PERSONALITIES
“You are surprised that I know such nice people?”
—_Fools of Nature._
The Pageantry of Great People! If I could only make that pageant live
for you as it does for me! I know it is impossible; it needs greater
skill than mine to make the men and women live on paper. It is only
possible for me to recall some small incident which seems typical of the
individual. In itself, that may be a poor way of drawing mental
pictures; but it is the only way I can attempt with the smallest hope of
success. Great people, whether great in art, wit, or greatness of heart,
demand great skill to depict them, so, having excused myself for my
inevitable shortcomings, I will set to work. If I fail utterly, I ask
you to remember it is due to lack of skill, and not lack of
appreciation. If I seem to recall these “big” people chiefly through
incidents that seem humorous, it is because I like to remember the
things which have made me, and others with me, laugh. If the stories do
not appear very laughable, then you must make allowances again, and
believe that they “were funny at the time”, perhaps because when they
happened I was young. We all were young, and the world was a place where
we laughed easily—because we were happy.
SIR HERBERT TREE.—I begin my Pageant with Herbert Tree because he was a
great figure; he stood for a very definite “something”. You might like
or dislike him, but you had to admit he was a personality. He certainly
posed, he undoubtedly postured; but how much was natural and how much
assumed, I should not like to attempt to decide. There was something
wonderfully childlike about him; he would suddenly propound most
extraordinary ideas in the middle of a rehearsal—ideas which we knew,
and for all I know Tree knew too, were utterly impossible. I remember
during the rehearsals of _Carnac Sahib_, when we were rehearsing the
scene in the Nabob’s palace, Tree suddenly struck an attitude in the
middle of the stage and called for Wigley (who, by the way, he always
addressed as “Wiggerley”), who was “on the list” as either stage manager
or assistant stage manager, but whose real work was to listen to Tree
and to prompt him when necessary—which was very often. Tree called
“Wiggerley”, and “Wiggerley” duly came. “I’ve got an idea,” said Tree.
“Wiggerley” expressed delight and pleasure, and waited expectant. “Those
windows” (pointing to the open windows of the “palace”); “we’ll have a
pair of large, flopping vultures fly in through those windows. Good, I
think; very good.” The faithful “Wiggerley” agreed that the idea was
brilliant, and stated that “it should be seen to at once”. Tree was
perfectly satisfied. The vultures never appeared, and I have not the
slightest belief that “Wiggerley” ever looked for any, or indeed ever
had the smallest intention of doing so.
Tree was very fond of Harry, and used often to ask him to go back to
supper, after the theatre, when Tree lived in Sloane Street. One evening
he asked him to “come back to supper”, and Harry, for some reason,
wanted to come straight home; probably he had a very nice supper of his
own waiting. Tree persisted. “Oh, come back with me; there’s stewed
mutton; you know you like stewed mutton”, and finally Harry gave way.
They drove to Sloane Street, and walked into the dining-room. There was
on the table a large lace cloth, and—a bunch of violets! That was all.
Tree went up to the table, lifted the violets and smelt them, an
expression of heavenly rapture, as of one who hears the songs of angels,
on his face. He held them out to Harry (who smelt them), saying “Aren’t
they wonderful?”, then, taking his hand and leading him to the door, he
added “_Good_-night, good-night.” Harry found himself in the street,
Tree presumably having gone back either to eat or smell the violets in
lieu of supper.
When he produced _Much Ado_, playing “Benedick”, he introduced a scene
between “Dogberry” and “Verges”, and also some extraordinary business
when Sir Herbert sat under a tree and had oranges dropped on him from
above. Harry and I went to the first night, and he resented each
“introduction” more fiercely than the last. He sank lower and lower in
his stall, plunged in gloom, and praying that Tree would not send for
him at the end of the play and ask “what he thought of it all”. However,
Tree _did_, and we found ourselves in the “Royal Room”, which was packed
with people, Tree holding a reception. I begged Harry to be tactful, and
Harry had made up his mind not to give Tree the opportunity of speaking
to him at all, if it could be avoided. Tree saw him and came towards us;
Harry backed away round the room, Tree following. Round they went, until
Harry was caught in the corner by the stair. Tree put the fateful
question, “What do you think of it?” By this time Harry’s “tact” had
taken wings, and he answered frankly, if rather harshly, “Perfectly
dreadful!” I fancy Tree must have thought the world had fallen round
him; he couldn’t believe he was “hearing right”. He persisted, “But my
scene under the tree?” Back came Harry’s answer, “Awful!” “And the scene
between Dogberry and Verges?” Again, “Perfectly appalling!” Tree stared
at him, then there was a long pause. At last Tree spoke: “Yes, perhaps
you’re right.”
Here is a picture of Tree at a dress rehearsal of, I think, _Nero_.
Tree, attired in a flowing gold robe, moving about the stage, with what
was apparently a crown of dahlias on his head. The crown was rather too
big, and, in the excitement of some discussion about a “lighting
effect”, it had slipped down over one eye, giving Tree a dissipated
appearance, not altogether in keeping with his regal character. Lady
Tree (I don’t think she was “Lady” Tree then) called from the stall:
“Herbert, may I say one word?” Tree turned and struck an “Aubrey
Beardsley” attitude; with great dignity he replied, “_No_, you may not”,
and turned again to his discussion.
A wonderful mixture of innocence and guile, of affectations and genuine
kindness, of ignorance and knowledge, of limitations and possibilities,
that was Herbert Tree as I read him. But a great artist, a great
producer, and a very great figure.
WILLIAM TERRISS.—“Breezy Bill Terriss”, the hero of the Adelphi dramas.
Handsome, lovable, with a tremendous breadth of style in his acting that
we see too seldom in these days of “restraint”. His “Henry VIII.” to
Irving’s “Wolsey” was a magnificent piece of acting. There is a story
told of him, when Irving was rehearsing a play in which there was a
duel—_The Corsican Brothers_, I think. At the dress rehearsal (“with
lights” to represent the moon, which lit the fight), Irving called to
“the man in the moon”: “Keep it on me, on me!” Terriss dropped his
sword: “Let the moon shine on me a little,” he begged; “Nature is at
least impartial.” Everyone knows of his tragic death, and his funeral
was a proof of the affection in which he was held—it was practically a
“Royal” funeral. When, a few months ago, Marie Lloyd was buried, the
crowds, the marks of affection, the very real and very deep regret shown
everywhere, reminded me of another funeral—that of “Breezy Bill
Terriss”.
MARIE LOFTUS.—One of the names which recall the time when there were
still “giants” on the music hall stage. I don’t mean to imply that
Variety does not still possess great artists, but there seems to be no
longer that “personal” feeling, the affection, admiration—I might almost
say adoration—which was given to the “giants”; and Marie Loftus was “of
them”. I saw her years ago at the Tivoli, when she came on with a “baby”
in her arms, playing a “comic-melodrama”. I remember she “threw snow
over herself”, and finally committed suicide by allowing a small toy
train to run over her. Perhaps it does not sound amusing, perhaps we
have all grown too sophisticated; if so, we are losing something—and
something very well worth keeping. The Second time I saw Marie Loftus
was at the Chelsea Palace, about two years ago. I saw her do a “Man and
Woman” act, one half of her dressed as a woman, the other half as a man.
These “two” people fought together—it was a masterpiece. I shall never
forget the unstinted praise which it called forth from Harry, who was
with me. I saw her not long ago, not on the stage; she was then looking
forward to an operation on her eyes, which she hoped would make it
possible for her to “work” again. Whether she does so or not, I shall
always look back on those two evenings—one at the Tivoli, the other many
years later at Chelsea—as occasions when I saw a very brilliant artist
at work.
SIR HENRY IRVING.—I saw him first when I stayed with Florrie Toole, when
I first went on the stage, and Irving came to see her father. I do not
remember anything he said or anything he did, but I do remember the
impression which the appearance of the two men (and, after all, it was
more truly an indication of their character than it is of most people)
made upon me. Toole, short and eminently cheerful—you could not imagine
him anything but what he was, a natural comedian, with all a comedian’s
tricks of speech; and Irving, tall, thin, with something of the monastic
appearance, which stood him in such good stead in “Becket”, dignified,
and to all but his friends rather aloof. And the one attracted the other
so that they were unchangeable friends. I have heard that Irving could
be very bitter, very cruelly sarcastic: I know he could be the most
truly courteous gentleman who ever stepped, and I will give an instance
which was one of the finest illustrations of “fine manners” that I ever
witnessed. A most wonderful luncheon was given at the Savoy to Mr. Joe
Knight, a critic, on his retirement. The whole of the theatrical
profession was there, and Irving was in the chair. Harry and I were
present. He was rather unhappy at the time, because he had been “pilled”
for the Garrick Club; he felt it very much—much more then than he would
have done a few years later. He was quite young then, and took it rather
to heart. After the lunch we went up to speak to Sir Henry, who, as he
shook hands with Harry, said in a tone half humorous, half sardonic, and
wholly kindly, “I understand you have been honoured by the Garrick Club
as I have been”; adding, still more kindly, “only to me it happened
twice.” If anything could have salved the smart in Harry’s mind it was
to know he shared the treatment which had been given to Sir Henry
Irving; that is why I cite this incident as an example of real courtesy.
H. B. IRVING.—Often so detached that his very detachment was mistaken
for rudeness or unkindness; with mannerisms which, to those who did not
know him, almost blotted out the very genuine goodness of heart which
lay underneath them. Yet again with a queer lack of knowledge of “who
people were” and what went on around him, as the following story will
show. This was told me by a man who knew him well and witnessed the
incident. “Harry” Irving was playing _Waterloo_ on the variety stage,
and on the same “bill”, on this particular week, were George Chirgwin
(the White-Eyed Kaffir) and Marie Lloyd. One evening there was a knock
at the door of Irving’s dressing-room, and a dresser told him “Miss
Lloyd would like to speak to you in her dressing-room, please, sir!” “H.
B.” turned to James Lindsay, who was in the room, and asked blandly,
“Who is Miss Lloyd, Jimmy? Ought I to answer the summons? I don’t know
her, do I?” Jimmy explained that Miss Lloyd was certainly accustomed to
people coming when she sent for them, and that “anyway she was
distinctly a lady to meet, if the opportunity arose”. Irving went, and
was away for over half an hour; when he returned he sat down and said
earnestly, “You were quite right. She _is_ distinctly a lady to know.
Most amusing. I must meet her again. Her humour is worth hearing,
perhaps a little—er—but still most amusing.” “But why did she want you
at all?” Jimmy asked. “Ah!” said Irving, “that is the really amusing
thing! She didn’t want me! She really wanted a man called _George
Chirgwin_, who is apparently a friend of hers. The dresser mixed the
names, poor fool.” The sequel is from Marie Lloyd herself. Someone asked
her about the incident. “I remember,” she said, “I remember it quite
well. I sent for Chirgwin, to have a chat, and in walks this other
fellow. I didn’t know who he was, and he didn’t say who he was; and I’m
certain he didn’t know me. He sat down and chatted; at least, I chatted;
he seemed quite happy, so I went on, and presently he wandered out
again. He seemed a nice, quiet fellow.” Try and read under all that the
simplicity of two great artists, and you will realise that it is not
only an amusing incident, but a light on the character of both.
LAWRENCE IRVING.—_I think_—no, I am sure—that he would, had he lived,
have been a very great actor; his performance in _Typhoon_ was one of
the finest things I have ever seen. He was a man full of enthusiasms. I
can remember him talking to Harry of Tolstoi, for whom he had a great
admiration, and being full of excitement about his work. Once he was at
our house, and Harry and he were arguing about some writer as if the
fate of the whole world depended upon the decision they came to. Harry
offered Lawrence a cigar, and had at once poured upon his head a torrent
of reasoned invective against “smoking” in general and cigars in
particular. It was “a disgusting and filthy habit”, men who smoked were
“turning themselves into chimneys”, and so on. The next morning Harry
was going by the Underground to town, and on the opposite platform saw
Lawrence Irving _smoking_ a perfectly enormous cigar. Harry, delighted,
called out, “What about ‘filthy habits’ and ‘chimney pots’ now!” in
great glee. Lawrence took the cigar from his lips and looked at it
seriously, as if he wondered how it got there at all. _Then_ he climbed
down from the platform, over the rails to the other side, where Harry
stood, simply to give him an explanation, which, he said, he “felt was
due”. He was smoking “to see how it tasted”!
[Illustration:
_Photograph by Bassano, London, W._ To face p. 124
HARRY AS LORD LEADENHALL
“The Rocket”
]
W. S. GILBERT.—He was Jill’s God-father, and I have a photograph of him,
which he signed “To Eva, the mother of my (God) child.” And that was
typical of Gilbert; he could make jokes from early morning to set of
sun—and did. Once, many years ago, when Decima was playing at the Savoy,
I had hurt my knee, and for some reason she told Gilbert. I think it was
because she wanted to be excused a rehearsal so that she might come back
to be with me “when the doctor came”. Gilbert insisted that I should be
taken to his own doctor, Walton Hood, and that at once. So, without
waiting for my own doctor to arrive, off we went to Walton Hood. He
looked at my knee, tugged at it, something clicked, and he said “Walk
home”, which I did, putting my foot to the ground for the first time for
a month. I am sure it is due to W. S. Gilbert that I am not now a
cripple.
SIR CHARLES HAWTREY.—Once upon a time (which is the very best way of
beginning a story) Charles Hawtrey owed Harry some money—a question of
royalties, as far as I remember. Harry was “hard up”—in those days we
were all often “hard up”, and didn’t mind owning it, though I don’t
suppose we really liked it any better then than we do now—so away went
“H. V.” to see Charles Hawtrey at the Haymarket. He was shown into his
room, and the question was discussed. Mr. Hawtrey decided that “of
course you must have it at once”. He took Harry into an adjoining
office, where upon a table were numbers of piles of money, all with a
small label on the top of the pile, each label bearing a name. Hawtrey’s
hand hovered above the piles of money, and alighted on one. “You shall
have this one,” he said, and prepared to hand it over to Harry, when a
voice called from an inner office, “You can’t take that one, sir; that
belongs to So-and-so.” Again the actor-manager’s hand went wandering
over the table, and he had just announced “You shall have this one”,
when the same voice called out the same warning. This went on for
several minutes, until at last Hawtrey turned to Harry. “They all seem
to belong to _somebody_,” he said; “but never mind, I’ll go out now and
_borrow it for you_!” This story might be called “A New Way to Pay Old
Debts.”
ANTHONY HOPE.—I might call him Sir Anthony Hope Hawkins, but I knew him
first (and shall always think of him) as Anthony Hope. I have met a good
many brilliant authors, but very few who were as brilliant “out of their
books” as in them. Anthony Hope is the exception. He used to give the
most delightful supper parties at his flat in Savoy Mansions, supper
parties where everyone seemed to shine with the brilliance inspired by
their host. He—well, he talked as he wrote—polished, clever witticisms.
Speaking of him reminds me of a holiday Harry and I spent at
Hazleborough one summer, years ago. We were staying at a bungalow there,
and soon after we arrived a note was delivered to Harry. It was from
“The Mayor of Hazleborough”, and stated that he had heard of the arrival
of the “well-known dramatist, Mr. H. V. Esmond”, and begged that the
said “Mr. H. V. Esmond” would open the local bazaar, which was to be
held in a few days’ time. I thought Harry ought to say “Yes”; Harry was
equally certain that he should say “No”, and added that he had brought
no suitable clothes with him. A note was finally dispatched to the Royal
Castle Hotel, from which “the Mayor” had written, to say that “Mr.
Esmond regretted, etc.” Later we were sitting in the garden. I was still
maintaining that it had been a mistake to refuse, and Harry equally
certain that he had done the best thing in refusing, when three heads
appeared over the fence and three voices chanted in unison, “Ever been
had?”—Anthony Hope, May and Ben Webster, who had sent the letter, and
were indeed, combined, “The Mayor of Hazleborough”.
MRS. PATRICK CAMPBELL.—Harry knew her much better than I did. They had
been at the same theatre for a long time, in different plays, and he
admired her tremendously. He used to say that one of the most beautiful
pictures he had ever seen was one evening when he went home to her flat,
somewhere in Victoria, with her husband, Patrick Campbell. It was very
late, and she had gone to bed, but she got up and came into the
dining-room in her nightdress. She curled herself up in a large
armchair, wrapped a skin rug round her, and, with her hair falling loose
on her shoulders, Harry said she was one of the most lovely things he
had ever seen in his life. He even railed at Kipling, after this
incident, for daring to describe any woman as “a rag, and a bone, and a
hank of hair”. The meeting with Mrs. Campbell that I remember was this:
A matinée was to be given, Royalty was to be present, and I was asked to
approach Mrs. Campbell if she would consent to appear. She was then
playing, I think, at the Haymarket. I went, and Harry went with me. We
were shown into her dressing-room. For some reason, which neither he nor
I could ever quite fathom, she did not wish to remember who he was. She
repeated his name in a vague, rather bored voice: “Mr. Esmond? Esmond?”;
then, as if struck with a sudden thought, “You write plays, don’t you?”
Harry, entering into the spirit of it all, said very modestly that he
“tried to do so”. More inspiration seemed to come to her: “Of
course—_yes_! _Sisters_—you have had an enormous success with _Sisters_
in America, haven’t you?” (I should say here that he never wrote a play
called _Sisters_ in his life.) He smiled and agreed: “Tremendous!” “It
is _so_ interesting to meet clever people—who write successful plays,”
she added. The conversation went on along these lines for some time.
When we left, she said “Good-bye” to me, and turned to Harry with
“Good-night, Mr.—er—Esmond.” An extraordinary incident, possibly an
extraordinary woman, but a very great actress.
MARIE LLOYD.—I can give two “flashlights” of Marie Lloyd. One, when I
saw her at the Tivoli, when she wore a striped satin bathing-costume,
and carried a most diminutive towel; the other, when I saw her at the
Palladium, and spent one of the most enjoyable thirty minutes of my
life. Was she vulgar? I suppose so; but it was a “clean” vulgarity,
which left no nasty taste behind it; it was a happy, healthy vulgarity,
and when it was over you came home and remembered the artistry which was
the essential quality of all she said and did. I met her at a charity
concert I arranged at the Alhambra during the war; I know she came all
the way from Sheffield to appear. We had an auction sale of butter,
eggs, pheasants, and so forth. Poor Laurie de Freece was the auctioneer,
and he was suffering from a very bad throat; his voice was dreadfully
hoarse. He stuck bravely to his work, and when he got to the pheasants
Marie Lloyd could bear it no longer. She put her head round the side of
the “back cloth” and said, “Five pounds, me—Marie Lloyd. I can’t bear to
hear you going on with that voice; it’s awful.” When Harry died, she
said to a woman who knew both Marie Lloyd and me, “I did think of
sending her a wire, and then I thought of writing a letter (Marie Lloyd,
who never wrote letters if she could avoid doing so!), then somehow—I
didn’t do either. Will you just say to Eva Moore that you’ve seen me,
and say, ‘Marie’s very sorry’?” Already she is becoming almost a
legendary figure; men and women will tell stories of Marie Lloyd long
after the songs she sang are forgotten. Personally, to me she will
always rank as one of the world’s great artists, and I like to remember
that, when I was given the sympathy of so many loving men and women,
Marie Lloyd too was “very sorry”.