If one had waited for a few months, "The Kendals" would have been
getting settled in their new home in Portland Place. But, then, the
happiest associations are always centred around the old, and the
pleasantest and frequently the dearest recollections are gathered about
the familiar. That is why I went to them once more to their home of many
years at 145, Harley Street.
It would be difficult to realize a woman of more striking
characteristics than she who was for so many years known as "Madge"
Robertson, and notwithstanding a very important visit one morning in
August twenty-three years ago to St. Saviour's, Plymouth Grove,
Manchester, when she became the wife of Mr. William Hunter Grimston,
there are many who still know and speak of her by her happily-remembered
maiden name. From that day husband and wife have never played
apart--they have remained sweethearts on the stage and lovers in their
own home. At night--the footlights; by day--home and children. Mrs.
Kendal assured me that neither her eldest daughter, Margaret, nor Ethel,
nor Dorothy--the youngest--nor "Dorrie," who is now at Cambridge, nor
Harold, a "Marlborough" boy, would ever go on the stage. Home, husband,
and children--home, wife, and children, are the embodiment of the life
led by the Kendals.
[Illustration: THE DRAWING-ROOM
_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry_.]
Together with Mr. Kendal we sat down in the drawing-room, and were
joined for a moment by Miss Grimston, a quiet, unaffected young girl,
who looked as though she could never rid herself of a smile, either in
her eyes or about her mouth--a young maiden who suggested "sunshine."
She was carrying Victoria, a pet dog. The mother's whole thoughts seemed
to go out to her daughter.
"Our Jubilee dog," she cried. "I bought her on Jubilee Day, and,
curiously enough, Mr. Kendal bought one too, neither of us telling the
other we were going to make such canine purchases."
Then, when Miss Grimston had left the room, her mother turned to me
quietly, and said:--
"The image of my brother Tom. The same hair, the same expression of
eyes, the same kind and loving ways. I think he lives in my girl. Come
with me and you shall see his portrait."
It hung in Miss Grimston's boudoir--an apartment the walls of which were
decorated with pictures of the Comédie-Française Company, the original
designs for the dresses in "A Wife's Secret"; while over the
mantel-board are Mr. and Mrs. Kendal in "The Ironmaster," and many
family portraits are about.
[Illustration: MISS GRIMSTON'S BOUDOIR.
_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]
"It is so amusing to hear people talk and write about my eldest brother
Tom and me playing together as children," she said. "My mother was
married when she was eighteen, and my brother was born when she was
nineteen; I was born when she was forty-eight, and was her twenty-second
child! So my brother was a grown man with a moustache when I knew him. I
was brought up with his two children--little Tom and Maude, my own
nephew and niece."
What a delightful story it was! Little Madge Robertson used to dress up
as a policeman and take Maude into custody before Tom, the younger, as
the judge. And this was the trial:--
"What is the prisoner charged with, constable?" asked the judge.
"Murder, my lord," replied the representative of law and order.
"Prisoner, are you guilty?"
"Yes, my lord," answered the poor prisoner.
"Prisoner, have you anything to say why sentence should not be passed
upon you according to law?"
"Yes, my lord. _I'm the daughter of the author of 'Caste'._"
The prisoner always got off, and dear old William Robertson would watch
this little scene and roar with laughter.
"Yes," Mrs. Kendal said quietly, as we again looked at "Tom's" picture,
"my brother was kindness itself, even from his infancy. I remember
hearing how, when he was a very small boy and living with his aunt, he
went out one summer's day with a new velvet jacket on. He caught sight
of a poor little beggar child his own size, who was in tatters, and,
beckoning him across, at once divested himself of his new coat, put it
on the wondering youngster, and ran away home as fast as he could. His
aunt questioned him, and upon finding out the true circumstances of the
case, and not wishing to damp the kind spirit in the little fellow's
heart, said:--
"'Well, we'll go and try to find the boy you gave it to, and buy your
jacket back.'
"Fortunately the search was successful, and the coat was bought back for
no less a sum than half-a-sovereign.
"And in later years it was just the same with Tom. He could never pass
by a common cookshop, in front of the windows of which was often a crowd
of men, women, and children, looking on with longing eyes, without
getting them inside and giving them a fill to their hearts' content.
When out driving it was no different. He would stop the horse, and have
all the watching hungry ones inside, and the next moment they would be
revelling in the satisfying properties of thick slices of plum-pudding
and roast beef."
The house throughout is most artistic. Mr. Kendal is a painter of great
merit, and he "knows" a picture as soon as he sees it. Pictures are his
hobby; hence there is not a room in the house--even to the
kitchen--which does not find a place for some canvas, etching, or
engraving. The entrance-hall is at once striking, with its quaint
thirteenth century furniture, bronzes, and Venetian ware. There are some
fine engravings of Miss Brunton--who became Countess of Craven--Kemble,
Garrick, Phelps, and Mrs. Siddons. A picture of Mrs. Kendal in "The
Falcon" was done at the express wish of, and paid for by, the late Poet
Laureate. Tennyson said it reminded him of a woman he liked and admired.
In the shadow is a fine bust of Macready, given by the great actor to
the father of Mrs. Kendal; resting against the fireplace on either side
are the two lances used in "The Queen's Shilling," and close by are two
huge masks representing a couple of very hirsute individuals. They came
from California, and represent "The King of the Devils" and "The King of
the Winds."
[Illustration: THE HALL. (_From a Photo, by Elliott & Fry._)]
[Illustration: THE DINING ROOM. (_From a Photo, by Elliott & Fry._)]
The entrance to the dining-room is typical of all the other door
decoration in the house--a carving of cream enamel of beautiful design
and workmanship. The walls of this apartment are terra-cotta, with a
finely carved oak-panelling. It is a little treasure room of canvases,
the gem of which is probably C. Van Hannen's "Mask Shop in Venice"--a
painter of a school which Luke Fildes, R.A., has done so much to
popularize. Macbeth is represented by a couple of delightful efforts,
and there are samples of the skill of Eugene Du Blas, Crofts, John Reid,
Andriotti, Sadler, De Haas, Rivers; a grand landscape by Webb--nearly
all of which are Academy works. The decorative articles are as artistic
as in some cases they are peculiar. Running about above the oaken
fireplace, amongst choice bronzes and blue ware, and a black boy who is
trudging along with a very useful clock on his back, are many quaint
animals of polished brass--even mice are not missing, with wonderfully
long tails--that sparkle and glisten in the firelight. Ascending the
staircase you find etchings after Alma Tadema, Briton Riviere, and
others; the walls are covered with them.
[Illustration: SCENE FROM "THE SQUIRE." _From the Picture by Mr.
Kendal._]
Here are a series of delightful pictures showing Mr. and Mrs. Kendal in
Gilbert's "Sweethearts," and I am reminded that the gifted actor and
actress were the first to appear before the Queen after a period of
five-and-twenty years, during which Her Majesty had never seen a play,
the performance that night consisting of "Sweethearts" and Theyre
Smith's "Uncle's Will." And as one takes note of many rare works--the
bedroom is almost entirely given up to Doré's marvellous creations,
though near the window is a splendid specimen of the photographer's art:
a head of Miss Mary Anderson--one cannot fail to observe the family
spirit everywhere--sometimes portraits of children, sometimes small and
dainty pencil studies made of them by their father. Occasionally
theatrical sketches by Mr. Kendal appear. Here are some of the principal
members of the old St. James's Company, who used to give Mr. Kendal
sittings between the acts--here a capital bit of artistic work depicting
a scene from "The Squire," made from stray memorandums and with the aid
of a looking-glass for securing the actor-artist's face.
Leaving Mr. Kendal for a time, Mrs. Kendal and I returned to the
drawing-room. It overlooks Harley Street and is a handsome two-roomed
apartment, the prevailing tone of blue, cream, and gold harmonizing to
perfection. It is positively one huge collection of curios.
The screen at the far end is rather shuddery, not to say creepy, to
those of nervous temperament. It is decorated with tomahawks of fearful
and wonderful shapes and sizes, and other Indian implements of warfare.
"These came from California," Mrs. Kendal explained. "No sooner are you
out of the train than the Indians tomahawk you! Look at this bow and
arrow."
The pots of palms and ferns all hold American flags. These colours--the
stars and stripes--once surmounted baskets of flowers and floral
emblems--five, six, and even seven feet high--handed to Mrs. Kendal
during her recent tour in the States; and amongst the sweetly-perfumed
blossoms diamonds, pearls, and other precious gems have glistened in the
shape of ornaments. A table near the window tells you of the generosity
of the Americans. It is crowded with silver ornaments and mementos. You
may handle the diminutive silver candlesticks to light "The Kendals"
away--silver jugs, souvenir spoons, frying-pans, coffee-pots--all in
miniature. This silver dollar is only one of a hundred. You touch a
spring, when, lo and behold! the portrait of the donor appears. All
American women have dainty feet. These little ebony and silver lasts for
your boots remind you of this. On this table is a letter from the
Princess of Wales, thanking Mrs. Kendal for "the lovely silver wedding
bells and flowers which you so kindly sent me on the tenth." You may
examine George IV.'s cigar-case--a silver tube in which the King was
wont to carry a single cigar. It is impossible to number all the
treasured odds and ends, but still more difficult to total up the
miniature articles set out in a pair of cabinets.
[Illustration: NAPOLEON'S WRITING-TABLE _From a Photo by Elliott &
Fry._]
[Illustration: "SHAKESPEARE AND BACON" _From the Picture by A. E.
Emslie._]
Mrs. Kendal has a hobby--it lies in the collecting of the tiniest of
tiny things. If her intimate friends come across any curiosity
particularly choice and small, it is at once snapped up and dispatched
to Harley Street. I had some little leaden mice in my hand the size of
half-a-dozen pins' heads. Handkerchiefs an inch square, babies' woollen
shoes, pinafores, shirts, all of the tiniest, but perfectly made, with
buttons and button-holes complete, and even buns with currants no bigger
than a pin's point. Sheep, dogs, cats, monkeys, pigs, giraffes--in
short, convert the entire Zoo into miniature china knick-knacks, and you
have a considerable portion of Mrs. Kendal's collection realized. One
must needs stand for a moment at Napoleon's writing-table, near which
rests a characteristic clay by Van Beers. The pictures here are many.
Millais' work is well represented by several etchings, and a remarkably
clever thing by Emslie, entitled "Shakespeare and Bacon," suggests the
two extremes of taste to a nicety. Whilst a young enthusiast is
declaiming Shakespeare, one of his listeners--doubtless, equally
enthusiastic, but with an eye for victuals--is interrupting a soliloquy
with the remark: "Now! who says bacon?" Every portrait has a
history--Prince and Princess Henry of Battenberg in their wedding
garments, the late Duke of Albany, Professor Huxley, Mrs. Beecher
Stowe, Mr. and Mrs. Pinero, Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft, and many others.
Three suggestive pictures, however, cannot be passed by. This dear
little fellow is the son of Mr. B. J. Farjeon. Mr. Farjeon married "Rip
Van Winkle" Jefferson's daughter, and the youngster is pictured dressed
in the tattered garments of merry, rollicking _Rip_. You know how _Rip_
always drinks your health? He holds the glass of hollands high up and
cries, "Here's your health and your family's good health, and may they
all live long and prosper!" but Mr. Farjeon's little boy cries out,
"Here's your health, and your family's good health, and may you all live
long and _proper_!"
[Illustration: GROUP IN CLAY BY JAN VAN BEERS.]
[Illustration: MRS. KENDAL AS "GALATEA"]
A photo, of Dr. Pancoast stands near a bust of Mrs. Kendal as _Galatea_,
done when she was seventeen. Dr. Pancoast--a celebrated American
physician--saved Mrs. Kendal's life when her maid accidentally
administered a poisonous drug to her mistress. The poor girl herself
nearly died of fright.
But perhaps the portrait of the late Duchess of Cambridge, which Mrs.
Kendal now holds in her hand, is more interesting than them all. "Her
late Royal Highness," Mrs. Kendal said, "always addressed me and wrote
to me as Mrs. Grimston. She was paralyzed in her right hand and wrote
with her left; perhaps that is why this letter, written in pencil and
with great effort, is treasured more than it otherwise would have been."
It was one of the last letters written by Her Royal Highness. The
letters and words were wonderfully legible; it read:--
"DEAR MRS. GRIMSTON,--One line only to thank you for sending me
the stalls for my dressers, who enjoyed your and Mr. Grimston's
charming acting immensely. My first deaf one was able to follow
perfectly, thanks to your having kindly let her have the book
previously. Again thanking you,
"I remain,
"Yours very sincerely,
AUGUSTA."
And in a little cabinet in the far corner is a beautiful Sèvres bowl. In
the bowl is a telegram from "Princess Mary," asking Mrs. Kendal to come
to St. James's Palace at once. Written on a black-edged envelope were
these words: "To dearest Mrs. Grimston Kendal. A little souvenir. Found
amongst the last wishes of her late Royal Highness the Duchess of
Cambridge."
It is only just possible to hasten through the collection of substantial
reminiscences which add to the charm of this corner of the house. The
quaint white china hare was given to Mrs. Kendal many years ago by Mr.
John Hare, when playing together at the Court. A curious but vividly
suggestive idea of Japanese wit, in the shape of a couple of
characteristically dressed figures, typifies "Health" and "Wealth"; the
figure, representing "Health" has a countenance of the deepest red, the
other a face all golden and as resplendent as the sun. In a small frame
is the letter from the Goethe Club of New York, making Mrs. Kendal an
honorary member. She is the only woman member of this club. And this
pretty little doll dressed as a Quakeress--a charming compliment to the
recipient--was presented by the Quakeresses of Philadelphia, who never,
never, never go the play, yea, verily! So they sent this as a tribute of
their admiration for the talents and character of the woman who has been
called "The Matron of the Drama."
[Illustration: MRS. KENDALL'S LITTLE QUAKERESS.]
We sat down on a settee in front of the fire. The cushions were of white
lawn marked with the initial "M.," and were worked by the late Lady
Eglinton.
Mrs. Kendal's happy and homely face is familiar to all. She has a truly
tender and sympathetic expression there at all times. Her hair was once
that of the fair one with golden locks, now it is of a rich brown
colour--very neatly and naturally trimmed about her head. She is very
kind--very motherly; just the woman you would single out in time of
trouble and ask, "What would you advise me to do?" I gathered these
impressions whilst listening to many things she said of which I need not
write. Her views on theatrical life are strong, nay, severe. She is not
afraid to speak, and she hits hard and sends her shots home. But you
cannot mistake the earnestness of her manner, the true intent of her
motives.
"I am only a common-place woman," she said to me. "I used to be ever so
light-hearted--now, I'm a morbid creature. Here we are sitting down by
the fireside. I may tell you happy reminiscences that may make one
merry, and all the time I should be thinking about--what? Cancer! I
return to my dressing-room from the stage at night. As I am passing
along a fellow player may turn to me and say, 'How well the play has
gone to-night!' I am only thinking of those who have trod that same
stage before me. What are they now? Dust--earth--worms!"
I stirred the fire, and the bright glow from its burning embers lit up
the corner where we sat. And we talked together.
Margaret Brunton Robertson was born at Great Grimsby on March 15th,
1849--curiously enough these lines will be read on the anniversary of
her birthday. Her grandfather, father, and uncle were all actors.
"I lived alone with my father and mother," she said, "and the only real
recollection I have of my father is his fine white beard, which he grew
towards the latter days of his life, and a little advice he once gave
me.
"'Always count twenty,' he said, 'when you are walking across the quay
at Bristol, then you won't hear the sailors swear!' Yet he would use
very bad language to me when he was teaching me my parts; for you know I
commenced acting at a very early age. I was only three when I made my
first appearance--and I ruined the play. It was at the Marylebone
Theatre in the 'Three Poor Travellers,' and I was a blind child. My
nurse was in the front row of the pit--that is, in the very first row,
for there were no stalls. All I thought about was my new shoes--a very
pretty, dainty little pair, and as soon as I stepped on the stage, I
opened my eyes, caught sight of the delighted face of my nurse, and
cried out:--
"'Oh! nursey, dear, look at my new shoes!'
"I played at Chute's Theatre in Bristol in many child's parts. When my
father went to the wall over the Lincoln Circuit, Mr. Chute engaged him
as an actor, and I went with him. I remember in 'A Midsummer Night's
Dream'--I was _Mustard Seed_, I think, or _Peas Blossom_; at any rate,
some small character that required very prettily dressing, and plenty of
flowers on my little costume. I am as fond of flowers to-day as I was
then. Well, when once I got on the stage in my pretty dress--of which I
was particularly proud--before I would leave it, I had to be bought off
with apples and oranges! There they would stand at the wings, and the
price would go up--up--up--two oranges, three oranges, three oranges
and two apples--until I inwardly murmured a childish equivalent for
'sold,' and toddled off.
"I acted _Eva_ in 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' when I was eight. I think I was
always a sad child--I looked forty when I was fifteen. After little
_Eva_ I used to play anything."
And they were hard times for little Madge--she worked like the brave
little woman she was. Her childish thoughts were constantly with her
parents--how best could she add to the weekly income. And this is what
the same little Madge would do. Night after night, after playing in a
serious piece, she would appear in burlesque, sing, dance, and crack her
small jokes with the best of them. It was hard work that made her a
woman--it was dearly-bought experience that gave birth to the
sympathetic heart she has to-day.
[Illustration: MRS. KENDAL. _From a Photo. by Bassano._]
So at fourteen she was a woman grown--and at fifteen at Hull played
_Lady Macbeth_ to Phelps's _Macbeth_!
"I was dressed in my mother's clothes," Mrs. Kendal said, "and I fear I
must have looked a fearful guy!"
At rehearsal Phelps looked upon the young woman.
"And who--who is this child?" asked the great actor.
"Madge Robertson," the manager answered; "a rare favourite here. It was
a choice between her and a very old woman, Mr. Phelps."
"Then let the young woman play, by all means," Phelps said.
What a night it was! At the end of the play they wanted her on again,
but Phelps was obdurate. A party of men came round, and threatened to
throw Phelps into the Humber! Phelps remained firm.
"He was kindness itself through it all," Mrs. Kendal assured me, "and
though I did not go on again, he proved his thoughtfulness a little
later on by sending for me to play _Lady Teazle_. I played the leading
parts during the three nights Phelps remained in Hull in 'The Man of the
World,' 'Richelieu,' and 'Macbeth.' On July 29th, 1865, I made my
_début_ in London, at the Haymarket, as _Ophelia_ to the _Hamlet_ of
Walter Montgomery. Poor Montgomery! He was what you would call a
'lady-killer'--very conceited, but, withal, very kind. He once wrote a
letter to my father, and added a postscript, saying: 'Keep this letter.
Should poverty fall upon you or yours, your great-grand-children may be
able to sell it for a good sum of money!' I was only with him six
weeks."
The only play of her brother's in which Mrs. Kendal has appeared was
"Dreams," when the Gaiety first opened. At this time the managers always
tried to induce Mrs. Kendal to appear in a riding habit--a costume in
which she looked strikingly handsome.
"Alfred Wigan played in 'Dreams,'" continued Mrs. Kendal. "His wife was
one of the kindest women I ever met. She gave me a gold bracelet for a
very curious little service I used to render her husband every night. He
had to sing a song in 'Dreams,' and one or two of the high notes were
beyond his reach. I used to take these notes for him, and the audience
never guessed the truth."
"And have you not played _Desdemona_?" I asked.
"Oh! yes--and to a real black man, and so he did not have to put his
head up the chimney to make himself up for the part! His name was Ira
Aldridge, and scandal said he was the dresser of some great actor whom
he used to imitate. But he had very ingenious ideas as to the character
of _Othello_. He thought him a brute, and played him as such. His great
notion was to get the fairest woman possible for _Desdemona_--and I was
selected, for at that time my hair was quite golden.
"In one part of the play he would cry out, 'Give me thy hand,
Desdemona!' and certainly the effect of my hand in his huge grasp was
impressive. Then in the last act he would pull me from the couch by the
hair of my head. Oh! there was something in his realism, I can tell
you!"
Miss Robertson made a great sensation when she appeared as _Blanche
Dumont_, in Dr. Westland Marston's "Hero of Romance," when it was
performed for the first time at the Haymarket Theatre, on March 14th,
1868. Seventeen months after this, on August 7th, 1869, she was Madge
Robertson no longer. On that day she was married to Mr. William Hunter
Grimston, whose stage name is Kendal. It is a charming little story.
It occurred at Manchester. Mr. Kendal and Miss Robertson were on tour
with the elder Compton, and they were--sweethearts. A convenient time
seemed to have arrived for their wedding day, for on the Thursday,
Friday, and Saturday nights pieces were to be played in which neither of
them would be required. This would mean a nice little honeymoon--and the
two lovers would reappear on the Monday night. So the day was
fixed--Thursday; the church chosen--St. Saviour's, Plymouth Grove; and
the best man booked--Walter Gowing, who used to play under the name of
Walter Gordon.
Then bad news came. Compton's brother was taken ill, and he had to hurry
away from Cottonopolis. Another play had to be put in the bill, both Mr.
Kendal and Miss Robertson would be needed--for it was "As You Like It,"
and the one would be wanted for _Orlando_ and the other for _Rosalind_.
Still, the wedding was proceeded with on Thursday morning, quietly and
happily, and in the evening husband and wife met on the stage in the
Forest of Arden. There, with _Celia_ as the priest, amidst the leafy
trees and grassy pathways, _Orlando_ turns to the merry _Celia_, and
pointing to the far, far happier _Rosalind_, cries out:--
"Pray thee, marry us!"
"Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?"
"I will."
"Then," _Rosalind_ pertly remarks, "you must say, 'I take thee,
Rosalind, for wife.'"
"I take thee, Rosalind, for wife," said _Orlando_, earnestly.
Then _Rosalind_ asked, "Now tell me how long you would have her after
you have possessed her?"
And _Orlando_ replied--both in the words of Shakespeare and in the
language of his own heart--"For ever and a day!"
That is the true story of the wedding of Mr. and Mrs. Kendal. It was a
natural desire of each never to play apart from the other, and from that
day they have never separated. For some seven years Mr. and Mrs. Kendal
played at the Haymarket, under Buckstone's management, and the gifted
actress merrily referred to the little jokes played on "Bucky" by some
of the actors. He was stone deaf, and could only take his cues when to
speak from the movements of his fellow-actors' lips, so they would annoy
him by continuing the lip movement, and "Bucky" sometimes got "stuck."
[Illustration: THE DRAWING-ROOM. _From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]
Little need be said of Mrs. Kendal's subsequent work--her acting at the
Court, the Prince of Wales's, and her labours at the St. James's, when,
in 1881, she appeared there under the joint management of Mr. Kendal and
Mr. Hare. Not only in this country has her name become fondly familiar
in the homes of those who "go to the theatre" and those who "never
would," but in America the artistic acting of herself and husband has
been instantly and enthusiastically recognised.
I left the drawing-room--pausing, before entering Mr. Kendal's study, to
admire the aviary--a veritable home of song--and to notice one
diminutive member of the feathered tribe in particular, who has been
taught by Miss Grimston to perform tricks _ad lib._, in addition to
giving forth the sweetest of notes.
The study is a very delicate apartment in terra-cotta and gold--here and
there are quaint blue china vases and many exquisite bronzes. The window
in the recess where the table is--a typical study table, suggesting
plenty of work--is of stained glass, the quartet of divisions
representing the four seasons. A glance round the walls of this room at
once reveals the substantial side of Mr. Kendal's artistic
hobby--pictures. In this apartment there is nothing but water-colours,
save a very clever pen-and-ink sketch by a New York artist, called "Six
Months After Marriage," which Jefferson caught sight of at the New York
Dramatic Bazaar, and reminded Mr. Kendal to "keep his eye on," and a
portrait or two of Mrs. Kendal and the children. "Hetty Sorrell" at her
butter pats, with her thoughts very far from the churning-pan, is a gem.
"The Last of St. Bartholomew" is a magnificent bit of painting, and the
Venetian views at once carry one back to the home of the merry gondolier
and perfect moonlight nights. This picture of Salvini--who its possessor
assured me was the finest tragedian he had ever seen--was painted by Mr.
Kendal himself. The bookcase, running along opposite the window,
contains many rare first editions, of which Mr. Kendal is a very
persevering and successful collector, and a bound manuscript copy of
every play produced by him, together with the original sketches for the
scenery. You may look over the "Scrap of Paper," "The Falcon," "Queen's
Shilling," "Ladies' Battle," "Clancarty," "The Ironmaster," "The Money
Spinner," and "The Squire"--Pinero's play, of which somebody wrote that
it wafted the scent of the new-mown hay across the footlights.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF SALVANI, BY MR. KENDAL.]
It is interesting to learn how Mr. Kendal first came across Pinero.
"I only knew him as an actor at the Lyceum," he said, "and had never met
him. He wrote and asked if we would let him read a play to us. As a rule
we never do that; but, remembering that Pinero was himself a player, we
made an exception. So it came about that one day, after a rehearsal, the
actor playwright read his piece to us in the _foyer_ of the St. James's.
We never expected anything at first, but the reading ended in our taking
the play immediately, though we scarcely knew what we should do with it,
seeing it was a two-act play. We found an opportunity, however, and you
know the success it was. It was called 'The Money Spinner.'"
Mr. Kendal is a striking-looking man--the very ideal of a picturesque
soldier, with a constitution of steel. He talks to you frankly, easily,
for there is not two penny-worth of presumption about him. He lives and
labours very quietly--he enjoys his days, and a good cigar. He divides
his talents between the stage and the brush. His pencil and palette have
been with him in far-off places, and there is always a corner in his
bag for them if he only travels twenty miles from Harley Street. His
peculiarity of painting--so to speak--lies in the fact that he never
fails to chronicle the view obtained from any hotel where he may be
staying. He showed me a book full of these hasty impressions--all of
which were most beautifully done--many of them he could only give ten
minutes or a quarter of an hour to. Two of these I brought away for
reproduction in these pages; they are both unfinished, however--the
pencil reminders of certain little additions tell that.
[Illustration: SKETCH FROM THE QUEEN's HOTEL, MANCHESTER, BY MR.
KENDAL.]
The first of these is a view of the Infirmary as seen from Mr. Kendal's
window at the Queen's Hotel, Manchester; the second--done in a quarter
of an hour--shows the way the Americans erect their buildings for
exhibiting a cyclorama--popularly known here as a panorama. It was done
from a back window in an hotel in Cleveland, U.S.A. The actor-artist
never learnt drawing, save for a few hours' lessons he took at the Slade
Schools under the tuition of Le Gros. He draws everything that impresses
him--his painting memory is remarkable. He sees a man's face in the
street, carries it home in his mind, and it will be very faithfully put
on paper or canvas.
We talked for a long time on "pictures"--he was so happy and earnest
about it that it was some time before we made an attempt to tread the
boards and get behind the footlights.
Mr. Kendal--William Hunter Grimston--was born at Notting Hill, and just
outside the sound of Bow Bells, on December 16th, 1843. His parents
belonged to the Low Church, and their views of the theatre in general,
and on adopting the stage as a profession in particular, will be readily
understood. Mr. Kendal was intended for the Army--how he came to "go on"
the stage is best told in his own words:
"I had only been to three or four pantomimes previously," he said, "and
one night--I was about eighteen years of age at the time--I found myself
in the stalls of the old Soho Theatre, in Dean Street, Soho, now known
as the Royalty Theatre. My paper and pencil were out, and I was busily
engaged in making sketches of the various actors and actresses. The
piece was 'Billie Taylor.' Suddenly I felt a gentle tap on the shoulder
from behind. I turned round.
"'Would you allow me to take those sketches round and show the 'parties'
interested?' a gentleman asked.
"'Certainly; with pleasure,' I replied.
"'Perhaps you would like to come behind the scenes as well?'
"It was just what I wanted, so I followed the person who had so kindly
interested himself in my scribble. He proved to be Mr. Mowbray, the
manager of the theatre. The picture behind the scenes that night was a
perfect Elysium to me. I think Mowbray must have noticed the impression
it made upon me, for he asked if I would like to go on the stage. I
did--as a sort of super."
[Illustration: SKETCH FROM HOTEL WINDOW, CLEVELAND, U.S.A., BY MR.
KENDAL.]
Mr. Kendal's first important engagement lasted four or five years at the
Theatre Royal, Glasgow. Here he met and played with such people as Helen
Faucit (Lady Martin), G. V. Brooke, Mr. and Mrs. Charles Kean, Dion
Boucicault, Fechter, Miss Bateman (Mrs. Crowe), and the elder Sothern.
When Sothern left, the accomplished young actor played _Dundreary_, and
found himself straying in the footsteps of the famous originator of the
part, even to the hop. One would have thought that people would have
praised the actor for taking such a worthy example--but it displeased
Tom Taylor, and he wrote very wrathfully. Then Mr. Kendal went to the
Haymarket, met Miss Robertson, and from their wedding day their lives
may be said to have been the same in thought, word, and deed.
As an organizer and man of business his tact and judgment were tested
and proved during his joint management of the St. James's with Mr. Hare
in 1881. For some time previous to this Mr. Kendal had been on the
look-out for a theatre, and his mind wandered towards the St. James's,
but it required a large sum of money spending on it before it could be
opened.
"One night I was talking to Lord Newry at my club," said Mr. Kendal,
"and happened to say that if £2,000 or so were spent on the St. James's
I might feel inclined to take it.
"'Suppose I spend that amount of money on the place, will you take it?'
Lord Newry asked.
"My only reply was that I would think about it. In the meantime I went
to the Court, from there to the Prince of Wales's to play in
'Diplomacy'--it ran a year--'Peril' and 'London Assurance.' Then I
returned to the Court again, and during this time Lord Newry had
practically gutted the old and unlucky St. James's, turned it inside
out--John Hare, my wife and self entered, and we remained there nearly
ten years."
Mr. and Mrs. Kendal share the same opinion of America--it is the land of
to-day, the land of the future. As to its theatres in comparison with
ours, Mrs. Kendal--who had now joined us--was most enthusiastic. I had
reached the pillars, from which hung curtains of intricate Japanese
workmanship, leading to the hall. Victoria, the Jubilee dog, was barking
a friendly "Good-bye," and the lusty throats of Miss Grimston's
two-and-twenty canaries forced their sweet notes from a far-away room
into the passage.
"I will give you some idea of what an American theatre is like," said
Mrs. Kendal. "You reach your destination by rail at some small place for
a one-night stay. If it is raining and the ground is wet, men in long
jack-boots catch hold of you and gallantly take you across the puddles.
You do not see a soul about--and you are in fear and trembling as to
where your night's audience is coming from. You get to your hotel, and
then your next thought is--where is the theatre? You expect to find a
little, uncomfortable, band-box of a place, and you set out to see it
with a heavy heart. It is a palace--a marble palace--a positive poem!
And your heart leaps happily--only to drop dull again, for you suddenly
remember that you have seen--nobody, not even the oldest inhabitant. You
turn to the manager.
"'Yes, yes--but, what about an audience, how are you going to fill it?'
you ask.
"'Wall,' he replies, 'I don't trouble myself much about that. I reckon
that every seat in this theatre is sold for to-night, that's all!'"