure, but always strictly
honourable. At the old Princess's Theatre, in Oxford Street, he made
large sums by good dramas like _The Silver King_ and _The Lights of
London_, and lost them through the failures of ambitious efforts,
which included a youthful _Hamlet_, to be wiped out in turn by the
enormous success of _The Sign of the Cross_, a religious drama that
appealed to a large public which rarely entered theatres. The play
provoked Bernard Shaw to say that Wilson Barrett could always bring
down the house with a hymn, and had so evident a desire to personate
the Messiah that we might depend upon seeing him crucified yet.
[Sidenote: William Terriss]
A restless, untamable spirit was born in William Terriss. He tried
various callings before settling down to the one for which he was so
eminently fitted. He embarked in the mercantile marine, but the
craze only lasted a fortnight. Then came tea-planting in China. The
next experiment was made in medicine, to be followed by an attack
upon engineering. {195} He then positively bluffed me into giving
him an engagement, and made his appearance on the stage. Suddenly he
decided to go sheep farming in the Falkland Islands. He made an
early marriage, and his beloved Ellaline was born there. Of course
he soon came back; returned to and left the stage again; next to
Kentucky to try horse-breeding. Another failure brought him to his
senses. Five years after he had first adopted the stage he was an
actor in earnest and became one of its greatest favourites.
His career was chiefly identified with the Lyceum and the Adelphi;
but he first became prominent by his acting as Thornhill in _Olivia_,
under Hare's management at the Court Theatre. His bright, breezy
nature was a tonic, and, like his daughter and her husband, Seymour
Hicks, he carried sunshine about with him and shed it on all he met.
He was as brave as a lion and as graceful as a panther.
Alas! one Saturday evening the town was horrified as the tragic news
quickly spread that Terriss had been fatally stabbed by a malignant
madman as he was entering the Adelphi Theatre to prepare for his
evening's work. At his funeral there was an extraordinary
manifestation of public sympathy.
Lionel Monckton told me a curious story of {196} how when he reached
home he found that a clock which Terriss gave him had stopped at the
hour of the murder.
However briefly, I must record grateful thanks for past enjoyment
given us by Corney Grain, as great a master in his branch of art as
that friend of my youth, John Parry. His odd name was often wrongly
thought to be assumed, as was that of a dramatist of those days,
Stirling Coyne, who rejoiced in the nickname of "Filthy Lucre."
I always remember the stifled laughter of my wife and Corney Grain,
who was present with ourselves at a dinner party, when a
distinguished foreigner, accredited by Spain to the Court of St.
James, was announced by a nervous manservant as the "Spanish
Ham..."--a long pause being followed by a trembling sotto
voce--"bassador."
[Sidenote: "Gee Gee" and "Wee Gee"]
George Grossmith, the elder--"Gee Gee"--is of course best remembered
by his long connection with the Gilbert and Sullivan operas. To
their great success he contributed a share of which he was justly
proud. After he left the Savoy Theatre he toured as an entertainer,
with excellent financial results, both here and from two visits to
the United States. When he returned for the second time, I remember
his saying to me, in his funny, {197} plaintive way: "Do you know, my
dear 'B,' things are really very sad. The first time I came back
from America I found myself spoken of as 'Weedon Grossmith's
brother,' and now, after my second visit, I am only 'George
Grossmith's father.'"
I have always looked upon Weedon Grossmith--"Wee Gee"--as an
admirable actor, and his death as bringing a personal loss, having
valued his friendship and his company. On the stage I best remember
him in Pinero's comedies, _The Cabinet Minister_ and _The Amazons_,
in _A Pantomime Rehearsal_, and, towards the end of his career, in a
remarkable performance of a demented odd creature, who believed
himself to be the great Napoleon. My wife was so impressed by the
acting that she wrote to our little friend about it in a way which
delighted him beyond words. Weedon was educated as a painter, and
became an exhibitor at the Academy and other galleries. I have two
charming examples from his brush, which I bought at Christie's.
The Great War dealt severe blows to the stage, many a young life of
promise being taken. The toll was heavy; but they are honoured
always by their comrades and remembered for their valour, as are
those who served so bravely and survived. During those {198}
terrible years the stage also lost E. S. Willard, Lewis Waller,
Herbert Tree, William Kendal and George Alexander--all men in the
front rank; every one hard to replace.
I associate Willard with his success in _The Silver King_, and
afterwards in Henry Arthur Jones's plays, _The Middleman_ and
_Judah_. In these he had a prosperous career through the United
States--as in the part in which I best remember him--the old man in
Barrie's comedy, _The Professor's Love Story_, a charming piece of
artistic work. He owed a modest fortune to the appreciation he met
with in America.
Willard had an ambition to build a theatre at the top of Lower Regent
Street, where the County Fire Office, so long a London landmark,
stood; but, granting the site to have been available, it had no
depth: the theatre could only have been erected on a part of the
Regent Palace Hotel, and reached by burrowing under the road--so far
as my architectural knowledge serves me. With the demolition of the
County Fire Office the last fragment of the old colonnade
disappeared, which, I remember, in my boyhood extended on both sides
of the Quadrant from the Circus to Vigo Street.
Early retirement from management prevented intimacy with several
prominent actors, who otherwise might have been associated {199} with
our work. For instance, Lewis Waller was only once our guest, as
things happened. Of his acting, my wife and I were among the warm
admirers. The first play in which he commanded our attention was
_The Profligate_, which Pinero wrote for Hare when his management of
the Garrick Theatre began. One recalls with admiration his acting as
Hotspur, Brutus, Faulconbridge, and King Henry V.
I am sorry I did not know him better, or see more of him. He was a
great loss to the stage he loved.
[Sidenote: Too many windows]
It was, naturally, a satisfaction to my wife, as to me, when Herbert
Tree became our successor at the Haymarket. We felt the future of
the theatre to be secure for a while, and that its traditions would
be worthily maintained. He did all sorts of good work there, ranging
from _Hamlet_ and _Henry V_ to _The Dancing Girl_ and _Trilby_, until
he was responsible for building its beautiful opposite neighbour, the
present His Majesty's Theatre, where he migrated. During its
erection I was walking one day on the opposite side with Comyns Carr,
who asked me what I thought of it. He seemed to be greatly amused by
my answer: "Too many windows to clean."
Good fortune continued to smile upon the smaller house under the
joint management of {200} Frederick Harrison and Cyril Maude. Much
of its deserved success was due, in those days, to the art of
Winifred Emery, which was then approaching its best, before cruel
disease came in the plenitude of her powers and robbed her of that
very front position which is reached by so few, and which I think she
would surely have attained in her maturity.
Herbert Tree was for many years a power and an authority upon our
stage: he rendered its alluring profession great service. I still
trust in the hope that successors may be found with something of his
splendid courage, his boundless imagination, to follow in his firmest
footsteps and leave as memorable marks.
In private life he was an amusing creature, a delightful companion, a
perfect host. It was once said of him, not altogether without truth,
that he walked in a dream, talked in a dream, ate in a dream, drank
in a dream, smoked in a dream, and acted in a dream.
He had enormous energy in starting things, but less strength in
carrying his ideas through: he grew tired quickly through his love of
change.
I will end with a comic note, for which I am indebted to Pinero. It
so happened that the names of Arthur Pinero and Herbert Tree were
announced for knighthood in the same Honours {201} List. A man who
was an old friend of both wrote a letter of felicitation to each of
them; but unfortunately he put his letters into the wrong envelopes.
The one Pinero received was as follows: "My dear Tree. Hearty
congratulations. You ought to have had it long ago. But why
Pinero?" The distinguished dramatist sent this letter to the
distinguished actor with the necessary explanation, and in return had
from him the note intended for himself. This was it: "My dear
Pinero. Hearty congratulations. You ought to have had it long ago.
But why Tree?"
[Sidenote: The Kendals]
"Will" Kendal, until he "passed into the night," chanced to be my
oldest theatrical friend. We first met at Birmingham, in our early
struggling days, and not again until he had planted his feet firmly
at the Haymarket. Mrs. Kendal I knew in the following year, when we
acted together in the country. She was Madge Robertson then, and a
"flapper" of fifteen, already foreshadowing her brilliant future.
After the Kendals married, my wife and I had the great advantage of
their services in our company for two seasons. When, later on, their
successful partnership with Hare came to an end, they travelled much
in America, where they became special favourites and amassed a large
fortune.
{202}
Kendal was an actor in the foremost rank, being trained by some years
of hard work in the provincial "stock companies," as we of the "old
brigade" all were. There were certain parts he played to perfection.
I never saw his equal as Captain Absolute in _The Rivals_, young
Marlow in _She Stoops to Conquer_, and Charles Courtly in _London
Assurance_.
It must be full five and forty years since George Alexander called
upon my wife one Sunday afternoon with a letter of introduction from
our dear friend, Sir Morell Mackenzie. We were sorry, for all our
sakes, that we could only offer him encouragement. He had much in
his favour; was acting with a travelling company in the Robertson
comedies, and warmly recommended for a London engagement, which he
soon received from Irving at the Lyceum. Many pleasant tributes from
Ellen Terry were paid to him during his stay there, and he rendered
yeoman service to his chief. Alexander's long and successful
management of the St. James's Theatre was beyond reproach, and for
years gave stability to the stage and good repute to those who worked
with him. He was a staunch friend to English dramatists and produced
plays written by Arthur Pinero, Henry Arthur Jones, Alfred Sutro,
Anthony Hope, Claude Carton, Haddon Chambers, Louis {203} Parker,
Stephen Phillips, Oscar Wilde, and Henry James: a worthy record.
[Sidenote: "Mrs. Tanqueray"]
The finest feather in Alexander's managerial cap--his _panache_--was
the production of Pinero's great play, _The Second Mrs. Tanqueray_.
He alone had the courage--a quality most essential in theatrical
enterprise--to risk what thirty years ago was a dangerous
undertaking, the truth and humanity of the play, which has kept it
vigorously alive, being at the time of its production lost sight of
in the sensation caused by the selection of such a daring scheme and
subject for the stage. That fears existed for the success of the
play on that score may now excite wonder in the minds of the present
advanced generation.
The part of Paula has been a vehicle for the widely differing genius
and conceptions of so many eminent actresses--Mrs. Patrick Campbell,
Duse, Jane Hading, Mrs. Kendal, Miss Gladys Cooper, and numerous
other distinguished foreigners--that special interest attaches to the
curious incidents surrounding the first production of the play and
the original casting of the heroine.