SOME SPLENDID STROLLING
In the early autumn of 1878, before entering upon her all-important
Lyceum engagement, Ellen Terry, accompanied by her husband, appeared in
some of our leading provincial cities. Everywhere they were most warmly
welcomed, and the experiment proved so successful that, even after her
Lyceum duties seemed sufficient to engross all her time and attention,
it was, during a period extending over two years, repeated.
That was a splendid time for the so-called "country" playgoer. I well
recall how within one week at the Theatre Royal, Birmingham (this was in
1879), I saw Ellen Terry in her matchless rendering of Portia in "The
Merchant of Venice," as Ophelia in "Hamlet," as Lady Teazle in the
"School for Scandal," and as Lilian in "New Men and Old Acres." I would
gladly live that week over again. In Shakespearean characters Charles
Kelly was not, I think, seen at his best, but in his comedy parts he was
admirable, and there is always an interest in seeing husband and wife
act together. Actors and actresses love playing to ardent and
sympathetic provincial audiences. Their absolutely unrestrained
appreciation and applause delight them. The intent faces and eager ears,
bent on losing neither a movement of the expression nor an inflection of
the voice, act as a tonic to them; there is magnetism between the stage
and the house, and under such conditions acting is sure to be at its
best. There is nothing _blasé_ about the provincial playgoer. He pays
for a play that he wants to see, and if he is pleased he expresses his
gratitude in no uncertain terms. If he is disappointed he goes sadly and
quietly away, but he is never rude to those who have done their best to
entertain him. "Boos" and author-baiting are happily unknown in the
provinces, and no doubt this is why actors of eminence are fond of
exploiting new plays in the country before exposing them to the
exasperating risks of a London first night. It seems astounding that
people should exist who can wantonly deride the failure of anxious
authors and actors, who, having honestly sought to conquer, are
miserably conscious of their own defeat. No play can be depended upon
until it has gone through the ordeal of a public performance. If the
piece that has read well and rehearsed well fails to grip the public,
the sensitive actors and author are the first to feel it, and surely in
their keen disappointment they should be spared the humiliation of
rowdyism.
Not long ago there was a discussion as to the "rights" of first-night
audiences to "boo" a new play and the performers in it. The views of
leading actors and dramatists were sought, and Ellen Terry replied as
follows:--
"I so entirely believe in the verdict of the great public that I
long to have the first night of a new play over and done with, for
it is, to my mind, the second night which tells me of the future
good or bad fortune of the play and of our efforts. On the first
night there are one's friends, so many so prejudiced; and one's
enemies--not so many, but equally prejudiced, and so it seems to me
that the first night scarcely counts. Then comes the second night,
and all the nights. I can't tell how much it affects me--moves
me--the enthusiasm, the attention, the encouragement. I just adore
the public, and the public loves me back again. I know it, feel it,
and am grateful for it. It refreshes my heart."
"ELLEN TERRY."
This is very prettily put, and it is all very true, but such a universal
favourite is hardly a judge with regard to the feelings of her less
loved sisters who are subject to the baseness and vulgarity of a
detestable faction of first-nighters.
I may be told that provincial audiences can be very noisy, and even
unruly, and it must be admitted that the gallery "gods," when packed
together like dried figs in a wooden drum, are apt to be unpleasantly
emphatic concerning their discomfort; but their objections are raised
against each other, and rarely refer to the stage. Moreover, when
anything really good or impressive is offered to them they will at once
forget their grievances and become as quiet as mice.
As an instance of this, I recall an evening at the Prince of Wales'
Theatre, Birmingham, when Henry Irving was announced to appear as
Shylock. It had been raining hard all day, and the streets were filthy
with hopeless slush. As the evening drew in the torrents descended
pitilessly, but in spite of them great crowds of the faithful had
assembled before the doors of the pit and gallery hours earlier than
they would be opened to them. Long before curtain-rise the house was
uncomfortably crowded. Outside it was wet and muggy. Inside it was
oppressively close, and the hot atmosphere was redolent with the odour
of saturated clothing and sodden shoe leather. Ill-temper was in the
air, and at the commencement of the play the actors were greatly
troubled by the noisy quarrels that arose among playgoers ill bestowed.
Then Henry Irving made his striking entrance, and, instantaneously, all
was silent. As if by magic, he, aided by Ellen Terry as Portia, held his
audience as in a vice, and continued to do so until the end of the
performance. The only sounds heard in the theatre were those of
boisterous applause and ejaculations of half suppressed gratification
and emotion. It was a great tribute to the power exercised by the
true acting of a masterpiece.
[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY AS LORD TENNYSON'S "DORA."
_Played in the Provinces in 1879. In London the part was created by Kate
Terry._
[_To face page 174._
]
Ellen Terry must ever bear in fond memory those splendid strolling days
when the hearts of her sturdy audiences went out to her, and she,
bewitchingly, responded to them. On the 1878 tour she relied chiefly on
her former success as Lilian in "New Men and Old Acres," and her
appearance in her sister Kate's original character of Dora, in the
Tennyson-Reade play of that name. This not only conjured up happy
reminiscences, but was in itself a sweetly tender and sympathetic
impersonation. Charles Kelly, too, was very well placed in Henry
Neville's old part of Farmer Allan, and in his make-up looked a perfect
picture.
I often maintain that, if they only knew it, provincial theatre lovers
have certain advantages over Londoners. Here is a case in point. They
saw Ellen Terry as Dora.
In 1878 they also had the opportunity of seeing her as Iris, in an
adaptation by Alfred Thompson of "La Revanche d'Iris," called "All is
Vanity." In it were the elements of popularity, but it was short-lived.
She and her husband subsequently appeared in it at a benefit performance
given at the Lyceum on behalf of that sound actor of the old school,
Henry Marston, and then it was forgotten.
In 1879 the Terry-Kelly programme was augmented by the production of an
ephemeral version by Mrs. Comyns Carr of the everlasting "Frou Frou,"
entitled "Butterfly." Guided as it has been, and happily still is, by
that great authority on dramatic art, Sir Edward Russell, the _Liverpool
Daily Post_ has always been famous for its theatrical criticisms, and in
dealing with these days it is interesting to cull the following lines
from its columns:--
"We cannot find words to express the charm with which Miss Terry, than
whom there is no more tender and graceful actress on the British stage,
invests the character of Butterfly, but those who can appreciate
versatility of acting should see her play the part, and then ask
themselves the question--'Could any one do it better?' She was most ably
supported by Mr. Charles Kelly and Miss Fanny Pitt, whose acting greatly
contributed to the success of the piece."
Of "New Men and Old Acres" the same authority rightly said:--
"It is seldom that such a piece is rendered with such perfection as that
which the leading members of the cast succeeded in achieving. There is
only one word which can adequately describe Miss Terry's personation of
Lilian Vavasour, and that word is perfection. Natural and graceful in
expression, with an inexhaustible vivacity, she maintains an unbroken
spell, which is only deepened by each fresh stroke of humour and girlish
outburst of sentiment, accompanied by a bewitching artillery of attitude
and expression. The acting of Mr. Charles Kelly as Mr. Brown, the
quiet, self-possessed man of business, was excellent in the extreme."
Of her reading of Lady Teazle in the screen scene of "The School for
Scandal," it was recorded that her tenderly, tremulous, and broken
accents touchingly conveyed the womanly contrition which so pathetically
points the moral of a dramatic incident in which human infirmity,
passion, perfidy, generosity of sentiment, and youthful gaiety and
frivolity are so wonderfully and skilfully blended. And of her Dora, it
was "something more than a mere stage-picture--a living, breathing
reality, a perfect embodiment of Tennyson's conception."
In the September of 1880 a very interesting event took place, and as it
foreshadowed one of my heroine's greatest subsequent triumphs I shall
speak of it at length--or rather, I shall take the liberty of letting
that eminent critic, Mr. Davenport Adams, speak for me.
"On Friday, September 3rd, Miss Ellen Terry will play Beatrice _for the
first time on any stage_ at the Grand Theatre, Leeds."
That was his text for an article from his pen that appeared in that
unhappily defunct periodical, _The Theatre_ magazine.
"I forget," he continues, "when and where I first cast eyes on this
delectable announcement. It may have been here, it may have been there.
I only know that when I saw it I came to an immediate and irrevocable
resolution. Miss Terry as Beatrice! Why, it was one of the dreams of my
existence! I say 'one of the dreams,' because I had hoped, and still
hope, to see Miss Terry not only as Beatrice, but as Viola, and Imogen,
and Rosalind, and perchance as Juliet, if the gods but prove propitious.
But Miss Terry as Beatrice! To me it was an 'opening paradise.' My
dreams were coming true. Here was the first instalment, and who should
say when the remainder might not be realised? Assuredly there might be
some who would resist such an attraction as the above; but I was not
among them. Friday, September 3rd, saw me duly speeding northwards as
fast as the Midland Railway Company could be induced to carry me. I had
never been in Leeds before, and I do not hesitate to say that, save
under similar provocation, I have no anxiety to go there again. Yet what
cannot the imagination do for one? For me, on this occasion, Leeds was
'apparelled in celestial light.' Boar Lane and Briggate became for the
nonce the primrose path which led me to the halcyon doors of the Grand
Theatre. And fine doors they are! Everything is a little new, perhaps;
there is nothing of the venerable temple of the drama about this
brand-new building, with its imposing frontage and evident
commodiousness. Clearly, you say to yourself, this is a specimen of
recent handiwork, and requires time in which to mellow; but once get
through the delightfully cool passages, which lead from the vestibule to
the stalls--once put your foot within the auditorium--and you are
charmed with everything you see. It may be all very fresh, but it is all
very magnificent and impressive. _O si sic omnes!_ If every theatre roof
were but so high--if every pit were but so spacious and well-lighted--if
every circle, upper circle, and gallery were but so gracefully
superimposed one above the other--and, especially, if everywhere there
were such a rich profusion of decoration as one sees around one!
Evidently there could be no more gorgeous frame for the picture which
Miss Terry was about to paint for us.
"It was Miss Terry's benefit night, and every stall was taken. This
seemed to be the case, too, with the circle, and may have been so with
other portions of the house. It seemed as if the pit were crammed, and
in the stalls standing room was diligently sought for. It was obvious
that Leeds playgoers had understood the nature of the treat that was
before them. Whether it was that Miss Terry was personally the
attraction of the evening, or whether Miss Terry as Beatrice had drawn
the crowd, I cannot say. Suffice it that the crowd was, and that the
crowd soon showed itself to be delighted."
I cannot refrain from quoting this at length, because it supports my
contention as to the privileges and appreciation of provincial
audiences.
"In the meantime," my authority goes on to say, "one did not occupy much
time in looking round. It was not a London _première_, and certainly I
did not hope to see a single face I knew. Yet, what was this? I could
not be mistaken. There at any rate were two faces which I could not fail
to recognise. At least, if that winsome countenance were not that of
Miss Marion Terry, and if that not less winsome countenance beyond were
not that of Miss Florence Terry--twin roses on one stalk--then did mine
eyes deceive me. For myself, I opine that I was not deceived, and that
Miss Terry's first appearance as Beatrice was witnessed not only by the
art-lovers of the wood and iron metropolis, but by two of her sisters,
both in art and by blood.
"It was not long before the curtain rose, and disclosed to us the
entrance of 'Leonato, Hero, Beatrice, and others.' The Beatrice was
immediately singled out, and loud and long was the applause with which
she was received--applause which she insisted, first, upon sharing with
the Hero (not the heroine) of the evening (Miss Ruth Francis),[2] but
which she was compelled afterwards to acknowledge for herself. The
opening scene, as everybody knows, plunges us at once _in medias res_.
Beatrice shows by her first utterance what way her thoughts are
tending, and this strikes the key-note of the comedy. Her first
expression is a gibe at Benedick, and when, shortly afterwards, the
'Signior Montano' himself appears upon the scene, the war of wits
immediately begins. Let it be said _in limine_ that Miss Terry at once
asserted herself as the very Beatrice that Shakespeare drew. That she
would do so as far as personal presence was concerned was to be
expected. Never was any one so well fitted to represent the 'pleasant
spirited' lady, whose charms of face and figure are as irresistible as
her verbal daggers. Somehow or other Miss Terry always is a perfect
vision of the picturesque. Others may surpass her in special and
particular marks of beauty or of manner, but no lady on the modern stage
is so much of a picture in herself, or falls so readily into the
composition of the larger picture formed by the combinations of a drama.
"In this case Beatrice seemed to be bodily before us. Ere she had opened
her mouth she had already begun to fill the imagination. We do not have
many opportunities nowadays of seeing the heroine of 'Much Ado,' but
here was the only Beatrice who had hitherto completely fulfilled the
requirements of the part, so far as the outward and visible person is
concerned. I cannot describe the vision. I admit my incompetency so to
do without a blush. A pen is useless. It is the brush of a Millais that
is wanted. The picture is in my mind, but not even a Ruskin could put
it on paper. For, to the mere details of face and figure and attire,
have to be added all the indescribable charm of facial expression and of
bodily movement--of tone, of laugh, of gesture, and of bearing--which
neither the penman nor the painter can successfully reproduce.
"For such a character as that of Beatrice Miss Terry is, in fact, by
nature indicated. Characteristics, which elsewhere might be out of
place, are here in keeping. Miss Terry is tall, and Beatrice should be
tall; a little woman could hardly have said and done such things as she
says and does. Miss Terry has high spirits, and so has Beatrice; they
are of the essence of her character, and without them she cannot be
reproduced. Miss Terry has charm of manner as well as incisiveness of
speech, and so has Beatrice, with whom the 'poniards' of her tongue are
half blunted by the fascination of her smile. You would think that her
eyes pierced as keenly as her words, but it is not so; the words may
wound, but the eyes mitigate or charm away pain. So with Miss Terry.
Speeches which in any other mouth would grate upon us are in hers but so
many incitements to admiration and regard.
"And if Miss Terry is thus personally fitted for the character, it need
hardly be said that it is quite within the range of her artistic
capability. Indeed, it is well within the range of many less admirable
artists. It is a straightforward character. There is no mystery about
it. Two different notions of Beatrice are, I should say, scarcely
possible--her nature is so entirely on the surface. She tells us herself
that she was 'born to speak all mirth and no matter.' 'She was born,'
says Don Pedro, 'in a merry hour.' Benedick calls her 'My Lady Disdain'
and 'Lady Tongue.' 'Shrewd of tongue,' according to her uncle, she also
'apprehends passing shrewdly.' In a word, she is clever, she is
high-spirited, she is witty; but she is more. She can feel keen
indignation, and for all her 'mocking at her suitors,' she can look
tenderly upon one at least. For obviously she loves Benedick, more or
less, from the beginning. Her first inquiry is for him, and she thinks
him worthy of her most unsparing raillery. She sneers at him so
pointedly that all the world marks the fact and smiles at it. Nothing
seems more natural to the bystanders than that they should make a match.
"And so, it seems to me, Miss Terry sees the character. In the very
first scene she pursues Benedick with her flouts and quips, and
evidently takes pleasure in the encounter. Though she hits so hard there
is evidently an _arrière pensée_ of respect for the gallant cavalier
whose 'approved valour' cannot but impress her, whilst his 'quick wit'
not unmingled with self-satisfaction spurs her on to action. One can see
that when she scoffs at marriage it is with no more real sincerity than
Benedick displays on the same subject. Her wit must have its way;
conscious of possessing it, she is fain to exercise it. She revels in
the contempt she pours upon the 'sons of Adam.' And so in the scene in
which she taunts the masked Benedick to desperation. It is all done in
pure _diablerie_. It is simple mischief, inspired by keen delight at
finding her butt so agreeably vulnerable. That she is no mere
shrill-tongued termagant is shown in the passage where she so gracefully
turns off the Don's gallant offer of his heart and hand. And as for her
deeper nature--the real Beatrice, hidden underneath the everyday veneer
of wit and raillery--what could be more truly descriptive of it than the
scene in which, led into the belief that Benedick is really fond of her,
she says farewell to maiden pride and to contempt, and prepares to
'tame' her 'wild heart' to his 'loving hand'? The accusation brought
against her cousin is not less effective in arousing the latent forces
of her character; and the church scene, in its combination of passionate
anger against Hero's slanderers, and charming half-confession of
affection felt, is conclusive in its testimony to the open naturalness
of the character which Miss Terry has so aptly and admirably conceived.
As for the _technique_ of the performance, it must be remembered that it
was a first assumption. Miss Terry _may_ have played the part somewhere
before September 3rd, but the fact is not recorded, and there is no
reason to believe that the announcement of 'first time' was anything but
literally true. And that being the case, it would be unfair to expect
the impersonation to be _totus teres atque rotundus_. Miss Terry has all
the ultra-sensitiveness of the true artist, and it is not improper to
suggest that, on the occasion in question, she was not entirely mistress
of her powerful resources. The most experienced players are the most
nervous on first nights. And assuredly there are points in which Miss
Terry will improve upon her first assumption of this latest part of
hers. Some artists grow into their _rôles_, and Miss Terry is one of
them. Her Portia nowadays is very much superior to what it was when
played originally at the Prince of Wales'. And no doubt Miss Terry, who
has since played Beatrice at Manchester and elsewhere, during her
provincial tour, has already added the touches necessary to make the
representation as near perfection as art and aptitude can make it. No
doubt every word, every phrase, every sentence now has its due weight
and effect communicated to it; no doubt details of 'business' have been
arranged until there is now no room for further elaboration; no doubt
the character, thoroughly grasped in the study, has by this time been
thoroughly grasped upon the stage. On the first night it was hardly
possible not to notice the nervousness indicated in the opening scene,
and throughout there were slight slips in the words, and occasional
misplacements of due emphasis, together with a lack of perfect
roundness in the general form of the assumption. The artist was
obviously to a great extent feeling her way.
"And yet how enjoyable and admirable was the assumption! In spite of
these minor blemishes of execution, it was yet Shakespeare's Beatrice, I
repeat, who stood and moved and spoke before us. The impression made at
the beginning was continued to the close, gathering in force and
effectiveness as it went. The raillery against marriage, and the wit
combats with Benedick, were carried off with exhilarating vivacity, so
that applause and laughter followed inevitably upon both. The former was
accompanied by a running fire of cachinnation from the delighted
audience. The next point was made when Benedick was charmingly chaffed
as the 'Prince's jester,' and the short but exquisite _rencontre_ with
Don Pedro was evidently very much relished. The first 'call' was made
when Beatrice came to summon her knight to dinner. The curtain fell on
this, and Miss Terry and Mr. Kelly had both to bow their
acknowledgments. Then came the scene in which Beatrice listens in the
arbour to the delusive tale of Ursula and Hero. The short speech which
follows was very agreeably declaimed; and when, declaring her belief in
Benedick's deserts, Beatrice sank upon the seat in one of those
attitudes possible only to Miss Terry, the impression made was
naturally very great indeed. The chief scene for Beatrice is, however,
in the church after the bridal party has dispersed, all save herself and
Benedick. Up to that point she has little to do but contribute her share
of byplay to the situation (always appropriately done by Miss Terry), to
comfort her cousin with all sorts of feminine attention, and
incidentally to make that vehement declaration--
'Oh, on my soul, my cousin is belied!'
which gives the earliest indication of the characteristic outburst that
is to follow. In that outburst itself, Miss Terry was hardly
sufficiently varied in her representation of the feeling which is
supposed to consume her. It was very impressive, especially in the
sudden violence of her 'Kill Claudio!' but it wanted that absolute
adaptability of means to end which has no doubt been communicated to it
since. Best of all, perhaps, was the brief exchange of love vows with
Benedick; a very brief but charming and beautifully-indicated episode in
a scene which, as a whole, pleased the audience mightily, and secured
for both the artists a persistent 'call.' After this, as we all know,
Beatrice has but two short appearances on the stage, which serve chiefly
to complete the picture, but, on this occasion, served further to
consummate the triumph which, anything or everything notwithstanding,
was unquestionably and deservedly accorded to Miss Terry. The curtain
fell, in fact, upon an unmistakable popular success which it wanted only
practice and experience to convert into a permanent artistic victory.
"It should be recorded that Miss Terry was effectively seconded
throughout by Mr. Kelly. That able and accomplished actor was the
Benedick of the occasion, and a very acceptable performance did he give.
I confess I was not altogether prepared for the excellence of the effect
created by Mr. Kelly in this _rôle_. His very make-up was a surprise.
Could this gallant cavalier--bearded, whiskered, and moustached, with
the bronze of battle on his cheeks, and just the faintest _soupçon_ of
the dandy and the lady-killer in his manner--be the quiet,
serious-minded Brown of 'New Men and Old Acres' in another guise? It was
a revelation. And if the appearance of Mr. Kelly was a revelation, so,
to some extent, was his enjoyable and largely satisfying rendering of
the _rôle_ itself. Mr. Kelly's conception of Benedick is that of a man
who has passed the first flush of youth, has seen many men and cities,
has had his experience of 'the fair,' and is inclined to think somewhat
lightly of them, save, indeed, of this 'Lady Disdain,' who so stabs him
with her words. It is easy to see that he is not indifferent to her
charms, else why is he so affected by her quips and cranks? else why is
he so readily converted from his vaunted woman-hatred? It is easy, too,
to see that this stalwart knight, of 'noble strain' and of 'quick wit,'
is the very man on whom such a woman as Beatrice would naturally bestow
her thoughts. He, too, has his deeper nature as well as she. And Mr.
Kelly brought out the various differentia of the character very
artistically. The woman-hatred was soon seen to be skin deep. The
irritation at the 'chaff' of Beatrice was skilfully indicated without
being over-done. The soliloquy in reference to his 'not impossible she'
was spoken with excellent abandon, whilst the speech after his supposed
discovery of Beatrice's love for him was admirable in its delineation of
delighted surprise. Equally successful was Mr. Kelly in the scene where
Benedick is badgered by Claudio and Don Pedro, and that other passage in
which he conveys his challenge to the former. The unconscious comedy of
the one was as well considered as the serious dignity of the other....
For the rest, I have but one regret in reference to this performance,
and that is, that the exigencies of the play do not permit Beatrice to
be upon the stage throughout the whole of the comedy. Dogberry and
Verges are inimitable, and Benedick is everywhere acceptable; but still
if Shakespeare had only given us a little more of this not least
charming of his charming heroines! Could he have foreseen the Beatrice
of Miss Ellen Terry, he would, perhaps, have done so. And yet, I do not
know. Too much exhilaration is not good for us, and it is perhaps the
truest mercy that Beatrice should not be for ever scattering about her
verbal diamonds, and that Miss Ellen Terry should not for ever make the
stage brilliant and enchanting by her delightful presence."
The cast of this memorable Leeds production was in many ways an
interesting one. Mr. Philip Beck was Don Pedro; Mr. C. Brookfield, Don
John; Mr. Norman Forbes, Claudio; Mr. Arthur Mood, Dogberry; Mr. Lin
Rayne, Verges; and Miss Elinor Aickin, Ursula.
How, in accordance with Davenport Adams' prediction, Ellen Terry's
Beatrice developed into a "permanent artistic victory" we all know
to-day. Undoubtedly, and as we shall presently see, it was one of the
finest, and in some respects (for her comedy is so winsome) one of the
most attractive of her long series of Shakespearean triumphs at the
Lyceum.
What a series it has been! It is not surprising that she should say--"I
seem to have made the acquaintance and to _know_ quite intimately some
noble people--Hamlet and Ophelia, Portia, Benedick, and Beatrice, Romeo
and Juliet, Viola, the Macbeths. All this makes me rejoice and wonder
how it is that I'm not a superior person! I have dwelt with such very
good company. It has been all sunshine, with a wee cloud here and there
to give zest to life; and my lines have been laid in pleasant places.
How terrible it must be to have to do the work one abhors!"
It is because she has done the work that she loves, and has made the
sweet tenderness of her love for it so manifest, that she has
continually stirred the imagination, and lastingly won the hearts of her
audiences.