WEDDING BELLS
“A wedding doesn’t change things much, except that the bride’s
nearest relations can shut their eyes in peace.”
—_Birds of a Feather._
And so we were married.... We had a funny wedding day. Harry, being an
Irishman, and, like all Irishmen, subject to queer, sudden ways of
sentiment, insisted that in the afternoon we should call on his eldest
sister! I cannot remember that he had, up to then, shown any
overwhelming affection for her, but that afternoon the “Irishman” came
to the top, and we called on “herself”. We then dined at Simpson’s, and
went off to our respective theatres to work.
I was rehearsing at the time for a musical play—_The Mountebanks_, by W.
S. Gilbert. I went to him, rather nervous, and asked if I “might be
excused the afternoon rehearsal”. He naturally asked “why?”; and
blushingly, I don’t doubt, I told him “to get married”. He was most
intrigued at the idea, and said I might be “excused rehearsals” for a
week.
Three weeks after we were married, Edward Terry sent for Harry to come
to his dressing-room—and I may say here that Terry’s Theatre only
possessed three dressing-rooms: one, under the stage, for Edward Terry,
one for the men of the company, and another for the women—the reason for
this scarcity being that, when the theatre was built, the dressing-rooms
were forgotten! I believe the same thing happened when the theatre was
built at Brixton; if anyone has played at the theatre in question, and
will remember the extraordinary shapes of the rooms, they will readily
believe it! But to go back to Terry’s—Harry was sent for, and Edward
Terry presented him with two books, which he said would be of the
greatest use to him and me. They were _Dr. Chavasse’s Advice to a
Mother_ and _Dr. Chavasse’s Advice to a Wife_. I do not know if anyone
reads _Dr. Chavasse_ in these days, but then he was _the_ authority on
how to bring up children. Fred Grove assured me that he brought up a
family on _Dr. Chavasse_.
Anyone who has seen my husband’s “evergreen play,” _Eliza Comes to
Stay_, may remember the extract from the book—the very book that Edward
Terry gave to us—which he uses in the play. I give it here; I think it
is worth quoting:
“Question: Is there any objection, when it is cutting its teeth, to the
child sucking its thumb?
“Answer: None at all. The thumb is the best gum-stick in the world. It
is ‘handy’; it is neither too hard nor too soft; there is no danger of
it being swallowed and thus choking the child.”
[Illustration:
_Photograph by Alfred Ellis, London, W._ To face p. 30
HARRY AS HOWARD BOMPAS
“The Times” 1891
]
It was during the run of _The Late Lamented_ that I first met Fanny
Brough, President and one of the founders of the Theatrical Ladies’
Guild, which has done so much splendid work. She worked with Mrs. Carson
(wife of the then Editor of _The Stage_), who was the originator of the
Guild. When the Music Hall Ladies’ Guild began, some years later, they
ran their organisation on the same lines. Two of the founders, I think I
am right in saying, of the Musical Hall Ladies’ Guild, were the
unfortunate Belle Elmore (the Wife of Crippen, who killed her) and Edie
Karno, the wife of Mr. Fred Karno, of _Mumming Birds_ fame.
Speaking of Fanny Brough reminds me of others of that famous family. Lal
Brough, who held a kind of informal gathering at his house, with its
pleasant garden, each Sunday morning. It was a recognised thing to “go
along to Lal Brough’s” about 10.30 to 11 on Sunday. About 1 everyone
left for their respective homes, in time for the lunch which was waiting
there. Looking back, thinking of those Sunday morning gatherings, it
seems to me that we have become less simple, less easily contented; who
now wants a party, even of the least formal kind, to begin in the
morning? We have all turned our days “upside down”—we begin our
enjoyment when the night is half over, we dance until the (not very)
small hours, and certainly very very few of us want to meet our friends
at 11 a.m. They were happy Sundays at Lal Brough’s, but they belong to a
side of stage social life which is now, unhappily, over and done. They
belong, as did the host, to “the old order”.
Sydney Brough, Lal Brough’s son, was a person of marvellous coolness and
resource. I was once playing with him in a special matinée of _A Scrap
of Paper_, in which he had a big duel scene. While the curtain was down,
some thoughtful person had cleared the stage of all “unnecessary
impedimenta”, including the daggers needed for the fight. When Brough
should have seized them, they were nowhere in sight. Most people would
have “dried up”—not Sydney Brough. He composed a long speech while he
looked all over the stage for the missing daggers; he looked
everywhere—talking all the time—and finally found them—on the top of a
large cupboard, on the stage!
In 1892 I played in _Our Boys_ with William Farren, who was “a darling”,
and Davy James—he was very ill at the time, I remember, and very
“nervy”. May Whitty (now Dame May Webster) and I used to dress above his
room. We used to laugh immoderately at everything; poor David James used
to hate the noise we made, and used to send up word to us, “Will you
young women not laugh so much!” Speaking of May Whitty reminds me that
one paper said of our respective performances in the play: “If these two
young ladies _must_ be in the play, they should change parts.”
Cicely Richards was in the cast too; she later played Nerissa in _The
Merchant of Venice_, with Irving, at Drury Lane, and I took Decima—who,
be it said, had never read or seen the play—to see it. Her comment,
looking at Shakespeare’s masterpiece strictly from a “Musical Comedy”
point of view, was “I don’t think much of the Rosina Brandram part”—the
said part being “Nerissa,” and Rosina Brandram at that time the heavy
contralto in the Gilbert and Sullivan operas.
It was in _A Pantomime Rehearsal_ that I first met Ellaline Terriss; we
were the “two gifted amateurs” who sing a duet. She was as pretty as a
picture, and as nice as she was pretty. I also sang a song, called “Poor
Little Fay”, and at the revival “Ma Cherie”, by Paul Rubens, which, I
think, Edna May sang later on in the music halls. I know she came one
evening to hear the song, and sat in a box, which made me very nervous.
She was very quiet and rather shy—at least so I found her when we met.
Charlie Brookfield was in the _Pantomime Rehearsal_, playing the part
created by Brandon Thomas. He was a most perfectly groomed man, and
always wore magnificent and huge button-holes, as really smart young men
did at that time. The bills for these button-holes used to come in, and
also bills for many other things as well, for he was always in debt; it
used to cause great excitement as to whether “Charlie” would get safely
in and out of the theatre without having a writ served on him.
There are hundreds of good stories about Charles Brookfield, some of
them—well, not to be told here—but I can venture on two, at least. When
Frank Curzon was engaged to Isabel Jay, someone—one of the pests who
think the fact that a woman is on the stage gives them a right to insult
her—sent her a series of insulting letters, or postcards—I forget which.
Curzon was, naturally, very angry, and stated in the Press that he would
give £100 reward to find the writer. Brookfield walked into the club one
day and said, “Frank Curzon in a new rôle, I see.” Someone asked, “What
rôle?” “Jay’s disinfectant,” replied Brookfield. He was walking down
Maiden Lane one morning with a friend, and then Maiden Lane was by no
means the most reputable street in London. “I wonder why they call it
Maiden Lane?” said his friend. “Oh,” responded Brookfield, “just a piece
of damned sarcasm on the part of the L.C.C.” At the time when Wyndham
was playing _David Garrick_, he was sitting one day in the Garrick Club
under the portrait of the “great little man”. Brookfield came up. “’Pon
my word,” he began, “it’s perfectly wonderful; you get more like Garrick
every day.” Wyndham smiled. “Yes,” went on Brookfield, “and less like
him every night.” When Tree built His Majesty’s, he was very proud of
the building, and used to love to escort people past the place and hear
their flattering comments on the beauty of the building. One day he took
Brookfield. They stopped to gaze on “my beautiful theatre”, and Tree
waited for the usual praise. After a long pause, Brookfield said:
“Damned lot of windows to clean.” He could, and did, say very witty, but
bitter and cutting, things, which sometimes wounded people badly; yet he
said pathetically to a friend once: “Can’t think why some people dislike
me so!”
About this time, or perhaps rather earlier (as a matter of fact, I think
it was in _Culprits_), I met Walter Everard, who, though quite an
elderly man, did such good work with the Army of Occupation in Cologne;
he is still, I think, doing work in Germany for the British Army.
In _Man and Woman_ I met the ill-fated couple, Arthur Dacre and Amy
Roselle. She was the first well-known actress to appear on the music
halls. She went to the Empire to do recitations. She was much
interviewed, and much nonsense was talked and written about the moral
“uplift” such an act would give to the “wicked Empire”—which was just
what the directors of the Empire, which was not in very good odour at
the time, wanted. She was a queer, rather aloof woman, who took little
notice of anyone. He, too, was moody, and always struck me as rather
unbalanced. They went to Australia later, taking with them a bag of
English earth. There they found that their popularity had gone, poor
things! He shot her and then killed himself, leaving the request that
the English earth might be scattered over them.
Lena Ashwell was in the cast. She was not very happy; for some reason,
Amy Roselle did not like her, and did nothing to make things smooth for
her. Lena Ashwell, in those days, was a vague person, which was rather
extraordinary, as she was a very fine athlete, and the two qualities did
not seem to go together. She also played in a first piece with Charles
Fulton. One day her voice gave out, and I offered to “read the part for
her” (otherwise there could have been no curtain-raiser)—a nasty,
nerve-racking business; but, funnily enough, I was not nearly so nervous
as poor Charles Fulton, who literally got “dithery”.
Henry Neville was also in _Man and Woman_. A delightful actor, he is one
of the Stage’s most courtly gentlemen, one of those rare people whose
manners are as perfect at ten in the morning as they are at ten at
night. Writing of Henry Neville reminds me that later he was going to
appear at a very big matinée for Ellen Terry at Drury Lane, in which
“all stars” were to appear in the dance in _Much Ado_. Everybody who was
anybody was to appear—Fred Terry, Neville, my husband, Ben Webster, and
many more whose names I cannot remember at the moment. At ten each
morning down they went to rehearse. Edith Craig was producing the dance,
and put them through their paces. Apparently they were not very
“bright”, and Edie was very cross. Finally she burst out: “No, _no_,
_no_—and if you can’t do it any better than that, you shan’t be allowed
to do it at all!” Evidently after that they really “tried hard”, for
they certainly were allowed to “do it”, as the programme bears witness.
In a special matinée at the old Gaiety I met Robert Sevier. He had
written a play called _The Younger Son_, which I heard was his own life
when he was in Australia. I don’t think it was a great success—at
anyrate, it was not played again—but Sevier enjoyed the rehearsals
enormously. After the matinée he asked all the company to dinner at his
house in Lowdnes Square. His wife, Lady Violet Sevier, was present.
Sevier enjoyed the dinner, as he had done the rehearsals, but she—well,
she “bore with us”; there was a frigid kindness about her which made one
feel that—to put it mildly—she “suffered” our presence, and regarded the
whole thing as an eccentricity of “Robert’s” (I cannot imagine that she
ever called him “Bob”, as did the rest of the world).
[Illustration:
_Photograph by Alfred Ellis, London, W._ To face p. 37
PEPITA
“Little Christopher Columbus”
]
The same year, 1893, I played in _Little Christopher Columbus_. Teddie
Lonnen was the comedian. May Yohe played “Christopher”, and played it
very well too; I impersonated her, in the action of the play. We had to
change clothes, for reasons which were part of the plot. She was not an
easy person to work with, and she certainly—at that time, at all
events—did not like me. This play was the only one in which I ever
rehearsed “foxy”—that is, did not put in the business I was going to
play eventually. The reason was this: as I gradually “built up” the
part, putting in bits of “business” during the rehearsals, I used to
find the next morning that they were “cut”: “That line is ‘out’, Miss
Moore,” or “Perhaps you’d better not do that, Miss Moore.” So “Miss
Moore” simply walked through the rehearsals, to the horror of the
producer. I used to go home and rehearse there. But on the first night I
“let myself go”, and put into the part all I had rehearsed at home. The
producer was less unhappy about me after that first night! However, it
still went on after we had produced. Almost every night the stage
manager would come to my room: “Miss Moore, a message for you—would you
run across the stage less noisily, you shake the theatre”; would I stand
further “up stage”; or would I do this, or that, or the other. Oh! May
Yohe, you really _were_ rather trying in those days; still, things did
improve, and eventually she really was very nice to me. It was in
_Little Christopher Columbus_ that I wore “boy’s clothes”. I thought
they suited me—in fact, I still think they did—a ballet shirt, coat (and
not a particularly short coat either) and—breeches. But, behold the
_Deus ex machina_, in the person of my husband! He came to the dress
rehearsal, and later we rode home to our little flat in Chelsea on the
top of a bus, discussing the play. Suddenly, as if struck by a bright
thought, he turned to me and said: “Don’t you think you’d look awfully
well in a cloak?” I felt dubious, and said so, but that did not shake
him. “I do,” he said, and added: “Your legs are much too pretty to show!
I’ll see about it in the morning.” He did! Early next morning he went up
and saw Monsieur Alias, the cloak was made and delivered to me at the
theatre that very evening, and I wore it too. It covered me from head to
foot; with great difficulty, I managed to show one ankle. But Harry
approved of it, very warmly indeed.
There is a sequel to that story. Twenty years after, I appeared at a big
charity matinée at the Chelsea Palace as “Eve”—not Eve of the Garden of
Eden, but “Eve” of _The Tatler_. I wore a very abbreviated skirt, which
allowed the display of a good deal of long black boots and silk
stocking. Ellen Terry had been appearing as the “Spirit of Chelsea”.
After the performance she stood chatting to Harry and me. “Your legs are
perfectly charming; why haven’t we seen them before?” I pointed to Harry
as explanation. She turned to him. “Disgraceful,” she said, adding: “You
ought to be shot.”
I was engaged to follow Miss Ada Reeve in _The Shop Girl_ at the Gaiety
Theatre. It was a ghastly experience, as I had, for the few rehearsals
that were given me, only a piano to supply the music, and my first
appearance on the stage was my introduction to the band. I had to sing a
duet with Mr. Seymour Hicks—I think it was “Oh listen to the band”—at
anyrate, I know a perambulator was used in the song. Mr. Hicks’s one
idea was to “get pace”, and as I sang he kept up a running commentary of
remarks to spur me on to fresh efforts. Under his breath—and not always
under his breath either—he urged me to “keep it up”, to “get on with
it”, until I felt more like a mental collapse than being bright or
amusing. This was continued at most of the performances which followed;
I sang, or tried to sing, accompanied by the band—_and_ Mr. Hicks. Then,
suddenly—quite suddenly—he changed. The theatre barometer swung from
“Stormy” to “Set fair”. Even then, I think, I had learnt that such a
sudden change—either in the barometer or human beings—means that a storm
is brewing. It was!
I remember saying to Harry, when I got home one evening after this
change, “I shall be out of the theatre in a fortnight; Seymour Hicks has
been so extraordinarily pleasant to me—no faults, nothing but praise.”
What a prophet I was!
As I was going to the dressing-room the next evening, I met Mr. George
Edwardes on the stairs. He called to me, very loudly, so that everyone
else could hear, “Oh! I shan’t want you after next Friday!” I protested
that I had signed for the “run”. I was told that, though I might have
done so, he had not, and so ... well!
It was before the days when Sydney Valentine fought and died for the
standard contract, before the days when he had laboured to make the
Actors’ Association a thing of real use to artists—a _real_ Trades
Union; so I did not claim my salary “for the run”, but the fact that I
received a cheque from the management “in settlement of all claims” is
significant.
Another rather “trying time” was many years later when I appeared “on
the halls”. Let me say here that I have played the halls since, and
found everyone—staff, manager, and other artists—very kind; but at that
time “sketches had been doing badly”, and when the date approached on
which I was to play at the—no, on second thoughts I won’t give the name
of the hall—the management asked me either to cancel or postpone the
date. I refused. I had engaged my company, which included Ernest
Thesiger, Bassett Roe, and several other excellent artists, for a month,
and the production had been costly, so I protested that they must either
“play me or pay me”. They did the latter, in two ways—one in cash, the
other in rudeness. How I hated that engagement! But even that had its
bright spot, and I look back and remember the kindness of the “Prime
Minister of Mirth”, Mr. George Robey, who was appearing at that
particular hall at the time. He did everything that could be done to
smooth the way for me.
I seem to have been unlucky with “sketches” at that time. I had a
one-act comedy—and a very amusing comedy too; my son later used it as a
curtain-raiser, and I played it at several of the big halls: as the
Americans say, “It went big.”
I thought I would strike out on my own and see an agent myself, without
saying anything to anybody. This is what happened. (I should say that
this is only a few years ago, when I had thought for some time that as
an actress I was fairly well known.)
I called on the agent in question; he was established in large and most
comfortable offices in the West End. I was ushered into the Presence! He
was a very elegant gentleman, rather too stout perhaps. He sat at a
perfectly enormous desk, swinging about in a swivel chair, and, without
rising or asking me to sit down (which I promptly did), he opened the
interview:
“Who are you?” I supplied the information.
“Don’t know you,” he replied. “What d’you want?” I told him, as briefly
as possible. At the word “sketch” he stopped me, and with a plump hand
he pounded some letters that lay on his desk. “Sketches,” he repeated
solemnly, “I can get sketches three-a-penny, and _good_ people to play
’em. Nothing doing.”
I stood up and walked to the door, then perhaps he remembered that he
had seen me in a play or something—I don’t know; anyway, he called after
me, “Here, who did you say you were?” “Still Eva Moore,” I said calmly,
and made my exit.
All agents may not be like that; I hope they are not; but I fancy he is
one of the really successful ones. Perhaps their manners are in inverse
ratio to their bank balances.
Talking of agents, I heard of one who was listening to a patriotic
ballad being sung at the Empire during the war. A man who was with him
did not like it, and said, “You know, that kind of stuff doesn’t do any
good to the Empire”—meaning the British Empire. “No,” was the reply;
“they don’t go well at the Alhambra, for that matter, either.”