PLAYS AND PLAYERS
“A good deal more work for all of us, my lord.”
—_Love and the Man._
The year 1894 found me playing in _The Gay Widow_, the first play in
which I ever worked with Charles (now, of course, Sir Charles) Hawtrey.
I do not remember very much about the play except that I wore most
lovely clothes, and that Lottie Venne played “my mother”.
This year does, however, mark a very important milestone in our
lives—Harry’s and mine; it was the first time we attempted management on
our own, and also his first play was produced. We, Harry and I, with G.
W. Elliott, greatly daring, formed a small syndicate. We took the St.
James’s Theatre for eight weeks while George Alexander was on tour, and
presented Harry’s play _Bogey_. (In those days all big London managers
went on tour for a few months, taking their London company and
production.)
First, let me say that, whatever the merits or demerits of the play, we
were unlucky. We struck the greatest heat wave that London had known for
years; and that, as everyone knows, is not the best recipe in the world
for sending up the takings at the box office. As for the play, George
Alexander said—and, I think, perhaps rightly—the “play was killed by its
title.” It was a play dealing with “spiritualism,” in a limited sense. I
mean that it was not in any sense a propaganda play; it had, naturally,
not the finish, or perhaps the charm, of his later work—he would have
been a poor craftsman if it had been, and a less great artist if the
years which came after had taught him nothing—but _Bogey_ certainly did
not deserve the hard things which one critic, Mr. Clement Scott, said of
it. He wrote one of the most cruel notices which I have ever read, a
notice beginning “Vaulting Ambition”—which, in itself, is one of the
bundle of “clichés” which may be used with almost equal justice about
anything. To say, as Mr. Scott did, that I saved the play again and
again “by supreme tact” was frankly nonsense. No actress can save a play
“again and again by supreme tact”; she may, and probably will, do her
best when she is on the stage, but if she “saves the play” it is due to
her acting capacity, and not to “tact”—which seems to me to be the
dealing gracefully with an unexpected situation in a way that is
essentially “not in the script”.
However, the fact remains that Mr. Clement Scott unmasked the whole of
his battery of heavy guns against the play and the author, for daring to
produce it while he was still under fifty years of age; and, after all,
it was rather “setting out to kill a butterfly with a double-barrelled
gun”. Still....
The following night another play was produced, at another theatre, and
on this play (not at all a brilliant achievement) Mr. Clement Scott
lavished unstinted praise. On the first night of a third play, as he
went to his stall, the gallery—which was, as usual, filled largely by
the members of the Gallery First Night Club—greeted him with shouts of
“_Bogey_”, and continued to do so until, in disgust, he left the stalls.
After that night, Clement Scott always occupied a box! But the sequel!
Some days after the production of _Bogey_, the President of the Gallery
First Night Club called at our little house in Chelsea. I remember his
call distinctly: our maid was “out”, and I opened the door to him. He
came to ask Harry to be the guest at the first dinner of the club. It
was, I think, when that club held its twenty-fifth birthday, that we
were both asked to be the guests of the club—a compliment we much
appreciated.
The play _Bogey_ was not a success, but I should like to quote the
remarks of the dramatic critic of the _Sporting Times_, which seemed,
and still seem, to me kind and—what is of infinitely greater
importance—just: “Ambition is not necessarily vaulting, and it is a
thing to be encouraged and not mercilessly crushed in either a young
author or a young actor. Nor when the youngster figures in the double
capacity of author and actor is the crime unpardonable.... This is all
_apropos_ of an ungenerous attack in a quarter from which generosity
would have been as graceful as the reverse is graceless.... It was
remarked to me by a London manager: ‘I don’t know any actor on our stage
who could play the part better than Esmond does’, and, upon my word! I
am inclined to agree with him.... _Bogey_ is not a good play ... but it
has a freshness about it, an originality of idea which is not unlikely
to prove unattractive to a great many.”
However, Harry Esmond tried again; and the row of plays on a shelf in my
study is proof that he was only “baffled to fight better”.
In _Bogey_ we had a stage manager, I remember, who should, had the gods
taken sufficient interest in the destinies of men, have been a maker of
“props” and a property master. He played a small part, of a “typical
city man”, and his one ambitious effort towards characterisation was to
ask if he “might be allowed to carry a fish basket”. He evidently
thought _all_ city men call at Sweetings before catching their train
home!
In _The Strange Adventures of Miss Brown_, which was my next engagement,
I played with Fred Kerr, who wore a toupée. I remember at one place in
the play, where I had to “embrace him impulsively”, he always said in a
loud whisper, “_Mind_ my toupée.”
Both Harry and I were in _The Blind Marriage_, at the Criterion. He and
Arnold Lucy played “twins”, and Harry had to add a large false nose to
the one with which nature had already very generously provided him. They
wore dreadful clothes—knickerbockers which were neither breeches nor
“plus fours” but more like what used to be known as “bloomers”. Herbert
Waring and Herbert Standing were both in the cast, and on the first
night the latter was very excited. Waring went on and had a huge
ovation, while Herbert Standing, in the wings, whispered excitedly,
“They think it’s me! they think it’s me!”
Herbert Standing was a fine actor, with more than a fair share of good
looks. He was very popular at Brighton, where he used to appear at
concerts. I remember he was talking one day to Harry, and told him how
he had “filled the Dome at Brighton” (which was a vast concert hall).
Harry murmured, “Wonderful; how did you do it?” “Oh,” said Standing,
“recited, you know. There were a few other people there—Ben Davis,
Albani, Sims Reeves,” and so on.
Mr. Standing came to see Harry one day, and was shown into his study,
which was a small room almost entirely filled with a huge desk. Standing
began to rail against the fate which ordained that at that moment he had
no work. “I can do anything, play anything,” he explained, which was
perfectly true—he was a fine actor! “Listen to this,” and he began to
recite a most dramatic piece of work, full of emotion and gesture. As he
spoke, he advanced upon “H. V.”, who kept moving further and further
away from him. I came into the study, to find Harry cowering against the
wall, which effectually stopped him “getting away” any further, and
Standing, now “well away”, brandishing his arms perilously near Harry’s
nose.
Standing was devoted to his wife, and immensely proud of his family.
When she died, he was heartbroken. He met some friends one day, who
expressed their sympathy with him in his loss. “Yes,” said Standing,
“and what do you think we found under her pillow? _This_”—and he
produced a photograph of himself, adding mournfully, “but it doesn’t do
me justice!”
It was in _Under the Red Robe_ that I first actually played with
Winifred Emery (who used to give most lovely tea parties in her
dressing-room). Cyril Maude, Holman Clark, Granville Barker, and Annie
Saker (who were later to make such a number of big successes at the
Lyceum, under the Brothers Melville’s management) were also in the cast.
I only met the author, Stanley Weyman, once, but he was very generous to
all the company and gave us beautiful souvenirs; I still use a silver
cigarette box, engraved with a cardinal’s hat, which he gave to me. He
was not one’s preconceived idea of a writer of romantic plays and books;
as a matter of fact, he was rather like Mr. Bonar Law.
After this run, I went on tour for a short time with J. L. Shine, with
_An Irish Gentleman_, and at one town—Swansea, I think—he gave a Press
lunch. All kinds of local pressmen were invited, and, in comparison to
the one who fell to my lot, the “silent tomb” is “talkative”. Soup,
fish, joint, all passed, and he never spoke a single word. He was a
distinctly noticeable person, wearing a cricket cap, morning coat, and
white flannel trousers. I tried every subject under the sun, with no
result, until—at last—he spoke. “I ’ave a sort of claim on you
perfessionals,” he said. I expressed my delight and surprise, and asked
for details. “Well,” he said, “in the winter I’m an animal impersonator,
but in the summer I take up literature.” I have always wondered if he
played the front or hind legs of the “elephant”!
[Illustration:
_Photograph by Gabell & Co., London, S.W._ To face p. 48.
MADAME DE COCHEFORET
“Under the Red Robe”
]
Soon after I returned to London, my husband’s second play was produced
by Charles Hawtrey, _One Summer’s Day_—and thereby hangs a tale! Harry
had sent the play to Hawtrey and, calling a month later, saw it still
lying—unopened—on his desk. He determined that Hawtrey should hear the
play, even if he wouldn’t read it himself; Harry would read it to him.
“I’ll call to-morrow and read my play to you,” he said. Hawtrey
protested he was very busy, “hadn’t a minute”, had scores of plays to
read, etc. But Harry only added, “To-morrow, at ten, then,” and went.
The next morning he arrived, and after some difficulty obtained entrance
to Hawtrey’s room. Again Hawtrey protested—he really had not time to
hear, he would read the play himself, and so on; but by that time Harry
had sat down, opened the book, and began to read. At the end of the
first act, Hawtrey made another valiant effort to escape; he liked it
very much, and would read the rest that same evening. “You’ll like the
second act even better,” H. V. said calmly, and went on reading. When
the third act was finished, Hawtrey really _did_ like it, and promised
to “put it on” as soon as possible.
“In a fortnight,” suggested the author. Oh! Hawtrey wasn’t sure that he
could do it as soon as that, and the “summer was coming”, and Harry had
had one lesson of what a heat wave could do to a play. So he said
firmly, “The autumn then.” Hawtrey gave up the struggle, and the play
was put into rehearsal and produced in the autumn. _One Summer’s Day_
was a great success; it was in this play that Constance Collier played
her first real part. She had been at the Gaiety in musical comedy,
where, I remember, she entered carrying a very, very small parcel, about
the size of a small handkerchief box, and announced “This contains my
costume for the fancy dress ball!”
Mrs. Calvert played in this production, which reminds me that in the
picnic scene we used to have “real pie”, which she rather enjoyed. After
we had been running for some time, the management thought, in the
interests of economy, they would have a “property pie”—that is, stuffed
not with meat, but with cotton wool. Mrs. Calvert, all unknowing, took a
large mouthful, and was nearly choked!
In _One Summer’s Day_ we had a huge tank filled with real water, sunk at
the back of the stage, and Ernest Hendrie, Henry Kemble, and Mrs.
Calvert used to make an entrance in a punt—a real punt. One day they all
sat at one end, with most disastrous consequences; after that, they
“spread themselves” better.
Henry Kemble was a delightful, dignified person, who spoke in a
“rolling” and very “rich” voice. He used, occasionally, to dine
well—perhaps more well than wisely. One night, in the picnic scene, he
was distinctly “distrait”, and forgot his line. As I knew the play
backwards, I gave his line. He was very angry. We were all sitting on
the ground at a picnic. He leant over the cloth and said in a loud
voice, “You are not everybody, although you are the author’s wife.”
In this play a small boy was needed, and we sought high and low for a
child to play the “urchin”. A friend told us one day he knew of the
“very boy”, and promised to send him up for inspection. The following
morning the “ideal urchin” arrived at the Comedy Theatre. He was a very
undersized Jew, whose age was, I suppose, anything from 30 to 40, and
who had not grown since he was about twelve. This rather pathetic little
man walked on to the stage, and looked round the theatre, his hands in
his pockets; then he spoke. “Tidy little ’all,” was his verdict—he was
not engaged!
My next engagement was in _The Sea Flower_. I remember very little about
it except that I wore a bunch of curls, beautiful curls which Willie
Clarkson made for me. On the first night, Cosmo Stuart embraced me with
such fervour that they fell off, and lay on the stage in full view of
the audience.
Then followed _The Three Musketeers_, a splendid version of that
wonderful book, by Harry Hamilton, with a magnificent cast. Lewis Waller
was to have played “D’Artagnan”, which he was already playing on tour;
Harry was to go to the touring company and play Waller’s part. Then
there came some hitch. I am not very clear on the point, but I think
Tree had arranged for a production of the same play, in which Waller was
engaged to play “Buckingham”, and that Tree or the managers in the
country would not release him. Anyway, Harry rehearsed the part in
London. Then Waller managed to get released for a week to come to London
and play for the first week of the production, while Harry went to the
provinces. Waller came up to rehearse on the Friday with the London
company, ready for the opening on Monday. I had lost my voice, and was
not allowed to speak or leave my room until the Monday, and therefore
the first time I met D’Artagnan was on the stage at the first night. If
you will try and imagine how differently Lewis Waller and Harry Esmond
played the part, you will realise what a nerve-racking business it was.
For example, in the great “ride speech,” where Harry used to come in
absolutely weary, speaking as an exhausted man, flinging himself into a
chair, worn out with his ride and the anxiety attached to it, Waller
rushed on to the stage, full of vitality, uplifted with the glory of a
great adventure, and full of victory, leading _me_ to the chair before
he began to speak. You may imagine that on the first night I felt almost
lost. I am not trying to imply that one reading was “better” than the
other; both were quite justified; only, to me, the experience was
staggering.
Waller was always vigorous, and particularly as D’Artagnan. One night
when he entered and “bumped” into Porthos, he “bumped” so hard that he
fell into the orchestra and on to the top of the big drum! Nothing
daunted, Waller climbed out of the orchestra, by way of the stage box,
back on to the stage!
The first time I played with Tree was in a special performance of _The
Dancing Girl_. I played the lame girl, and I remember my chief worry was
how, being lame, to get down a long flight of stairs in time to stop
Tree, who played the Duke, from drinking the “fatal draught” of poison.
I was then engaged by Tree to play in _Carnac Sahib_, a play by Henry
Arthur Jones. It dealt with military life in India. The rehearsals were
endless, and not without some strain between the author and Tree. Henry
Arthur Jones used to come to rehearsals straight from his morning ride,
dressed in riding kit, complete with top boots and whip; Tree didn’t
like it at all!
The day before the production there was a “call” for “words” at 11 in
the morning. The only person who did not know their “words” was Tree; he
never arrived! The dress rehearsal was fixed for 3; we began it at 5,
and at 6 in the morning were “still at it”.
After the end of one of the acts—the second, I think—there was a long
wait. This was at 2.30 a.m.! The band played, and for an hour we sang
and danced on the stage. Then someone suggested that it might be as well
to find out what had happened to Tree. They went to his dressing-room
and found him; he had been asleep for an hour! At last we began the
final act. Tree reclined on a bed of straw, and I fanned him with a palm
leaf. There was a wait, perhaps three or four seconds, before the
curtain rose. “Oh God!” said Tree, in the tone of one who has waited for
years and is weary of everything: “Oh sweet God! I am ready to begin!”
It was soon after, in _Marsac of Gascony_, at Drury Lane Theatre, I made
my entrance on a horse—a real stage horse; the same one, I think, that
Irving had used. I may say this is the only time that I had—as you might
say—known a horse at all intimately. It was a dreadful play: the
audience rocked with laughter at all the dramatic situations. It was
short-lived, and I went soon after to Harry’s play, _The Wilderness_,
which George Alexander produced at the St. James’s Theatre. Aubrey Smith
appeared in this play, looking very much as he does now, except that his
moustache was rather longer. Phyllis Dare played one of the children—and
a very dear child she was; so, too, was her sister Zena, who used to
call at the theatre to take her home.
There were two children in this play, who had a “fairy ring” in a wood.
(If anyone does not know what a fairy ring is, they should go into the
nearest field and find one, for their education has been seriously
neglected.) To this “ring” the two children used to bring food for the
fairies, which they used to steal from the family “dustbin”. One of the
“dainties” was a haddock, and this—a real fish—was carefully prepared by
the famous Rowland Ward, so that it would be preserved and at the same
time retain its “real” appearance. A party of people sitting in the
third row of the stalls wrote a letter of protest to Alexander, saying
that the “smell from the haddock was unbearable”, and it was high time
he got a new one!
I remember that during rehearsals George Alexander was very anxious that
Harry should “cut” one of the lines which he had to speak. In the scene
in the wood, Sir Harry Milanor (which was the character he played), in
talking to his elderly uncle, has to exclaim, “Uncle Jo! Look, a
lizard!” George Alexander protested that the line was unreal, that no
man would suddenly break off to make such a remark, and therefore he
wished Harry would either “cut” or alter it. One day, shortly before the
production, Alexander was walking in Chorley Woods with his wife, who
was “hearing his lines”. When they reached a bridge, he leant over the
parapet, still repeating his words. Suddenly he broke off in the middle
of a sentence to exclaim, “_Look!_ A trout!” “Lizard, Alex.,” his wife
corrected quietly; and henceforth he never made any objection to the
line which had previously caused such discussion.
It was when he took _The Wilderness_ on tour that I had what I always
say was “the best week of my life”. We were not only playing _The
Wilderness_, but several other plays in which I did not appear, which
meant that I sometimes had nights on which I was free. There was at that
time a bad smallpox scare, and when we were in Manchester the whole
company was vaccinated.
Harry was then going to America to produce a play, and I was taking my
baby, Jack (from whom I had never been parted before), to stay with his
grandmother in Brighton, while I went to Ireland. I left Manchester,
took Jack to Brighton, feeling when I left him (as, I suppose, most
young mothers feel when they leave their babies for the first time in
someone else’s care) that I might never see him again, and on the
Saturday morning I saw Harry off to the States.
I spent the evening with Julia Neilson and Fred Terry, who were playing
_Sweet Nell of Old Drury_ in Liverpool. They did all they could to cheer
me—and I needed it! I left them to join the company on the
landing-stage, to cross to Ireland. And what a crossing it was, too! The
cargo boat which carried our luggage gave up the attempt to cross, and
put into the Isle of Man, and the captain of our passenger boat
seriously thought of doing the same thing. Finally we arrived at
Belfast, to find the main drain of the town had burst, the town was
flooded, and the stalls and orchestra at the theatre were several feet
deep in most unsavoury water! There was no performance that evening—I
remember we all went to the music hall, by way of a holiday—but the next
evening we opened at the Dockers’ Theatre, the company which was playing
there having been “bought out”. So the successes of the St. James’s
Theatre—light, witty comedies—were played at the _Dockers’ Theatre_,
where the usual fare was very typical melodrama.
The next day we all began to feel very ill—the vaccination was beginning
to make itself felt—also I had developed a rash, and, in addition, I
thought I must have hurt my side, it was so painful. I remember, at the
hotel, George Alexander came to my door, knocked, and, when I opened it,
said:
“Are you covered in spots?”
“Yes,” I told him.
“Don’t worry,” he begged; and, tearing open the front of his shirt,
added: “Look at me!”
He, too, had come out “all of a rash”—due, I suppose, to the
vaccination. My side got worse, and I had to see a doctor, who said I
had shingles—a most painful business, which prevented me from sleeping
and made me feel desperately ill. The climax came on the Saturday night.
Alexander was not playing, his rash had been too much for him, and his
doctor advised him not to appear. The understudy played in his stead,
and, however good an understudy may be—and they are often very good—it
is always trying to play with someone who is playing the part for the
first time. At the end of the play, _The Wilderness_, I had a scene with
my first lover, in which I referred to “my husband”. Some wit in the
gallery yelled “And where’s the baby, Miss?”. I was ill, I hadn’t slept
for nights, my husband was on his way to America, I was parted from my
baby, my sister was in the midst of divorcing her husband—which had
added to my worries—and this was the last straw! When the play ended, I
walked off the stage, after the final curtain, blind with tears—so
blind, indeed, that I fell over a piece of scenery, and hurt myself
badly. This made me cry more than ever, up to my dressing-room, in my
dressing-room, and all the way back to the hotel, and, as far as I
remember, most of the night.
When we reached Dublin, fate smiled upon me. I met Mr. W. H. Bailey
(afterwards the “Right Hon.”, who did such good work on the Land
Commission), and he took me to his own doctor—Dr. Little, of Merrion
Square (may his name be for ever blessed!), who gave me lotions and,
above all, a sleeping draught, and gradually life became bearable again.
One dreadful day (only twenty-four hours this time, not weeks) was while
I was playing at the St. James’s in _The Wilderness_. I was driving in a
dog-cart (this is before the days of motor cars) in Covent Garden, when
the horse slipped and fell, throwing me out. I picked myself up, saw
that the horse’s knees were not broken, and walked into the bank at the
corner of Henrietta Street to ask for a glass of water. I found that,
not only had I a large bump on my head, but that my skirt was covered
with blood. Round I went to the Websters’ flat in Bedford Street and
climbed up five flights of stairs. May Webster found that I had a huge
gash on my hip, and said the only thing to do was to go to the hospital.
Down five flights I went, and drove to Charing Cross Hospital. There a
young doctor decided he would put in “a stitch or two”, and also put a
bandage on my head. He was a particularly unpleasant young man, I
remember, and finally I said to him: “Do you know your manners are
_most_ unpleasant? You don’t suppose people come in here for fun, do
you?” He was astonished; I don’t think it had ever dawned on him that he
was “unpleasant”, and I suppose no one had dared to tell him. I only
hope it did him good, and that he is now a most successful surgeon with
a beautiful “bedside manner”.
I drove to the theatre, where there was a matinée, with my hat, or
rather toque, perched on the top of a large bandage, plus a leg that was
rapidly beginning to stiffen. I got through the performance, and decided
to stay in the theatre and rest “between the performances”. I was to
have dinner sent to my dressing-room. Harry thought I had said “someone”
would see about it; I thought that _he_ said he would see about it; the
“someone else” thought that we were both seeing about it, and so,
between them all, I had no dinner at all.
By the end of the evening performance I was really feeling distinctly
sorry for myself, with my head “opening and shutting” and my leg hurting
badly. When, at the end of the play, I fell into Alexander’s arms in a
fond embrace, I just stayed there. He was just helping me to a chair,
and I had begun to cry weakly, when H. H. Vincent came up, patted me
firmly—very firmly—on the back, and said: “Come, come, now; don’t give
way, don’t give way!” This made me angry, so angry that I forgot to go
on crying.