A BUNDLE OF OLD LETTERS
“Wait till you read the letter.”
—_Eliza Comes to Stay._
To explain why I include this chapter at all, I want to give you the
scene as it happened in my study in Whiteheads Grove. I think that will
be a better explanation than if I were to tell you my ideas on letters
and letter-writing, however fully and completely I might do so.
It was one of those days when the desire to explore drawers and boxes,
the top shelves of cupboards, and brown paper parcels, comes over one;
that desire came over me, and I began. I did not get on very fast—one
never does—and the first obstacle was a parcel marked “Letters,
Private”. I untied the string, and began to read them; that was the end
of my exploring for the day, for as I read I went back to the times when
those letters were written and turned over in my mind the happenings
which had caused them ever to be written. I saw the writers, and heard
their voices. So the afternoon went past very quickly, for when ghosts
come to visit you they demand your whole attention, and will not be
dismissed quickly, will not be told, as one can tell ordinary people, “I
am so busy to-day, will you come and see me some other time?”; they
demand attention, and you find most of them too dear to deny it to them.
Besides, does anyone ever really lose their fondness for letters? I
write, I think, more than most people; sometimes I seem to spend my life
writing letters, but—I still look forward to “to-morrow morning’s post”,
and I think I always shall.
As I read these old letters, written to me and to Harry during the past
twenty years, I found myself laying aside first this one, and then that
one, because they seemed amusing, or very kind, or especially indicative
of the character of the writer. When the afternoon was over, my heap of
letters had grown, and I had determined to make them into a parcel again
and give them to whoever cared to read them as “A Bundle of Old
Letters”.
Listen to this one: I do not know why it was written, or when, except
that it is headed “February 1st”—but it takes me back to the days of
“The Gent., the Genius, and the Young Greek God”—the days when Harry
Esmond, Charles Hallard, and Gerald du Maurier went holiday-making
together:
MY DEAR HARRY,
Expressing one’s thoughts in any way is a form of conceit, surely,
isn’t it? If you speak them, or write them, you expect others to
listen—therefore you must consider what _you_ think of importance.
Authors must all be of a conceit that is abnormal, and preachers,
and—Good God—Poets!
Some people would rather not listen to the commonplace thoughts of
others—for these there should just be a “news sheet”, giving
generally what is taking place, with no garnishings and comments and
“what we think”, etc.—for silent men like “Tug” Wilson, engineers,
scientists, and equilibrists. Nowadays (do you agree with me?) too
much expression is given to “feelings”, and little feeble feelings
at that. There is no loud roar of a lion, no sweet song of a
nightingale, and no great hush either—it is all sparrows, and a
banging door. Everything is “tuppence”. You never read: “Death of
A——”; it is always “Tragic Death”, “Splendid Death”, “Comic Death”;
why not “Death”?
Love to you all.
GERALD.
Here is a letter dated “June 30th, 1898”; it is headed New York, and
begins:
MY DEAR ESMOND,
I accept your play. I suppose even a manager may give way to his
feelings sometimes, and I am going to do it now. I cannot express to
you sufficiently how much I like the play. If it meets with the same
impressions on an audience as it has with me, we will both have a
fine thing. However, independent of all that, in these times when a
manager is compelled, regretfully, to refuse so many plays, it is a
gratification to be able to say “I will accept and am glad of it”.
Yours truly,
CHARLES FROHMAN.
That was a glimpse of the Charles Frohman (“C.F.”, as he was always
called), whom Harry knew and loved.
This is a letter that Harry must have written out as a rough draft, for
there are alterations and “cuts” in it. I cannot remember why or to whom
it was written, but I am sure he wrote it very seriously, and chuckled
over it after it was finished:
“If authors in engaging artists for plays allowed themselves to be
biassed by the private life of each artist, I fear many theatres
would close and many deserving people would starve. If Miss Smith,
Jones, or Robinson suits the requirements of a play, it is not my
business, or the manager’s, to enquire whether or no she murdered
her mother. Is she the right person for the play?—that’s all one can
consider.” There the letter—or, rather, the draft—ends; I do not
know who the lady was—but I hope she made a great success.
I wonder why I have this next letter? Someone sent it to me, I suppose,
with that great kindness some people show in “passing on” the really
nice things that are sometimes said of one. And why not? If only
everyone would forget the unkind things they hear, and only treasure and
repeat the kind ones—well, the world would be a happier place for
everyone. This letter is dated “May 19th, 1901”, so I feel I may be
allowed to quote from it without being accused of undue conceit, because
it is “so many years ago”:
“You are right, and I think it is only fair to the ‘new lead’ to say
so—Eva Moore is a revelation—and that delicious natural laugh, which
is of all Nature’s inventions about the hardest to reproduce at
will. I suspect that Alexander has discovered what we all want so
much—the new ‘Madge Kendal’.” If there is one thing for which I have
always striven, it is a natural laugh, and I like to think that I
had attained it twenty-two years ago; I like to think I still retain
it!
Here is a letter, in large, black writing, but such charming writing it
is! Full of vigour, full of humour too. I do not know when it was
written; the only date is “June 22”. It runs:
Let there be no mistake about this little matter.
We _do_ want to come, and we _are_ coming,
_To You_
on
Thursday, 1 July, 4 o’clock.
_Question_: Until ——?
_Answer_: We go away.
ELLEN TERRY.
That letter brings another memory with it. Perhaps it was the time when
she stayed “until she went away”, but I remember Ellen Terry in my
garden, going up to my mother, who was seated there, and saying, “How
are you, Mrs. Moore? My name is Ellen Terry.” The simplicity and beauty
of that Great Lady is something to remember always.
The next letter in my packet is very short, and its brevity and the fact
that it is “very much to the point” appeals to me. It was written after
seeing _The Law Divine_:
MY DEAR HARRY ESMOND,
Do you mind my saying your Play will live long after you—or I? That
is the one thought I brought away with me.
Yours with his Hat off,
FRED WRIGHT.
28/3/19.
Here is another, and again undated, except for “Feb. 19th”:
DEAR MR. ESMOND,
Only a line to say how tremendously I enjoyed the play this
afternoon. Why won’t you write me a play like that? I want to play
“a mother”!!
Kindest regards,
Yours sincerely,
GLADYS COOPER.
What a contrast to another letter, from one of the worst actors I have
ever seen, who begins by telling “My Dear Esmond” that he wants a play
written for him, and proceeds to describe for six sheets of notepaper
_how_ the play is to be written and how the climax is to be reached; he
ends with the words, “remember I want at least _one great moment of
passion_”. I cannot remember that Harry ever embarked on this play,
which, with its one “great moment” only insisted on, might not have held
an audience for two and a half hours! Harry’s answer was, “My Dear X.,
God is in His Heaven.”
This letter interests me for many reasons; the writer herself had an
arresting personality, and this letter, with its clarity of style, its
beautifully clear and artistic writing, writing which never ceases for a
single word to depict character and sensitive feeling, the sentiment
bravely speaking what the writer felt, and yet never deteriorating into
nothing but carping criticism; all these things go to give a very true
idea of the writer:
DEAR MR. ESMOND,
I followed every word and scene of your play with the deepest
interest. I found it quite terrible. It would be absurd to say that
such stories ought not to receive illustration on the stage. But I
do say that, when they are presented, they should be told in the
Shakespearean and not in the Ibsen manner. One requires poetry and
music and every softening aid for tragedies so dismal, otherwise the
whole thing is a nightmare. I am not older than you are, but I have
had a great deal of sorrow, and I have been forced to see the
squalid side of every ideal. Yet I thought you were unjust even to
the worst in human nature. I know you won’t mind my saying this,
because I have such an admiration for your great talents. There are
so few dramatists in Europe that, where one recognises unusual
ability, one may be pardoned for wishing to see it displayed to the
highest advantage. Life, as it is, is quite “strong” enough; if you
show it as it is _not_, it becomes inartistically weak from excess
of horrors.—Then follows some criticism of the acting, ending with
the words, “Its (the play’s) balance was so good, and it never
halted or drooped. You have got the real gift.” The letter is signed
“Yours sincerely, Pearl Mary-Teresa Craigie” (whom the world knew
better as “John Oliver Hobbes”).
On a large sheet of very excellent paper, and somewhere near the bottom
of the sheet, is written:
DEAR ESMOND,
Thanks very much for Grierson. I am devouring him—gloom and all—with
great gusto.
Sincerely yours,
MAX BEERBOHM.
This next letter must have been written concerning _Grierson’s Way_, and
is in the queer irregular handwriting of William Archer, the great
critic. He says: “Of course Messieurs of the Old Guard in criticism die,
but never surrender. Never mind! You have scored a big victory, and I
congratulate you with all my heart. The mantle of ‘Clemmy’ (Clement
Scott) has certainly descended upon the _Telegraph_ gentleman.”
The next item in my bundle is a photograph of the “Weekly Box Office
Statement” of the Knickerbocker Theatre, New York, and at the bottom is
printed “This theatre’s largest week’s business at regular prices”. The
“attraction” was “Mr. N. C. Goodwin and Miss Maxine Elliott”, and the
play was _When We Were Twenty-One_.
Letters here from Maxine Elliott! Black, rather wild writing, straggling
over the pages, written with a soft, thick pen, and very “decided” ink.
This one was written soon after Jill was born. Maxine Elliott is her
godmother, hence the enquiries:
DEAR HARRY ESMOND,
What is Miss Esmond’s Christian name? You didn’t tell me, and I have
a little souvenir for her that I want to get marked. How proud you
and Eva must be, and how secret you were! I almost believe you
bought her at the Lowther Arcade! (once the Home of dolls).
Another letter from her begins: “Dear Harry Esmond,—Philadelphia the
_frigid_, Philadelphia the _unappreciative_, has received us well, even
at this inauspicious time to open, and I am full of hope and confidence
in New York.”
Here is a third from the same source; this, I think, was written when
Harry first agreed to write a play for her, which when completed was
called _Under the Greenwood Tree_:
I am longing to hear the new play, and full of excitement over it,
and what an _angel_ you are to write it for me! I sail April 4th,
and that means London—Blessed London—about the 11th.... I am doing
the biggest business of my life this year, which is the only
satisfaction to be derived from this laborious, monotonous,
treadmill sort of grind that it is in this country of vast distances
(America). I shall retire (ha! ha!) after we finish with the big
play you are writing for me, you nice Harry Esmond!
My best love to you all.
Yours very sincerely,
MAXINE ELLIOTT GOODWIN.
Letters from busy men and women, how much they mean! Not the formal
typewritten affair, but written with their own hands, and meaning
moments snatched from the rush of work that they always have before
them. This one from Mr. Robert Courtneidge, for instance, written from
his office to Harry after _The Law Divine_ was produced. And the
sidelight that it gives to the character of the man who wrote it!
Listen:
MY DEAR ESMOND,
I saw _The Law Divine_ yesterday, and enjoyed it more than I can
express. It is a delightful play—admirably acted. It was quite a
treat to me, who am not given to the theatre spirit nowadays. I
didn’t go round to see you, for I’m as backward as a novice, and I
tremble at “going behind” where I have no business.
Kindest regards,
Yours truly,
ROBERT COURTNEIDGE.
P.S.—And I remember Miss Illington playing juvenile parts in
Edinburgh—dear, dear! She was a braw young lassie then, but a
delightful actress.
That is the Robert Courtneidge I have met; with a twinkle in his shrewd,
kindly eyes, and that more than a touch of his country’s humour always
ready to appear—when rehearsals are over. He is one of the people who
remain young, despite the fact that at a rehearsal he has been known to
put on his hat and, shaking his head, say sadly, “I’m an old man, I
can’t stand it”, and so walk away. Underneath it all, though actors may
turn pale and actresses may shed tears in the dark recesses of the
prompt corner, there is always the twinkle in Robert Courtneidge’s
eye—if you look for it!
I should not wish to praise myself; I should never wish to be an
egotist, even though this is an account of “My Life”; and that is why I
have included in my bundle of letters only a few that have been written
to me, but mostly those which were written to Harry. Here is one,
however, which appealed to me then, and does still, as “high praise”. It
is from a Frenchwoman—and is, therefore, “praise from Sir Hubert
Stanley”—for it refers to the performance of _Mumsie_, by Edward
Knoblauch—that dear, human, though unsuccessful play for which I had so
much love:
I could see working in you all the feelings of a Frenchwoman. You
are a great artist. You give me intense pleasure. I wish to thank
you very much.
Very sincerely yours,
MARGUERITE ARNOLD BENNETT.
This letter was written after Harry played “Touchstone”, when he was so
severely criticised by some for his conception of the part:
MY DEAR ESMOND,
Touchstone, Touchstone, Touchstone at last! A creation, a triumph, a
delight; wit, fantasy, irony—that hint of the Great God Pan behind
the motley—all unite to make the Touchstone I have always longed for
but have only now seen for the first time.
Sincerely yours,
JUSTIN HUNTLY MCCARTHY.
Here is a letter which Harry wrote to me. He was arranging for a theatre
at the time, though what theatre I cannot remember. He evidently feels
that he has been successful in an absolutely business-like way—probably
because he never was, and if he had made a fair “deal” over anything it
was due entirely to the honesty of his associates and not to his own
capacity, for, as I have said elsewhere, he was never “one of the
children of this world”:
“Your poor husband,” he writes, “has been having a devil of a time. The
evolving, the planning, the diplomacy, the craft!—but we rehearse
Monday, and open in ten days. Jill had a lovely time in the garden
to-day, as happy as a bumble bee. I think I’ve had the dreariest week
I’ve ever had in my life, but all’s well that ends well.” Evidently all
the “craft” had been taking all the colour out of life for him!
When he died, I had so many wonderful letters from all our friends, and
not only friends who were personally known to me, but dear people who
wrote to me from all over the world, offering their sympathy and love;
offerings of sympathy from their Majesties the King and Queen—one of
those signal proofs of their kindly thought in and for their subjects
which have helped to make them so dearly loved by the Empire; from men
and women who had worked with us, who had known Harry as an actor, as a
man, or as both; from people who had never known him, but loved him for
his written and spoken word; from people who had known me, and wished to
send me their loving help at such a time. Among these many letters there
is one from Sir Johnston Forbes Robertson, a letter full of regret at
Harry’s death, and of kind and cheering thoughts for me; it gives a
picture of Harry, riding a bicycle past Buckingham Palace one morning.
The night before Forbes Robertson had played in a new production, and
the critics in some of the papers had not been too kind. The letter
recalls how Harry, riding past Forbes Robertson that morning, called out
cheerily, “Never mind what they say, _you were fine_.” The writer adds,
“Wasn’t it just like him?” One of those happy pictures of Harry which
did so much to bring rays of happiness to me at that time.
Not the least beautiful was one which consisted only of a single line,
the letter of the best type of Englishman, the man who “cannot talk”,
but whose very affection renders him dumb. It was just this: “Eva, dear,
I am so sorry for you”—and so said everything that a kind heart could
say.
The pleasant memories that many of those letters recalled! As Charles
Hawtrey wrote, “I look back on _One Summer’s Day_ as nearly the
happiest, if not quite the happiest, of my stage life, and it is one of
the ‘memories’ that seem to dwell in the minds of many of my audiences.”
The gift that some people have of putting so much into a few lines, all
the tragedy of a lifetime in a few words! One dear woman wrote to me,
she having lost her much-loved husband about a year previously: “I have
such pleasant memories of him (Harry); always so kind and charming to me
in the early days; and, since then, both of us with both of you—and now
only you and me.”
And they gave me a great deal, those letters; and here is one which
expresses all I want to say—a letter from Miss Sybil Thorndike—and so I
give you her words, as an expression of what I feel and what I felt
then: “Doesn’t it seem strange that out of a big personal grief comes
sometimes a wonderful recognition of warmth that’s in the hearts of
outsiders?”
So I finish my “Bundle of Letters”, tie up the parcel, and put them
away—for I cannot bring myself to destroy them. They are part of one’s
life; they came as an unexpected joy, or as something looked for
anxiously; they came, bringing praise, good news, sympathy, and kindly
thoughts. Letter-writing as an art may be lost; but I still say, with a
feeling which has always something of a child’s expectancy and hope:
“There is always to-morrow morning’s post.”
[Illustration:
_Photograph by Turner & Drinkwater, Hull._ To face p. 187
HARRY AS LITTLE BILLEE
“Trilby”
]