THE START
“We ... never stopped in the old days to turn things over in our
minds, and grow grey over counting the chances of what would or what
wouldn’t happen. We went slap for everything like the healthy young
devils we were.”
—_When We Were Twenty-One._
And so at Christmas I began to play “The Spirit of Home” in _The Cricket
on the Hearth_ at Toole’s Theatre, which was a small place, mostly
underground, beside the Charing Cross Hospital. I was very happy; it was
all new and exciting, and everyone was very kind to me. Kate Phillips,
who played “Dot”, had been ill, and her dressing-room—the dressing-room
provided for the leading lady—was underground; she couldn’t stand it,
and, as mine was on the roof—or as nearly on the roof as possible—she
came up to dress with me. It was in Kate Phillips’s (and my)
dressing-room that I first saw Winifred Emery, who came on to Toole’s
for tea from the Vaudeville. She was perfectly beautiful, with most
lovely hands, and oh, so attractive!
In those days, after a matinée, there were only two things to do—either
stay in the theatre or go out and walk about in the streets. Your rooms
were generally a long way from the theatre, which meant ’bus riding (and
every penny had to be considered), and there were no girls’ clubs then.
No Three Arts Club, Theatrical Girls’ Club, no A.B.C.’s, no Lyons,
nothing of that kind, so you stayed in the theatre.
Another person who was in the cast was George Shelton, the same George
Shelton who was in _Peter Pan_ this year—1922—when Jill made her first
appearance. I can see no difference in him; after all these years he
looks, and is, just the same. The children who went to see _Peter
Pan_—so Mr. Lyn Harding assured us—“found Smee lovable”, as I found him
so many years ago. Only then he wasn’t playing Smee!
The run ended, and I was engaged to play in a first piece by Justin
Huntly Macarthy, called _The Red Rag_. I have no very clear recollection
of the part, except that I played the girl who made love to a man “over
the garden wall,” standing on a flowerpot. It was in this play, _The Red
Rag_, that Decima asked, after noting that only the “top half” of the
gentleman appeared over the wall, “As his legs don’t show, does he have
to wear trousers? Because, if he doesn’t, it must be such a very cheap
costume.” I had a new dress for the part, which is not really so
impressive as it sounds, for in those days “Nun’s veiling” (thanks be to
Heaven!) was 6½d. a yard, and, as in _The Cricket on the Hearth_ I had
been clad in white Nun’s veiling, so now for _The Red Rag_ I wore a blue
dress of the same useful material. Of course, I made both of them
myself.
However, this play marked a “point in my career”—I began to have
“notices” in the Press. The _Punch_ critic of that date said: “If names
signify anything, there is a young lady who is likely to remain on the
stage a very long time—‘Quoth the Raven, _Eva Moore_’.” She has, too—a
very long time. _The People_ said he should keep his “critical eye on
me, in fact _both_ his critical eyes.”
At the end of the spring season, Mr. Toole asked me to go on tour for
the summer and autumn, to play “leading lady”—this was a real leap up
the ladder—appearing in fifteen plays. I was to receive £3 a week. I
accepted (of course I accepted!), and took with me twenty-three dresses.
I remember the number, because in order to buy the necessary materials I
had to borrow £10 from my brother.
By this time the attitude of my father had changed; he no longer
regarded me as “lost”, and no longer looked upon the Stage as the last
step in an immoral life; he was, I think, rather proud of what I had
done. So far had he relented that, when my sister Jessie decided that
she too would go on the Stage, there was no opposition. She left home
without any dramatic scenes, and went into the chorus of _Dorothy_,
where she understudied Marie Tempest and Ben Davis’s sister-in-law,
Florence Terry, afterwards playing the latter’s part.
I was staying then off the Strand, near the Old Globe Theatre, sharing
rooms with the sister of a man—his name does not matter, he has since
left the Stage for the Church—to whom I later was engaged. When Jessie
came to London we arranged to have rooms together. One day we mounted a
’bus at Piccadilly, and found we could go all the way to Hammersmith for
a penny. We were so struck by the cheapness of the journey that we rode
the whole length of the pennyworth.
Eventually we found rooms in Abingdon Villas, two furnished rooms for
18s. a week; we took them and “moved in”.
I must go back here to record what might really have been a very tragic
business for me. After I had been playing in _The Red Rag_ for about
five weeks, Mr. Toole was taken ill, and the theatre was closed for over
a month—“no play, no pay”. Providence had ordained that I should have
been given the money for a new winter coat; I had the money, and was
waiting to buy the garment. The coat had to wait; I had to keep a roof
over my head. I paid it over—in a lump—to the landlady, and knew I was
safe to have at least a bed in which to sleep until the theatre
re-opened.
The tour began; we went to Plymouth, Bath, Scarborough, Dublin,
Edinburgh (where, for the first time, I slept in a “concealed bed”), and
many other places I have forgotten; but, wherever we went, the audience
was the same: Toole had only to walk on the stage and they howled with
laughter. I very seldom spoke to him; in those days I was far too
frightened to address the “Olympians”; I could only congratulate myself
on being in the company at all.
Funnily enough, the position I held was originally offered by Toole to
Violet Vanbrugh; I fancy—in fact, I am pretty sure—that I eventually was
given it because she wanted “too much money”. She probably asked for £5,
or even perhaps rose to the dizzy height of demanding £8, while I “went
for £3” (it sounds like little David Copperfield selling his
waistcoat!).
I think I enjoyed the tour; it was all new and strange to me. The sea
journey to Ireland was distinctly an experience. I remember that a
critic in Cork, a true son of Ireland, said of me in his paper, “Critics
have been known to become dizzy before such beauty.” How I laughed at
and enjoyed that notice! It was at Cork that poor dear Florrie Toole was
taken ill. She had joined us some weeks before, to my great delight, for
she had always been so very kind to me. It was from Florrie that I
received a velvet dress, which was one of the most useful articles in my
wardrobe; it was altered and re-altered, and finally retired from active
service after having been my “stand-by” in many parts.
During the week we were at Cork, Florrie was ill—not very ill, or so it
seemed; at any rate, she was able to travel with us to Edinburgh on the
Sunday. There she became rapidly worse, and it was found that she had
typhoid fever. We left her in Edinburgh, and heard the following week
that she was dead. Such a beautiful life cut short! She was so
brilliant, and so very, very lovable.
[Illustration:
_Photograph by C. Hawkins, Brighton._ To face p. 21
DORA
“The Don”
]
I shared rooms with Eliza Johnson, a capable but somewhat unrelenting
elderly lady. She “dragooned” me effectively; young men who showed any
tendency to gather round stage doors, or gaze at one in the street, were
sternly discouraged. At Cambridge, I remember, I had a passionate love
letter from some “undergrad.”, who said he refrained from signing his
name, as his “trust had been broken before”, but, if I returned his
affection, would I reply in the “agony” column of the _Times_ to “Fido”!
I did nothing of the kind, naturally; but so definite were the feelings
of Eliza Johnson on “things of that kind” that she told me she could
“not help feeling that I was, in some measure, to blame.”
At Birmingham, on the Friday night, after “treasury,” I left my money in
my dressing-room, went on the stage, and returned to find the money
gone! I went to the manager and told him, but he protested that he could
do nothing. I managed to borrow money to pay for my rooms, and went on
to the next town very downcast indeed. Three pounds was a lot of money.
The following week I had a letter from Birmingham, telling how the
writer, who was employed at the theatre, had stolen the money, but that
the sight of my distress had so melted his heart that he had decided to
return it to me intact. The £3 was enclosed. I concluded that it was one
of the stage hands; it wasn’t, it was Mr. Toole. He had heard of my
loss, and, in giving me the money, could not resist playing one of those
practical jokes which he loved!
The tour ended and we came back to London, where Toole was going to put
on a first piece called _The Broken Sixpence_ before _The Don_. The cast
included Mary Brough, Charles Lowne, the authoress (Mrs. Thompson)—who
was a very beautiful woman, but not a strikingly good actress—and, among
the “wines and spirits,” me.
My dress was the same that I had worn in _The Butler_ (a play we had
done on tour), or, rather, it was _part_ of the dress, for, as I was
playing a young girl, with short skirts, I only used the _skirt_ of the
dress, merely adding a yoke; in addition, I wore a fair wig.
I have it on good authority that I looked “perfectly adorable”, for it
was in this play, though I did not know it for a long time, that Harry
Esmond first saw me, and, apparently, approved of me!
Then I began to be ill; too much work, and, looking back, I fancy not
too much food, and that probably of the wrong kind for a girl who, after
all, was only about 17, and who had been playing in a different play
every night for weeks.
I didn’t stop working, though I did feel very ill for some weeks, but
finally an incident occurred which took the matter out of my hands and
forced me to take a rest.
I was walking home from the theatre, with my salary and my savings
(seven pounds, which I had gathered together to pay back to my brother
for the loan I mentioned before) in my bag. In those days the streets
were in the state of semi-darkness to which London grew accustomed in
the war—at any rate, in all but the largest streets; some one, who must
have known who I was, or at any rate known that I was an actress and
that Friday night was “pay night”, sprang out of the darkness, struck me
a heavy blow on the head, snatched my bag, and left me lying senseless.
After that, I gave in—I went home, and was very ill for a long time with
low fever; not only was I ill, I was hideously depressed. However, I
went back to Mr. Toole as soon as I was better, and he told me he was
going to Australia, and asked me to go too. The salary was to be £4 a
week, and “provide your own clothes”. I declined, though how I had the
pluck to decline an engagement in those days passes my comprehension.
However, I did, and Irene Vanbrugh went to Australia in my place—though
not at my salary; she was more fortunate.
I began to haunt agents’ offices, looking for work, and a dreary
business it was! At last I was engaged to go to the Shaftesbury to play
in _The Middleman_ with E. S. Willard, and it was here that I first
actually met my husband. He was very young, very slim, and looked as
young as he was; he was, as is the manner of “the powers that be”, cast
for a villain, and, in order to “look the part”, he had his shoulders
padded to such an extent that he looked perfectly square. His first
words in the play were “More brandy!” I don’t think he was a great
success in the part, though, looking through some old press cuttings, I
find the following extract from _The Musical World_: “But a Mr. Esmond
shows, I think, very high promise, together with faults that need to be
corrected. His attitudes are abominable; his voice and the heart in it
could hardly be bettered”—and that in spite of the padding!
I think we were at once great friends—at any rate, I know he had to use
a ring in the play, and I lent him mine. In particular I remember one
evening, when I was walking down Shaftesbury Avenue with the man to whom
I was engaged, and we met Harry wearing my ring; I was most disturbed,
lest my own “young man” should notice. However, we broke the engagement
soon after—at least I did—and after that it didn’t matter who wore or
who did not wear my ring. Then Harry, who lived at Empress Gate, used to
take me home after the theatre; and if he didn’t take me home, he took
somebody else home, for at that time I think he loved most pretty girls.
It was a little later that he wrote in his diary: “Had tea with Agnes
(Agnes Verity); took Eva home; she gave me two tomatoes; nice girl. How
happy could I be with either!”—which, I think, gives a very fair idea of
his general attitude at the time.
_The Middleman_ ran well; it was a good play, with a good cast—E. S.
Willard, Annie Hughes, Maude Millet, and William Mackintosh—the latter a
really great actor. I understudied Annie Hughes—and played for her. In
_The Middleman_, Willard wore his hair powdered, to give him the
necessary look of age, and in one scene I had to comb it. I was most
anxious to do well in Annie Hughes’s part, and was so zealous that I
combed all the powder out of his hair at the back, to my own confusion
and his great dismay.
[Illustration:
_Photograph by Elliott & Fry, London, W._ To face p. 24
HARRY
November 19th. 1891
]
At the end of the run of _The Middleman_, I wrote to Mr. (now Sir) A. W.
Pinero, and asked for an interview. His play, _The Cabinet Minister_,
was shortly to be produced at the Court Theatre, and I hoped he might
give me a part. He granted me the interview, and I remember how
frightened I was. I met him some time ago, and he reminded me of it. He
told me I struck him as being “such a little thing”. Anyway, he gave me
a part. This was the first production in which I had played where the
dresses were provided by the management, and very wonderful dresses they
were.
It was a great cast—Mrs. John Wood (whose daughter and granddaughter
were both with us in Canada in 1920), Allen Aynesworth (a very typical
young “man about town”), Rosina Philippi, Weedon Grossmith, and Arthur
Cecil.
Mrs. John Wood was a wonderful actress; she got the last ounce out of
every part she played. Fred Grove says: “When she had finished with a
part, it was like a well-sucked orange; not a bit of good left in it for
anyone else.” The first act of _The Cabinet Minister_ was a reception
after a drawing-room. We all wore trains of “regulation” length; at
rehearsals Mrs. Wood insisted that we should all have long curtains
pinned round us, to accustom us to the trains.
Arthur Cecil, who had been in partnership with Mrs. Wood, was a kindly
old gentleman who always carried a small black bag; it contained a
supply of sandwiches, in case he should suddenly feel the pangs of
hunger. “Spy,” of _Vanity Fair_, did a wonderful drawing of him,
complete with bag.
I remember Rosina Philippi, then as thin as a lamp-post, having a
terrific row one day with Weedon Grossmith—what about, I cannot
remember. He was playing “Mr. Lebanon”, a Jew, and “built up” his nose
to meet the requirements of the part. In the heat of the argument,
Rosina knocked off his nose; he _was_ so angry. The more angry he got,
the more she laughed!
I think it was before the run of _The Cabinet Minister_ that I became
engaged to Harry. I know that during the run Harry was playing at the
Royalty in _Sweet Nancy_, and was apparently rather vague and casual
about the duties of an engaged young man. I remember he used often to
send his best friend to call for me and bring me home from the theatre.
If he had not been such a very attractive young man himself, one might
have thought this habit showed a lack of wisdom. He was very attractive,
but very thin; I found out, to my horror, that he wore nothing under his
stiff white shirts! Imagine how cold, riding on the top of
’buses—anyway, it struck me as dreadful, and my first gift to him was a
complete set of underwear. He protested that it would “tickle”, but I
know he wore them, with apparently no grave discomfort.
I went to Terry’s to play in _Culprits_—a tragic play so far as I was
concerned. I really, for the first time, “let myself go” over my
dresses. I spent £40. (Imagine the months of savings represented by that
sum!) We rehearsed for five weeks, and the play ran three.
By this time my sister Jessie had gone on tour, first with _Dr. Dee_, by
Cotsford Dick, later with D’Oyley Carte’s Company. Decima and I were
sharing rooms which Jessie had taken with me. Decima had been at
Blackheath at the College of Music, where she had gained a scholarship.
On her own initiative she came up to the Savoy Theatre, for a voice
trial, and was promptly engaged for the part of “Casilda” in the
forthcoming production of _The Gondoliers_. I remember the first night
of the opera occurred when I was still playing in _The Middleman_. Not
being in the last act, I was able to go down to the Savoy. I was
fearfully excited, and filled with pride and joy; it was a great night.
After the performance, Decima cried bitterly all the way home, so
convinced was she that her performance could not have been successful.
It was not until the following morning, when she was able to read the
notices in the morning papers, that she was reassured and finally
comforted. Far from ruining her performance, she had made a big success.
During the time we shared rooms we were both taken ill with Russian
influenza—and very ill we both were. Geraldine Ulmar came to see us, and
brought, later, Dr. Mayer Collier, who proved “a very present help in
trouble”. He rose high in his profession, and never ceased to be our
very good friend, nor failed in his goodness to us all.
On October 31st, 1891, I find the following Press cutting appeared: “Mr.
Esmond will shortly marry Miss Eva Moore, the younger sister (this, I
may say, was, and still is, incorrect) of pretty Miss Decima Moore of
the Savoy”. I was then playing in _The Late Lamented_, a play in which
Mr. Ackerman May, the well-known agent, played a part. Herbert Standing
was in the cast, though I remember very little about what he—or, for the
matter of that, anyone else—played, except that he was supposed to be
recovering from fever, and appeared with a copper blancmange mould on
his head, wrapped in a blanket. It would seem that the humour was not of
a subtle order.
We were married on November 19th, 1891, on the winnings of Harry and
myself on a race. _We_ backed a horse called “Common,” which ran, I
imagine, in either the Liverpool Cup or the Manchester November
Handicap. Where we got the tip from, I don’t know; anyway, it won at 40
to 1, and we were rich! Adding £50, borrowed from my sister Ada, to our
winnings, we felt we could face the world, and we did.
The wedding was to be very quiet, but somehow ever so many people
drifted into the Savoy Chapel on the morning of November 19th, among
them Edward Terry, who signed the register.
As Harry was “on his way to the altar”, as the Victorian novelists would
say, his best man, Patrick Rose, discovered that the buttons of his
morning coat had—to say the least of it—seen better days. The material
had worn away, leaving the metal foundation showing. He rushed into
Terry’s Theatre, and covered each button with _black grease paint_!
We both played at our respective theatres in the evening, and certainly
the best laugh—for that night, at least—was when Harry, in _The Times_,
said: “I’m sick of ’umbug and deception. I’m a married gentleman! Let
the world know it; I’m a young married English gentleman”.
[Illustration:
_Photograph by Gabell & Co., London, W._ To face p. 28
WEDDING BELLS
November 19th. 1891
]