decidedly refused it. On Hare's rejection, it was offered to
Alexander, who, though greatly impressed by its strength, {204} also,
but reluctantly, declined it. Pinero then proposed to Alexander that
he should do the play at a _matinée_, without being asked for any
author's fee. This proposal was agreed to; and the play was
announced for a series of morning performances. It happened,
however, that Alexander's forthcoming production was _Liberty Hall_,
a comedy written by Claude Carton, who, not unnaturally, represented
to Alexander that the performances of _The Second Mrs. Tanqueray_ in
the afternoons might militate against the success of the regular
evening bill. (An odd little coincidence is that one of the
characters in _Liberty Hall_ was originally named Tanqueray--a name
which Carton, out of consideration for Pinero, changed to Harringay.)
Alexander thereupon undertook that, if Pinero would release him from
his agreement to give morning performances of _The Second Mrs.
Tanqueray_, he would at the earliest opportunity put the play into
the evening bill. In these circumstances the play was produced
towards the end of the season of 1893.
[Sidenote: The first Paula]
In the ordinary course the original Paula would have been Winifred
Emery, but the expected arrival of one of her daughters robbed her of
the chance. The choice at the time was very limited, actresses of
prominence all being engaged. It happened, however, {205} that at
the Adelphi a young and handsome lady of no long stage experience,
named Mrs. Patrick Campbell, was acting in a drama by G. R. Sims.
There were doubts whether the methods of an actress who had graduated
at the Adelphi were suitable to the St. James's, but Pinero suggested
to Alexander that they should see what impression she produced upon
them in a talk with her in a room. The interview took place, and
after it Pinero told Alexander that, if she would act on the stage as
she talked in his office, he felt pretty sure that she was the woman
for the part. But her engagement was dependent on her release by the
management of the Adelphi. Word promptly came that this was refused,
and once more the author of the play and the manager of the St.
James's were up to their necks in difficulties. Pinero then proposed
to Alexander that he should wind up the matter by engaging Miss
Elizabeth Robins, who had lately made a striking success in Ibsen's
_Hedda Gabler_, and he proceeded to do so.
As was the custom then, the date and hour were fixed for the author
to read his play to the actors and actresses who were to represent
it. Alexander was engaged to have luncheon that day in Portland
Place, and Pinero arranged to call for him on his way to the theatre.
As {206} he drove up in a hansom, Alexander came out of the house in
a state of great excitement, crying out: "We can get Mrs. Campbell!"
It appeared that he had only just heard from her that, thanks to
pressure put upon them by G. R. Sims, the managers of the Adelphi had
consented to release her. On reaching the St. James's Theatre,
Pinero said to Alexander: "Look here; this is your job. I will go
for a walk in St. James's Park and come back in half an hour to read
my play either to Miss Robins or Mrs. Campbell, as it may turn out."
Alexander went to his room, rang the bell, asked if Miss Robins had
arrived, and on learning that she was in the theatre requested her to
come and see him. She soon entered, holding the book of the play.
Alexander told her that an unexpected condition of things had arisen.
He would put his cards on the table. Did Miss Robins know that the
part of Paula had been first offered to Mrs. Campbell, who, in fact,
had been engaged to play it? He was answered: "Yes." Alexander then
said: "She has been set free, and is in the theatre. What am I to
do?"
Pointing to the book in her hand, Miss Robins replied: "Mr.
Alexander, this is the chance of my life. It is also the chance of
{207} Mrs. Campbell's life. She is a friend of mine, and I will not
take the chance from her."
It was, in my opinion, a great mistake on Alexander's part to add the
cares of the London County Council to the management of an important
theatre. The strain, I have no doubt, shortened his life, which was
of great service to his calling.
[Sidenote: Sir Frank Benson]
"Alec" was always my good friend; and when he summoned a meeting of
the leading actors and managers in 1916, the year the Shakespearean
Tercentenary was to be celebrated at Drury Lane Theatre, he put the
matter so strongly to those assembled that there was no gainsaying
his suggestion that I should there and then be invited to speak the
address on the occasion if, as he hoped, I would undertake the task.
It was no mean effort, and I am afraid that egotism is again fast
getting the better of me and urging me to print the result of my
labour. My excuse is that the event had national importance: a
dramatic episode being the knighthood conferred by the King on Frank
Benson, who had given the best years of his life to spreading the
love of Shakespeare throughout the land.
Here is the address:
"I am proud, indeed, that it was thought {208} fitting by my comrades
to give me the unsought honour, on this great day, of addressing you
on their behalf. I thank them for the privilege with all my heart,
and promise to bear in mind the wise counsel of Polonius, 'brevity is
the soul of wit!' I can only speak from my point of view. There are
debts which can never be paid in full; there is homage which never
can be amply rendered; there is love no tongue can truly tell. All
these are Shakespeare's. As every tribute must fall short of what is
really due, I resolved to speak my own words--the best in my power to
frame--rather than be but the echo of an abler brain.
"In my early days in theatreland, with the audacity of youth, I acted
many characters in Shakespeare's plays and then laid some budding
leaves of a modest chaplet at the shrine of the master whose works
have made the stage eternal. Now, in my old age, I rejoice in the
remembrance that I have been what William Shakespeare was--an actor.
With a boundless prodigality he has enriched this England which
claims his birth--the dear land he loved so deeply and called:
'This fortress built by Nature for herself,
This precious stone set in the silver sea.'
"We owe to Shakespeare the most alluring, the most entrancing
creations in our mother-tongue. How much poorer should we be if we
lacked the imperishable charm of those {209} Princesses of the
drama--Juliet, Rosalind, Ophelia, Beatrice, Viola, Miranda, Portia,
Imogen, Desdemona, and Cordelia. They are not withered by age, nor
stricken by decay. The Angel of Death passes them by. They are
celestial and immortal. What joy that mighty pen must have given for
three hundred years to the gifted women who have portrayed those
matchless heroines.
"As Shakespeare is 'for all time,' so is he for all men the 'guide,
philosopher, and friend.' From whom can even monarchs surer look for
majesty? Who so inspires the statesman with true patriotism? Who so
teaches the gentleman his conduct; the preacher simple piety; the
soldier chivalry and courage? Who gives the poet nobler themes; the
painter loftier models; the lover sweeter idols; a son such sound
advice? Who so plainly tells the player of his faults? and by whom
is youth so upheld by hope, or declining years so soothed with
consolation?
"I remember well a visit I paid upon a dusky evening to Westminster
Abbey. As I walked beneath its stately roof, to the sounds of the
organ, twilight shadows were cast down the sacred aisles. It seemed
easy under such influence to believe the legend that, while writing
the awful scene between Hamlet and his father's ghost, Shakespeare
passed a long night alone within those hallowed walls. In the fading
light I looked upon the monument {210} in Poets' Corner and read the
lines from _The Tempest_ as they are inscribed there:
'The cloudcapt towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And like the baseless Fabric of a Vision
Leave not a wrack behind.'
What grandeur, what pathos, are in the words; but we will not believe
them--at least not of him. The lustre--the undying
lustre--Shakespeare's transcendent genius has shed upon the world
marches down the ages undimmed by time."
I lately came across a tribute to Shakespeare which provoked alike my
admiration and surprise: the author being that brilliant wit and
humorist, Douglas Jerrold. These are his words:
"The great magician who has left immortal company for the spirit of
man in his weary journey through this briary world--has bequeathed
scenes of immortal loveliness for the human fancy to delight
in--founts of eternal truth for the lip of man to drink, and
drink--and for all time to be renovated with every draught."
[Sidenote: Charles Wyndham]
Of that accomplished and delightful comedian, Charles Wyndham, there
are bright thoughts of the happiness he gave to playgoers {211}
during an exceptionally prolonged career. Its only blemish, indeed,
was its length, when the inevitable decay, which at last declines to
be warded off, became manifest towards the end.
His early successes were made at the Criterion Theatre, in plays of
an amusing and frivolous kind, such as _The Great Divorce Case_,
_Pink Dominoes_ and _Betsy_. These were followed by far better work,
of a higher kind, and the production of those admirable comedies by
Henry Arthur Jones, _The Case of Rebellious Susan_ and _The Liars_.
I confess to having thought, had I remained longer on the stage, how
happy I should have been to have played some types of those
delightful, helpful, elderly men, who often make life pleasanter to
the young, and were so perfectly acted by Wyndham.
He retained his youthful appearance until late in life: the
preservation of his "figure" was amazing, and he remained a good
walker to the end, but never carried a cane.
To recall a peculiarity of his hard working days, I have frequently
known him stop at a post office and scrawl a hurried letter or send a
telegram to himself, as a reminder of something important that he had
to remember or to do.
The memory of Charles Wyndham should {212} always be held in high
regard for his unbounded generosity and devoted service to the
Actors' Benevolent Fund. It was a pleasure and a privilege to me to
propose that Lady Wyndham should be chosen to follow in his footsteps
as its president.
Charles Hawtrey was a very old friend. We knew him first at his
father's well-known preparatory school for Eton, where I sent my son.
The next phase came soon afterwards, when he confided to us his wish
to go upon the stage; a wish my wife and I at once encouraged. This
appeared a little before we commenced our Haymarket career with a
revival of Lord Lytton's comedy, _Money_. We said he could appear as
a young member in the club scene, with a few lines to speak. Hawtrey
enthusiastically accepted the offer. Unfortunately, an illness
prevented its fulfilment, or he would have been the companion of Fred
Terry in making his first appearance on that eventful evening.
Our paths in life, both on and off the stage, were much asunder, but
we were always the best of friends, and I remember with pleasure a
strong wish he expressed, during one of our meetings at Marienbad,
when a scheme was on foot to build a theatre for him in the
Haymarket, that he might christen it "The Bancroft." {213} My wife
and I were sorry when the scheme fell through.
He leaves the happiest memories to his shoals of friends--from the
early days, of _The Private Secretary_; the middle stage, of _Lord
and Lady Algy_ and _The Man from Blankley's_; to end, with the gay
maturity of _Ambrose Applejohn's Adventure_,--and laughter all the
way.
Charles Hawtrey was the actor I have alluded to who had the widest
knowledge of the Bible of any layman I have known.
[Sidenote: John Hare]
My intimate and affectionate relations, both private and
professional, with John Hare make me a little shy of writing about
him with the warmth his long and brilliant career upon the stage
deserves. I was his oldest professional friend, having been a member
of the company he first joined. In the following year my wife
offered him an engagement, and for ten years he was prominent among
the attractive company of the old Prince of Wales's Theatre. No
young actor was, perhaps, so fortunate as himself, appearing as he
did in three such successive and distinctive character parts as Lord
Ptarmigant, the sleepy old Peer in _Society_, Prince Perovsky, the
courtly Russian diplomat in _Ours_, and Sam Gerridge, the humble
gasfitter in _Caste_. The delicacy and finish of Hare's {214} acting
was of great service to the Robertson comedies, in all of which he
appeared.
When he left us it was to enter into friendly managerial rivalry. I
applauded the step as a wise one on his part; but, after so many
years of close intimacy, I felt the wrench. From that moment the
dressing-room he and I had shared knew me no more, and I found a
lonely corner on another floor.
And a friendly rivalry it was. If we had our _Diplomacy_, he had his
_Olivia_, a delightful play, in which Ellen Terry made so conspicuous
a success and Terriss laid the firm foundation of his fine career.
My sole disappointment in connection with this beautiful production
was that Hare had not plucked up the courage to attack the part of
the dear old Vicar himself.
It is not for me to dwell upon his career, which was always to the
credit of his calling, or enumerate his successes, only naming
Pinero's brilliant works, _The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith_ and _The Gay
Lord Quex_. In the first of them Mrs. Patrick Campbell clinched her
previous triumph; in the second Irene Vanbrugh seized the opportunity
of rushing to the front, where she has remained ever since.
On an occasion when Hare proposed my health in distinguished company,
it was pleasant {215} to listen to words which were too flattering to
allow of their repetition.
[Sidenote: Meissonier of our stage]
I am inclined to say that Hare's best and most complete individual
work was his delightful portrait of old Benjamin Goldfinch in _A Pair
of Spectacles_, a performance which gave us something of the
simplicity and benevolence of the immortal Samuel Pickwick. I think
of Hare, in all he did, as the Meissonier of our stage.
{216}
X
ONE OTHER EMPTY CHAIR
"If we really love those whom we lose,
We never really lose those whom we love."
The time has come for me to offer my apology for this book. In my
lonely, but not unhappy, old age, the most void of all the Empty
Chairs which now surround me is the one so long filled by my partner
for more than fifty years.
Let me begin by saying that the foundation of our fortunes was due,
solely, to her courage in gallantly deciding that danger was
preferable to dullness, and in producing _Society_, the first of the
Robertson comedies, against adverse advice and the fact that the
manuscript had been "turned down" by the leading London managers of
the day. It may be that the brave decision was also pleasant to her
because at the time our mutual attachment was steadily ripening, and,
although the part she was willing to take was not prominent, the
character which would fall to my lot was a good one and likely to
advance my position, if I played it well.
{217}
[Sidenote: The return to Nature]
To the exceptional and startling success upon production of
Robertson's five delicate little comedies, and to the
frequently-recurring revivals of them, we owed much. They appeared
just when they were wanted to revive interest in the drama. Nature
was Robertson's goddess, and he looked upon the bright young manager
as the high-priestess of the natural school of acting.
When the prolific fountain ceased, through the early and untimely
death of Robertson, the choice of plays until the end of our career
was left to me. I was honoured and helped by implicit confidence in
my judgment; no word of rebuke passed her lips for a mistake, no word
of praise was withheld when it was thought merited. No spark of
professional jealousy was born to her; she always loved to act with
the ablest and best equipped of her comrades. She had no place for
the more sordid side of life, and was as free from extravagance as
she was indifferent about money. Her life from childhood was passed
in the service of the public until I thought the time had come for it
to be less strenuous.
It may be that for the early withdrawal from triumphant scenes of the
great gifts of so famous an actress I was to blame--if blame there
was. I plead excuse in a painful {218} remembrance of pitiful words,
written by a powerful pen, on lingering too long upon the stage;
words which drew the sad picture of a much-loved servant of the
public clinging to the faded chaplet won as its idol in earlier days;
of clutching at the withered trophy after the time had come for its
graceful surrender to youth and promise, and before the admiration
once so showered upon her should be replaced by
indulgence--indulgence to be followed by compassion, compassion in
its turn by indifference. Indulgence--compassion--indifference. The
mere utterance of such words causes one pain. Twilight in art--as in
nature--must be mournful: surely a sweeter picture is the splendid
sinking of an early autumnal sun.
It will mean happiness to me to lay a few flowers at her feet,
gathered in the gardens of those who knew and loved her. So I have
asked three dear friends, a man of letters, a dramatist, and an
actor, to help me in that task.
[Sidenote: Macready and the child]
The first tribute is from the pen of W. L. Courtney:
"MY DEAR B,--
"I gladly avail myself of the opportunity you give me to pay a
tribute to the memory of Lady Bancroft.
"She herself has told us the sort of impression she made on those
around her when she was {219} a child; and because that early verdict
passed on her is singularly prescient, it is worth recalling.
Macready is the first witness. Marie Wilton--to use her maiden name,
which was soon to be famous on the stage--acted the parts of the boy
Fleance and the apparition of a child in the caldron scene to
Macready's Macbeth at the close of his career, and was invited by the
great actor to visit him in his room. 'Well,' he said, 'I suppose
you hope to be a great actress some day. And what do you intend to
play?' The answer came at once: 'Lady Macbeth.' 'Oh, is that all!
Well, I like your ambition. You are a strange little thing and have
such curious eyes. But you must change them before you play Lady
Macbeth, or you will make your audience laugh instead of cry.' The
story shows that Macready had quickly noticed two things about the
child. Her eyes, which were not so much curious as unusual and
always alive, were laughing, merry, twinkling eyes, the eyes of one
who would never allow her outlook on the world to be other than
genial and good; who could bear misfortune with as much courage as
good fortune. He had noticed also what was almost the first thing
that the spectator observed about Marie Bancroft's performance in
almost every one of her parts, and that was the inscrutable fashion
in which she at once established the best relations with her
audience. It was in its way a little bit of {220} magic, the secret
of which she retained. The effect was irresistible. She came down
to the footlights, or stayed where she was, without movement, and
instantly flashes of mutual goodwill passed between her and the
audience, even before the musical tones of her voice were heard.
Sometimes, as with an actress like Eleonora Duse, time has to elapse
while she is, so to speak, making herself at home. Marie Bancroft
had undoubtedly what I have called a little bit of magic. Whatever
the part that she was to play, there was always the comfortable
feeling when she was on the stage that everything was going well, and
that success was practically assured. In the series of her parts in
the Robertsonian drama she was, of course, helped by the author's
knowledge of her and of her temperament; but whether she was a
schoolgirl or supposed to be grown up; whether the part belonged to
the upper or the lower levels of society: in every case sympathy was
instantly linking her with the eager and attentive house. She no
sooner came than she saw what was wanted, and she conquered with what
seemed consummate ease and economy of effort. I have never seen an
actress who more rapidly and easily made her presence known on the
stage as a gracious, winsome, affectionate creature, filled with
human kindness, and always ready to believe the best of people and of
things.
[Sidenote: Dickens and the girl]
"And so the judgment of Charles Dickens is {221} established as
surely as that of Macready. 'I really wish,' said Dickens in a
letter to John Forster, 'I really wish you would go to see _The Maid
and the Magpie_ burlesque at the Strand Theatre. There is the
strangest thing in it that I have ever seen on the stage. The boy
Pippo, by Miss Marie Wilton, while it is astonishingly impudent--must
be or it could not be done at all--is so stupendously like a boy and
unlike a woman that it is perfectly free from offence. I have never
seen such a curious thing; the manner, the appearance, the levity,
impulse and spirits of it are so exactly like a boy that you cannot
see anything like her sex in association with it. I call her the
cleverest girl I have ever seen on the stage in my time, and the most
original.' That is, of course, a tribute to her cleverness, which
made her the best of burlesque actresses. If Macready's judgment
refers to the seriousness of her ambition, Charles Dickens calls
attention to her extraordinary versatility, her power of identifying
herself with any part she assumed, and the rapidity with which she
comprehended all that was implicit in it. Of the burlesques of those
days Marie Wilton was the acknowledged queen, inspiring the whole of
the silly or serious business with her inimitable gaiety and amazing
ability.
"The more general the sympathy an actress possesses with human
nature, the wider will be her interpretation of a part. We talk
{222} about building up a character. It is only saying in other
words that the primary duty of the heroine in a play is to make us
understand, not only what she is in the play, but what she might be
under other conditions. The extraordinary thing about Marie
Bancroft, when she left burlesque for modern comedy, is that from the
first she interpreted the character she was representing in the
largest, most sympathetic manner, as having an inner nature or
temperament of much more subtle value than came out in the actual
presentation. Superficially, the characters of Polly Eccles and
Naomi Tighe--both great favourites with Marie Bancroft--can be easily
described. They are bright, garrulous, happy creatures, full of fun,
quick in tongue, responsive to humour, and always amusing to watch.
But as we left the theatre, after seeing her act them, we were aware
that they are something more. Behind the drolleries of Naomi Tighe
beats an extremely warm heart, a genuine comradeship, and an especial
love, of course, of her dear friend, Bella. But in Polly Eccles
there was still more. I was always surprised to think that Marie
Bancroft should have preferred the schoolgirl Naomi to the
high-hearted, devoted friend who was Polly Eccles, in whom we have
touches of a fuller personality than could be found either in Naomi
or in Mary Netley of _Ours_.
[Sidenote: The fulfilment]
"These, however, were, after all, the earlier {223} creations in
comedy of an artist destined to do much finer work. Her full powers
were proved later on, especially in Peg Woffington. The picture
showed traces of the same handiwork; and indeed the audience would
never have been satisfied if Marie Bancroft had not set her
unmistakeable seal on this character as on others. There was
something in the pathos of the main situation, however; something,
too, in the exquisite sympathy between Peg and Triplet, which touched
the very source of tears. What we saw here was the fulfilment of a
promise discerned in her earlier creations, an admirable example of
the many-sided presentment of a character, so that it becomes
something of daily experience. The humorous eyes, the sensitive
mouth, the face ever ready to suggest laughter and fun, the
attractive little touches of temperament and feeling--those had come
together to form a beautiful presentment of a gracious and
affectionate being, who could help others in their distress, because
she herself had come through deep waters.