FIRST APPEARANCES
The first appearances on the stage of Kate and Ellen Terry were in every
respect triumphant, and in theatrical history will always be held worthy
of record. A time-worn adage tells us not to judge by first appearances,
but those experts who discerned the extraordinary promise of these
children in the opportunities afforded them under the memorable Charles
Kean _régime_, at the Princess's Theatre, proved themselves to be true
dramatic critics.
As to the very first public appearance of the heroine of these pages
there has been much discussion. When any one deserts an avocation to
"take to the stage," as the phrase goes, a first performance is a
milestone on the road of life and is never forgotten. With children who,
coming from a theatrical family, are, as it were, born to the stage, it
is almost a matter of indifference, and is apt to become nebulous. Mrs.
Kendal, for example, once frankly stated that she remembered little or
nothing of her initial professional efforts until she was reminded of
them by some of the mature actors who had appeared in the same pieces
on those destined to be interesting occasions.
There was a general feeling that Ellen Terry's first appearance was as
Mamillius, the little son of King Leontes of Sicilia, in Kean's
elaborate revival of "The Winter's Tale," until in the June of 1880 the
eminent dramatic critic and stage historian, Mr. Dutton Cook,
contributed an article to the unhappily defunct _Theatre Magazine_, in
which he said:--
"Some four-and-twenty years ago, when the Princess's Theatre was under
the direction of the late Charles Kean, there were included in his
company two little girls, who lent valuable support to the management,
and whose young efforts the playgoers of the time watched with kindly
and sympathetic interest. Shakespearean revivals, prodigiously
embellished, were much in vogue; and Shakespeare, it may be noted by the
way, has testified his regard for children by providing quite a
repertory of parts well suited to the means of juvenile performers. Lady
Macduff's son has appeared too seldom on the scene, perhaps, to be
counted; but Fleance, Mamillius, Prince Arthur, Falstaff's boy, Moth
(Don Armado's page), King Edward V., and his brother, the Duke of York,
Puck, and the other fairies of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream,' and even
Ariel--these are characters specially designed for infantile players;
and these, or the majority of these, were sustained at the Princess's
Theatre, now by Miss Kate, and now by Miss Ellen Terry, who were wont
to appear, moreover, in such other plays, serious or comic, poetic or
pantomimic, as needed the presence and assistance of the pretty,
sprightly, clever children. Out of Shakespeare, opportunities for Miss
Kate Terry were found in the melodramas of 'The Courier of Lyons' (Sir
Henry Irving's 'The Lyons Mail' of to-day), 'Faust and Marguerite,' and
the comedy of 'Every One has his Fault.' The sisters figured together as
the Princes murdered in the Tower, by Mr. Charles Kean as Richard III.
What miniature Hamlets they looked in their bugled black velvet trunks,
silken hose, and ostrich feathers! They were in mourning, of course, for
their departed father, King Edward IV. My recollection of Miss Ellen
Terry dates from her impersonation of the little Duke of York. She was a
child of six, or thereabout, slim and dainty of form, with profuse
flaxen curls, and delicately-featured face, curiously bright and arch of
expression; and she won, as I remember, her first applause when, in
clear resonant tones, she delivered the lines:--
'Uncle, my brother mocks both you and me;
Because that I am little, like an ape,
He thinks that you should bear me on his shoulders.'
Richard's representative meanwhile scowling wickedly and tugging at his
gloves desperately, pursuant to paternal example and stage tradition. A
year or two later and the baby actress was representing now Mamillius,
and now Puck."
Now, when he arrived at this point, Mr. Dutton Cook raised a hornet's
nest about his ears. In the mind of playgoers it had been long decided
that this all-important first appearance had been in the character of
Mamillius. Where, then, did Mr. Dutton Cook's picturesquely described
Duke of York come in? Mr. George Tawse, who modestly described himself
as a "play-bill-worm," took great interest in the matter, and having
carefully consulted the happily preserved documents in the British
Museum, wrote many letters on the subject to Mr. Clement Scott, who was
then the erudite editor of _The Theatre_. These communications
attracting some notice (Mr. Tawse, be it noted, being all in favour of
Mamillius), Mr. Scott appealed to headquarters, and Ellen Terry
characteristically wrote to him:--"The very first time I ever appeared
on any stage was on the first night of 'The Winter's Tale,' at the
Princess's Theatre, with dear Charles Kean. As for the young Princes,
them unfortunate little men, I never played--not neither of them--there!
What a cry about a little wool! _P.S._--I was born in Coventry, 1848,
and was, I think, about seven when I played in 'The Winter's Tale.'"
Following up his careful researches, Mr. Tawse ultimately came to the
conclusion that on April 28, 1856, Ellen Terry appeared at the
Princess's as Mamillius in "The Winter's Tale"; on October 15, 1856, as
Puck in "A Midsummer Night's Dream"; on December 26, 1857, as the Fairy
"Golden Star" in "The White Cat" pantomime; on April 5, 1858, as Karl in
"Faust and Marguerite"; on October 18, as Prince Arthur in "King John";
on November 17, as Fleance in "Macbeth"; and on December 28, of the same
busy year, as "The Genius of the Jewels," in the pantomime of "The King
of the Castle."
As the lady has so strongly declared for Mamillius, and as Mr. Tawse
thus champions her, I suppose the verdict must be accepted; and yet it
seems very unlikely that such an accurate writer as Mr. Dutton Cook
could have been mistaken concerning that impersonation of the little
Duke of York. Can Ellen Terry have forgotten it? Knowing that she does
not set sufficient value on her work, or the impression it makes on
others, I think it very probable. Indeed, in all due deference to her
and Mr. Tawse (for even play-bills will sometimes unwittingly lie), I
like to give credit to Mr. Dutton Cook's miniature sister Hamlets in
their bugled black velvet trunks, their silken hose, and ostrich
feathers!
As poor little Mamillius, cursed with a jealous yet respected father,
and wondering what the troubles could be that existed between him and
his unhappy, deeply-wronged mother, she must have been very sweet, and
one can fancy what Charles Kean felt when he cried to his "boy"--
"Come, Sir Page,
Look on me with your welkin eye."
We have only to realise that in using the word "welkin" Shakespeare
meant "heavenly," to get the expression of the anxious but inspired
little Terry girl.
And if this was indeed her first appearance, her dismissal by Leontes
with the words, "Go play, Mamillius," was almost prophetic.
But if Mr. Dutton Cook chanced to err on the much discussed first
appearance question, he was certainly correct in his critical estimate
of the two remarkable child actresses.
"The public applauded these Terry sisters," he wrote, "not simply
because of their cleverness and prettiness, their graces of aspect, the
careful training they evidenced, and the pains they took to discharge
the histrionic duties entrusted to them, but because of the leaven of
genius discernible in all their performances--they were born actresses.
"Children educated to appear becomingly upon the scene have always been
obtainable, and upon easy terms; but here were little players who could
not merely repeat accurately the words they had learnt by rote, but
could impart sentiment to their speeches, could identify themselves with
the characters they played, could personate and portray, could weep
themselves that they might surely make others weep, could sway the
emotions of crowded audiences. They possessed in full that power of
abandonment to scenic excitement which is rare even among the most
consummate of mature performers. They were carried away by the force of
their own acting; there were tears not only in their voices but in their
eyes; their mobile faces were quick to reflect the significance of the
drama's events; they could listen, their looks the while annotating, as
it were, the discourse they heard; singular animation and alertness
distinguished all their movements, attitudes, and gestures. There was
special pathos in the involuntary trembling of their baby fingers, and
the unconscious wringing of their tiny hands; their voices were
particularly endowed with musically thrilling qualities. I have never
seen audiences so agitated and distressed, even to the point of anguish,
as were the patrons of the Princess's Theatre on those bygone nights
when little Prince Arthur, personated by either of the Terry sisters,
clung to Hubert's knees as the heated iron cooled in his hands, pleading
passionately for sight, touchingly eloquent of voice and action; a
childish simplicity attendant ever upon all the frenzy, the terror, the
vehemence, and the despair of the speeches and the situation.
"Assuredly Nature had been very kind to the young actresses, and without
certain natural graces, gifts, and qualifications, there can scarcely be
satisfactory acting. All Romeo's passion may pervade you, but unless you
can look like Romeo--or something like him--if your voice be weak or
cracked, your mouth awry or your legs askew--it is vain to feel like
him; you will not convince your audience of your sincerity, or induce
them to sympathise in the least with your actions or sufferings; still
less will you stir them to transports. Of course Genius makes laws unto
itself, and there have been actors who have triumphed over very serious
obstacles; but, as Mr. G. H. Lewes has observed, 'a harsh, inflexible
voice, a rigid or heavy face, would prevent even a Shakespeare from
being impressive and affecting on the stage.' The player is greatly
dependent upon his personality. At the same time, mental qualities must
accompany physical advantages. The constitutionally cold and torpid
cannot hope to represent successfully excitement or passion. The actor
must be _en rapport_ with the character he sustains, must sympathise
with the emotions he depicts. A peculiar dramatic sensitiveness and
susceptibility from the first characterised the sisters Terry; their
nervous organisation, their mental impressibility and vivaciousness, not
less than their personal charms and attractions, may be said to have
ordained and determined their success upon the stage."
Coming from this high source such trustworthy and carefully analysed
appreciation is invaluable; but the criticism that I love best to
preserve in connection with the early appearances of the little Terrys
at the Princess's Theatre is that of John William Cole, the biographer
of Charles Kean. Writing for a book (published in 1859), long before the
girls had established their names, he said:--
"Before quitting the subject of 'King John' (1852) at the Princess's
Theatre, it would be unjust not to name in a special sentence of
approval the impressive acting of Miss Kate Terry, then a child of ten
years of age, as Prince Arthur, and of Mr. Ryder as Hubert."
In the revival of "King John" in 1858, Ellen Terry was the Prince
Arthur, that sound actor, John Ryder (he had been one of the mainstays
of Macready), again playing Hubert.
Concerning the production of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" in 1856, Mr.
Cole says: "Another remarkable evidence of the excellent training of the
Princess's Theatre presented itself in the precocious talent of Miss
Ellen Terry, a child of eight years of age, who played the merry goblin
Puck, a part that requires an old head on young shoulders, with restless
elfish animation, and an evident enjoyment of her own mischievous
pranks."
It is because Mr. Cole wrote and published, as it were, "upon the spot,"
that I consider his criticism not only discerning, but beyond all price.
We all know how easy it is to prophesy after the event!
Ellen Terry's recollections of her appearance as the infant Mamillius in
"The Winter's Tale" are very vivid, as, indeed, they may be. In more
ways than one it was a notable first night for the little maid. Queen
Victoria, Prince Albert, and the Princess Royal were present, and the
next morning she woke to find herself with her foot on the first step
of the steep stairs that lead to fame. No less an authority than the
_Times_ declared that she had played her part with a vivacious precocity
that proved her a worthy relation of her sister. No doubt there were
that day rejoicings in the Terry family, and the sensitive child must
have been rewarded for her own passing tribulations. "My young heart
swelled with pride--I can recall the sensation now," she has declared,
"when I was told what I had to do,"--and then comes the sad confession
that she wept bitter and prolonged tears when the audience laughed when
she fell over the rather ridiculous toy-cart with which Mamillius was
ordered to "go play." She calls it her "first dramatic failure," and
felt at the moment that her "career as an actress was ruined for ever."
I wonder if that untoward episode of the toy-cart had anything to do
with the extreme nervousness that, according to her own confession, the
actress always suffers from on "first nights"? Probably not; for I
believe all true stage artists are continually nervous--nervous for
themselves, nervous for their audiences. She says to this day that she
is so "high strung" on a first night that if she realised that there was
an audience in front staring at her, she would fly away from the theatre
and be far off "in two-twos."
Yes, I fear that all of them, or, at all events, the best of them,
undergo the enduring agonies of nervousness. Once Sothern and Toole were
dining with me in Birmingham. In the evening the one had to play Lord
Dundreary at the Theatre Royal, and the other Caleb Plummer at the
Prince of Wales Theatre. They had acted these parts for many, many
hundreds of times, and I had imagined that their approaching work would
be mere pastime to them. But Sothern, speaking to his brother comedian,
said, "I don't know how you feel, John, but I'm as nervous to-night as I
was on my first appearance on the stage."
To my amazement, Toole, who always seemed so at home with his audiences
as to become one amongst them, confessed that he had the same feeling;
and they agreed in saying that when an aspiring young actor conceitedly
set forth as one of his qualifications for the profession the fact that
"he did not know what nervousness meant," he was certain to do no good.
"If you are not always anxious about your work," said Sothern, "always
painfully desirous to be doing your best, you will soon lose whatever
hold you may have on the public." And so said every one's friend--the
genial John Toole.
Surely this applies to other pursuits besides the art of acting?
Ellen Terry has happier recollections of Puck than of Mamillius, and no
wonder, for the part, although trying, is a delightful one. During the
two hundred and fifty nights of the performance of "A Midsummer Night's
Dream" at the Princess's (a marvellous run for those days) she
"revelled in the impish unreason of 'the sprite,'" and since then she
has ever felt the charm of parts "where imagination can have free play,
and there is no occasion to observe too closely the cold, hard rules of
conventionality, and the fetters of dry-as-dust realism."
Of her performances in the pantomimes, with which, at Christmas time,
Charles Kean found it necessary to supplement his elaborate productions,
we can only imagine (and that is easily done) that she was a very
fascinating little fairy; and it seems equally certain that when she was
called upon to appear in two lengthy entertainments on the same night,
she must often have been a very tired little fairy.
Concerning her representation of Prince Arthur in "King John," a
pathetic little story is extant. At the point where she left the stage
in the full and terrible knowledge that her eyes were to be burnt out,
she at first (presumably at rehearsal) made her exit with such composure
that she received a strong reprimand from Mrs. Kean, who told her that
she must give expression to the anguish of the situation. This little
scolding caused the easily affected child to shed such earnest tears
that her monitress cried out, "Oh, if you can only do that on the stage,
what a Prince Arthur you will be!" The hint was taken to heart and
adopted, and the success of the impersonation was assured.
The new Prince Arthur was honoured with a special call, and the critics
were loud and unanimous in their praises, freely acknowledging the
dramatic force of the performance, together with its delightful
simplicity, tenderness, and truth to nature.
No doubt her position in the theatre compelled Mrs. Kean to be from time
to time an apparently harsh task-mistress, but little Ellen learnt to
love her, and has always remembered with generously expressed gratitude
the benefit she derived from her suggestions and lessons. But in spite
of the hard work and childish troubles that she must have undergone, she
speaks brightly of every one she met in that very early engagement at
the Princess's. In his old age and infirmities she sympathetically
recalls Harley, the eminent comedian for whom Charles Dickens was
induced to write some of those ephemeral farces that in earlier days had
fitfully flourished at the St. James's Theatre; she remembers
affectionately her earnest but exacting dancing-master, Mr. Oscar Byrn,
and the tiring hours that she spent under his determined rule; she
conjures up with pride her first and only meeting with Macready, and
how, when she apologised for accidentally jostling him while running to
her dressing-room, he smiled, laughed, and then said, "Never mind, you
are a very polite little girl, and you act very earnestly and speak very
nicely;" and she is warm in the praises of Charles Kean, and lastingly
appreciative of the strong impression made upon her by his vivid
personality. But I fancy that the sunny nature of Ellen Terry has found
good in everything, and, throughout her stage career, has shed
brightness and warmth on the somewhat dingy world behind the scenes.
My friend, Geneviève Ward, who has taken part with her in several of her
memorable Lyceum triumphs, tells me that it is delightful to bear
witness to her sweet disposition--a cultivated charm that prompts her to
be generous, thoughtful, kind, and considerate to every one, and to make
her genuinely anxious that the humblest actresses in the company, as
well as the principals, should appear to the best advantage. Thus
lovingly thinking of others, Ellen Terry makes herself loved, and by her
radiant presence lightens many a weary heart.
In her own gossamer-like and gem-bespangled "Stray Memories," she has
written: "Why is it, I wonder, that pain is so deeply felt at the time,
and that its memory fades so quickly, while joy flits by almost
unperceived, and yet leaves such deep traces behind? At least, this is
my experience. It may not be so with most people. They may, perhaps,
suffer deeply and remember lightly; enjoy strongly and forget quickly.
If so, I pity them with all my heart. When I sit down to write it is not
the sad recollections that come crowding before me; it is the bright
joyous moments which shape themselves most distinctly in my mind. 'Oh,
what a light, frivolous nature you must have, then!' I hear some grave
and reverend signior remark, if any such person ever deigns to read
this flimsy chatter. Well, I am ready to plead guilty to the charge. I
was made like that, and so Nature is to blame, and not I."
Ours would be a gayer and happier world if Nature had cast more of us in
the same mould.
Another Princess's experience was her appearance as a diminutive "Tiger"
page-boy in a farce by Edmund Yates, entitled "If the Cap Fits," and she
confesses to the infinite pride she took in her pair of miniature and
rather tight-fitting top-boots. Here again, though in a different way to
her Shakespearean representations, genuine success was secured. In his
interesting volumes of "Reminiscences" Edmund Yates records the
production, saying, that "'If the Cap Fits' was admirably acted by,
amongst others, Mr. Frank Mathews, Mr. Walter Lacy, and Miss Ellen
Terry ... who played a juvenile groom, a 'tiger,' with great spirit and
vivacity." And, much later on, he says: "In the present days of genuine
heroine-worship, with recollections full upon us of Beatrice, Viola,
Olivia, and Camma, it seems odd to read, in connection with this slight
comedietta, that Miss Ellen Terry is worthy of praise for the spirit and
point with which she played the part of a youthful groom."
Evidently she believed in the same doctrine as, in his early days,
Colley Cibber did. Weary of being told that the parts he wanted to
attempt were "not in his way," he protested: "I think anything,
naturally written, ought to be in everybody's way that pretends to be
an actor."
Ellen Terry could not agree with those critics who declared that Charles
Kean went too far in the mounting of his plays. The theatre-goers of
those days had not been taught to expect beautiful and correct scenery,
and exact accuracy in costume; and some of them actually resented it,
leaning to the view held by Kean's contemporary and friend, Dr. Westland
Marston, who considered that in some of the spectacular revivals at the
Princess's, unnecessary pageantry was not only introduced but absolutely
obtruded. For example, he said that in the beautiful production of
Richard II. a display of too minute correctness in armorial bearings,
weapons and household vessels made the stage an auxiliary to the museum,
and forced it to combine lessons on archæology with the display of
character and passion.
Such were the thanks that Charles Kean received for his indefatigable
and scholarly research, and lavish expenditure! How he would have loved
to hear his little Mamillius and winsome Puck declare in the days of her
fame, and when hers had become a voice in the land greater than his own,
that with rare perception he had opened his eyes to the absurd
anachronisms in costume and accessories which prevailed at that period,
and that he established a system which has been perfected by Sir Henry
Irving and his contemporaries. To have been a pioneer in good work
eventually means fame, but pioneers are apt to be distrusted by those
who have not the courage to accompany them on their explorations.
She also draws an apt comparison between the remuneration and work of
the actors of the Charles Kean days and now.
"Very young actors," she says (I again venture to quote from her "Stray
Memories"), "sometimes complain of low salaries and long hours. I wish
they could see Mr. Kean's salary-list--they would soon cease to grumble.
Why, a young man to-day gets as much for carrying on a coal-box as an
experienced actor then received for playing an important part. Then, how
different the hours are! If a company now has to rehearse for four hours
in the day it is thought a great hardship. But when I was a child
rehearsals often used to last until four or five in the morning. What
weary work it was to be sure! My poor little legs used to ache, and
sometimes I could hardly keep my eyes open when I was on the stage.
Often I used to creep into the green-room, which every one acquainted
with the old Princess's will remember well; and there, curled up in the
deep recess of the window, forget myself, my troubles, and my art--if
you can talk of art in connection with a child of eight--in a delicious
sleep."
It is a pathetic little portrait, but the hard work, the early training
and the weary hours resulted in well won, nay almost unique success, and
an artistic career that has rejoiced the hearts of her fellow
creatures, and will for ever live in the history of the stage.
Charles Kean's memorable management of the Princess's Theatre came to an
end in 1859, and with it terminated the engagement of the Terry family.
In thinking of Charles Kean I always conjure up three pictures.
The first one represents the dingy lodging in the now demolished Cecil
Street, Strand, where his father, Edmund Kean, is staying with his
devoted wife and three-year-old boy. The struggling strolling player has
got his chance at last. He is to appear to-night as Shylock at Drury
Lane. It is the night of January 14, 1814, and in theatrical lore is for
ever memorable. "I must dine to-day," the nervous actor said--and for
the first time in many days he indulged in the luxury of meat. "My God!"
he exclaimed to his wife, "if I succeed I shall go mad!" As the church
clocks were striking six he sallied forth from his meagre apartment with
the parting words: "I wish I was going to be shot." In his hand he
carried a small bundle--containing shoes, stockings, wig, and other
trifles of costume, and so he trudged through the cold and foggy
streets, and the thick slush of thawing snow that penetrated his worn
boots and chilled him to the bone. And then the exultant return home
after the curtain had fallen upon the wild enthusiasm of an electrified
audience! Nearly mad with delight, and with half-frenzied incoherency
he poured forth the story of his triumph. "Mary!" he cried to his wife,
"you shall ride in your carriage yet! Charles," lifting the boy from his
bed, "shall go to Eton!"
Then followed his career of unexampled success and prosperity
continually marred and at last ruined by the dissipated habits to which
this giant among tragic actors allowed himself to become the unhappy
victim--habits that wrecked his home and well-nigh ruined his
reputation. Between 1814 and 1827 his earnings had amounted to £200,000,
and yet when he died in 1833 everything he left behind him, all his
presents and mementos, had to be sent to the hammer to pay his debts.
The 25th March 1833 (here is my second picture) saw the end of his stage
career. For the first and only time Edmund the father and Charles the
son (who had been sent to Eton, but who had taken to the stage as most
of the sons of true actors will) stood upon the London boards together,
the one playing Othello, the other Iago.
The event caused great excitement among playgoers, and the house was
crammed to suffocation. But Edmund Kean went through his part "dying as
he went," until he came to the "Farewell,"--and the strangely
appropriate words--"Othello's occupation's gone."
Then he gasped for breath, and, falling upon his son's shoulder, moaned,
"I am dying, speak to them for me." Within a few months the restless
spirit of Edmund Kean was at peace in the quiet churchyard at Richmond.
The third picture has been limned by Dr. Westland Marston, and shows a
sad little episode in the declining years of Charles Kean, a man who,
devoid of the genius of his erring father, had ever attempted to promote
the highest interests of his calling, and to do good in the world.
"In the autumn of 1866," says my vivid word painter, "I chanced to be at
Scarborough. The evening before leaving, when passing by one of the
hotels--I think the Prince of Wales's--there appeared, framed in one of
the windows, a worn, pallid face, with a look of deep melancholy
abstraction. 'Charles Kean!' I exclaimed to myself, and prepared to
retrace my way and call. But, having heard already that he had been
seriously unwell while playing a round of provincial engagements, I
thought it better not to disturb him or to bring home to him a grave
impression as to his health, even by a card of enquiry. In little more
than a year after this his death took place. It occurred in January
1868, when he had reached his fifty-seventh year.... His friends who are
still amongst us will cherish the recollection of a high-principled
gentleman, warm in his attachments, generous in extending to others the
appreciation he coveted for himself, and gifted with a charm of simple
candour that made even his weaknesses endearing."
[Illustration: TOWER COTTAGE, WINCHELSEA.
_Ellen Terry's country home._
[_To face page 48._
]
It is to be feared that in the theatrical career on which he started
with so much energy and confidence Charles Kean met with lack of
appreciation and much disappointment.
I wonder what would have been the effect if the consoling words of
George William Curtis (one of the most beautiful of American writers)
had been wafted to him across the Atlantic?
"Success," says Curtis, "is a delusion. It is an attainment--but who
attains? It is the horizon, always bounding our path and therefore never
gained. The Pope, triple-crowned, and borne with flabella through St.
Peter's, is not successful--for he might be canonised into a saint.
Pygmalion, before his perfect statue, is not successful,--for it might
live. Raphael, finishing the Sistine Madonna, is not successful,--for
her beauty has revealed to him a finer and an unattainable beauty."
To the true artist such truths as these strike home, and I fear they
often throw their cloud over the apparently ever sunny-minded Ellen
Terry. It is a fact that she often feels she has failed where
enthusiastic audiences, and even the most captious critics, testify to
the fact that she has triumphed. But she knows that any seeming victory
in human life is not final achievement, but a spur (often a cruel one)
to endless endeavour. The artistic temperament must be more or less
self-tormenting, and those who desire mere personal comfort should never
attempt to cultivate it. Devoid of it they can smugly criticise, and
with intense self-satisfaction condemn, the life work of those who well
nigh exhaust their energies in order to provide them with entertainment.
At the conclusion of the Princess's engagement Mr. Ben Terry seems to
have been inspired by a happy thought. Probably he knew that in 1859
there were thousands of goody-goody people who did not like to be seen
in a real theatre, but who would flock to see theatricals under the
guise of "A Drawing-Room Entertainment." Possibly he was aware that the
congregations of goody-goodies, who still had an idea that Mawworm was
right when he declared that the playhouse was the devil's hot-bed, took
an eager interest in reading anything that appeared concerning the
stage. The youthful fame of Kate and Ellen Terry was well established.
Their stars were in the ascendant, everybody (including the useful army
of goody-goodies) wanted to see them;--why not let them appear in a
"Drawing-Room Entertainment"?
Perhaps I am wrong in hinting at such things as these in connection with
the business arrangements of Mr. Ben Terry. Anyway, a "Drawing-Room
Entertainment" was devised for the attractive sisters, and it became
exceedingly popular.
It was first brought out at the Royal Colosseum, Regent's Park, in those
days a favourite place for amusements of this description. It proved so
attractive that it ran for thirty consecutive nights, during which more
than thirty thousand people paid for admission, and expressed their
delight in the entertainment. Thus encouraged, it was taken on tour to
the leading as well as the smaller provincial towns.
Those who, like myself, remember the Colosseum as it used to be, and
were in their juvenile days taken there as to one of the "Sights of
London," will remember the weird, imitation stalactite caverns. Ellen
Terry has confessed that it was amid the artificial gloom of these shams
that she first studied Juliet. At least they served one good purpose! By
the courtesy of Mr. Percy Fitzgerald I am able to give the following
copy of the Terry programme.
LECTURE HALL, CROYDON
For One Night Only
_Tuesday Evening, March 13th, 1860_
MISS KATE TERRY
AND
MISS ELLEN TERRY
The original representatives of Ariel, Cordelia, Arthur, Puck, etc.
(which characters were acted by them upwards of one hundred
consecutive nights, and also before Her Most Gracious Majesty the
Queen), at the Royal Princess's Theatre, when under the management
of Mr. Charles Kean, will present their new and successful
ILLUSTRATIVE AND MUSICAL
DRAWING-ROOM ENTERTAINMENT
In Two Parts, entitled
"DISTANT RELATIONS" AND "HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS"
In which they will sustain several
_CHARACTERS IN FULL COSTUME_
The second item on the modest little play-bill appears to have been the
strong attraction. In this Kate Terry played the part of a charming
young lady who is discovered eagerly expecting her younger brother's
arrival home for his first holidays. She pictures to herself the
innocent, tender-hearted, shy little fellow who only a few months ago
was sent away "unwillingly to school," and she longs to kiss him, and
once more pour out upon him her sweet sisterly sympathy. But to her
astonishment, when Harry--(impersonated by Ellen Terry)--appears, she
finds that in a very short period he has degenerated, and acquired the
habits of a precocious, over-dressed, cigar-smoking, horsey little cad.
After some amusing scenes, in which the shocked sister endeavours to
appeal to the better senses of the irrepressible little monkey, she goes
out, and returning disguised as a determined old gentlewoman, endeavours
to replace gentle persuasion by superior force. In a way she succeeds,
and then a cleverly brought about little episode shows her that beneath
the shoddy veneer of her brother's silly would-be-manly habits his true
heart beats and yearns towards her; and so they kiss and are friends
again, and at curtain-fall the audience know that both for sister and
brother the holidays will be happy ones.
Kate Terry was admirable both as the dismayed girl and the elderly lady,
and Ellen Terry caused abundant amusement as the impish schoolboy.
"Distant Relations" was also a clever little sketch, and the
entertainment was at once merry and interesting.
Ellen Terry speaks with fond recollection of that little touring party
of five, the odd number being made up by Mr. Sydney Naylor, who, in the
capacity of pianist (he subsequently made for himself a well-known
name), accompanied the father and mother and their two young daughters.
For more than two years they gaily travelled from town to town,
supremely happy in each other's society, always drawing large and
appreciative audiences, and having every reason to be satisfied with the
financial results of their experiment. No doubt it was a "good time,"
and probably all concerned in it were sorry when it came to an end; but
even two years make a great difference in young ladies of tender
age--all entertainments run their course--and more serious work had to
be approached.
London was naturally their goal, and Ellen Terry soon found an
engagement at the Royalty Theatre. The little Soho playhouse--the scene
of varying fortunes and many strange theatrical experiments--had just
passed into the hands of a Madame Albina de Rhona, an attractive
Parisian actress and _danseuse_. Having made her name in Paris and St.
Petersburg, this ambitious lady had resolved to captivate London, and,
as her appearances at the St. James's and Drury Lane Theatres had met
with encouragement, she boldly resolved to try her luck as an English
manageress. One of her first attractions at the Royalty (by the way, it
was originally called the Royal Soho Theatre, and Madame de Rhona is
credited with having given it its new and brighter name) was an
adaptation of Eugene Sue's romance, "Atar-Gull."
On the stage it was the grimmest and wildest of productions, and of all
the strange pranks played on the boards of the Royalty, this must surely
have been the strangest. It set forth a ghastly story of a negro who
(the scene was laid in Jamaica), in order to avenge the death of his
father, made it his life's business to murder every member of his
master's family. The piece was replete with horrors and wholly unsuited
to the little bandbox of a house, which, in later years, when the
Broughs, Burnand, and other humorous writers were at their brightest,
and when burlesque was true burlesque--witty, coherent, and cohesive, we
associated with all that is exhilarating and mirth-provoking. Those who,
with me, can conjure up the days of the "Patty" Oliver _régime_ will
know what I mean.
But all I have to do with the gruesome "Atar-Gull" is to make brief note
of the part in it that Ellen Terry was called upon to play. It was that
of a fair young girl named Clementine who (not unnaturally) has an
aversion to the snakes that infest her environment. In order to cure her
of this reprehensible prejudice, it occurs to some idiot (possibly an
interfering aunt) to order a dead snake to be put in her room. This is
an opportunity for the revengeful negro, and he contrives to give her a
live and deadly reptile for her companion. With the living venomous
creature coiled about her neck and body, and ever tightening its scaly,
slimy hug, the terrified girl appears screaming on the stage. Into this
horrible situation, and the opportunity it afforded her, the still
childish Ellen Terry put her whole heart, and outscreamed all actresses,
whether young or old. It was not one prolonged scream and then collapse.
As her terror and agony seemed to increase, shriek succeeded shriek--a
shriek for deliverance--a shriek of bodily anguish--and a shriek of
hopeless despair. No doubt the effect was startling, and unquestionably
it thrilled her audiences. It was all wonderfully done, and the fear of
the wretched girl was depicted with almost painful fidelity. But the
ridiculous, misplaced, and sensational play made the situation an absurd
one.
If it were repeated to-day we should think of the nonsense rhyme--
"There was a young lady of Russia,
Who screamed so, that no one could hush her."
As it was, it made many people laugh; but on the critics, who could
"read between the lines," it left its impression, and gave hope of
wondrous things to come. Happily, most of them lived to see them come.
It was all a question of training. According to Ellen Terry's own
account, Madame Albina de Rhona must have been a very difficult lady to
work under, and yet her warm heart prompts her to speak to-day in
affectionate terms of her second manageress. In the case of this gifted
child the quality of mercy was never strained. Her tasks had to be
endured, but she schooled herself to enjoy them, and she tried to love
those with whom she worked.