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BEHIND THE FOOTLIGHTS
* * * * * *
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR._
MEXICO AS I SAW IT. _Third Edition._
THROUGH FINLAND IN CARTS. _Third Edition._
A WINTER JAUNT TO NORWAY. _Second Edition._
THE OBERAMMERGAU PASSION PLAY. _Out of print._
DANISH VERSUS ENGLISH BUTTER MAKING. _Reprint from “Fortnightly.”_
WILTON, Q.C. _Second Edition._
A GIRL’S RIDE IN ICELAND. _Third Edition._
GEORGE HARLEY, F.R.S.; or, the Life of a London Physician. _Second
Edition._
* * * * * *
[Illustration:
_From a Sketch by Percy Anderson._
MISS CONSTANCE COLLIER AS PALLAS ATHENE IN “ULYSSES.”
_Frontispiece._]
BEHIND THE FOOTLIGHTS
by
MRS. ALEC-TWEEDIE
Author of
“Mexico as I Saw It,” “George Harley, F.R.S.,” etc.
With Twenty Illustrations
New York
Dodd Mead and Company
1904
Printed by
Hazell, Watson and Viney, Ld.,
London and Aylesbury,
England.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
_THE GLAMOUR OF THE STAGE_
PAGE
Girlish Dreams of Success—Golden Glitter—Overcrowding—Few
Successful—Weedon Grossmith—Beerbohm Tree—How Mrs.
Tree made Thousands for the War Fund—The Stage Door
Reached—Glamour Fades—The Divorce Court and the
Theatre—Childish Enthusiasm—Old Scotch Body’s Horror—Love
Letters—Temptations—Emotions—How Women began to Act under
Charles I.—Influence of the Theatre for Good or Ill 1
CHAPTER II
_CRADLED IN THE THEATRE_
Three Great Aristocracies—Born on the Stage—Inherited
Talent—Interview with Mrs. Kendal—Her Opinions and
Warning to Youthful Aspirants—Usual Salary—Starving in
the Attempt to Live—No Dress Rehearsal—Overdressing—A
Peep at Harley Street—Voice and Expression—American
Friends—Mrs. Kendal’s Marriage—Forbes Robertson’s
Romance—Why he Deserted Art for the Stage—Fine
Elocutionist—Bad Enunciation and Noisy Music—Ellen
Terry—Gillette—Expressionless Faces—Long Runs—Charles
Warner—Abuse of Success 21
CHAPTER III
_THEATRICAL FOLK_
Miss Winifred Emery—Amusing Criticism—An Actress’s
Home Life—Cyril Maude’s first Theatrical Venture—First
Performance—A Luncheon Party—A Bride as Leading Lady—No
Games, no Holidays—A Party at the Haymarket—Miss Ellaline
Terriss and her First Appearance—Seymour Hicks—Ben
Webster and Montagu Williams—The Sothern Family—Edward
Sothern as a Fisherman—A Terrible Moment—Almost
a Panic—Asleep as Dundreary—Frohman at Daly’s
Theatre—English and American Alliance—Mummers 46
CHAPTER IV
_PLAYS AND PLAYWRIGHTS_
Interview with Ibsen—His Appearance—His Home—Plays
Without Plots—His Writing-table—His Fetiches—Old
at Seventy—A Real Tragedy and Comedy—Ibsen’s First
Book—Winter in Norway—An Epilogue—Arthur Wing
Pinero—Educated for the Law—As Caricaturist—An
Entertaining Luncheon—How Pinero writes his Plays—A Hard
Worker—First Night of _Letty_ 74
CHAPTER V
_THE ARMY AND THE STAGE_
Captain Robert Marshall—From the Ranks to the Stage—£10
for a Play—How Copyright is Retained—I. Zangwill as
Actor—Copyright Performance—Three First Plays (Pinero,
Grundy, Sims)—Cyril Maude at the Opera—_Mice and
Men_—Sir Francis Burnand, _Punch_, Sir John Tenniel,
and a Cartoon—Brandon Thomas and _Charley’s Aunt_—How
that Play was Written—The Gaekwar of Baroda—Changes in
London—Frederick Fenn at Clement’s Inn—James Welch on
Audiences 92
CHAPTER VI
_DESIGNING THE DRESSES_
Sarah Bernhardt’s Dresses and Wigs—A Great Musician’s
Hair—Expenses of Mounting—Percy Anderson—_Ulysses_—_The
Eternal City_—A Dress Parade—Armour—Over-elaboration—An
Understudy—Miss Fay Davis—A London Fog—The Difficulties
of an Engagement 111
CHAPTER VII
_SUPPER ON THE STAGE_
Reception on the St. James’s Stage—An Indian Prince—His
Comments—The Audience—George Alexander’s Youth—How
he missed a Fortune—How he learns a Part—A Scenic
Garden—Love of the Country—Actors’ Pursuits—Strain
of Theatrical Life—Life and Death—Fads—Mr. Maude’s
Dressing-room—Sketches on Distempered Walls—Arthur
Bourchier and his Dresser—John Hare—Early and late
Theatres—A Solitary Dinner—An Hour’s Make-up—A Forgetful
Actor—_Bonne Camaraderie_—Theatrical Salaries—Treasury
Day—Thriftlessness—The Advent of Stalls—The Bancrofts—The
Haymarket Photographs—A Dress Rehearsal 125
CHAPTER VIII
_MADAME SARAH BERNHARDT_
Sarah Bernhardt and her Tomb—The Actress’s Holiday—Love
of her Son—Sarah Bernhardt Shrimping—Why she left the
Comédie Française—Life in Paris—A French Claque—Three
Ominous Raps—Strike of the Orchestra—Parisian
Theatre Customs—Programmes—Late Comers—The _Matinée_
Hat—Advertisement Drop Scene—First Night of _Hamlet_—
Madame Bernhardt’s own Reading of _Hamlet_—Yorick’s
Skull—Dr. Horace Howard Furness—A Great Shakesperian
Library 151
CHAPTER IX
_AN HISTORICAL FIRST NIGHT_
An Interesting Dinner—Peace in the Transvaal—Beerbohm
Tree as a Seer—How he cajoled Ellen Terry and Mrs.
Kendal to Act—First-nighters on Camp-stools—Different
Styles of Mrs. Kendal and Miss Terry—The Fun of the
Thing—Bows of the Dead—Falstaff’s Discomfort—Amusing
Incidents—Nervousness behind the Curtain—An Author’s
Feelings 173
CHAPTER X
_OPERA COMIC_
How W. S. Gilbert loves a Joke—A Brilliant
Companion—Operas Reproduced without an Altered
Line—Many Professions—A Lovely Home—Sir Arthur
Sullivan’s Gift—A Rehearsal of _Pinafore_—Breaking
up Crowds—Punctuality—Soldier or no
Soldier—_Iolanthe_—Gilbert as an Actor—Gilbert as
Audience—The Japanese Anthem—Amusement 186
CHAPTER XI
_THE FIRST PANTOMIME REHEARSAL_
Origin of Pantomime—Drury Lane in Darkness—One
Thousand Persons—Rehearsing the Chorus—The
Ballet—Dressing-rooms—Children on the Stage—Size of
“The Lane”—A Trap-door—The Property-room—Made on the
Premises—Wardrobe-woman—Dan Leno at Rehearsal—Herbert
Campbell—A Fortnight Later—A Chat with the Principal
Girl—Miss Madge Lessing 200
CHAPTER XII
_SIR HENRY IRVING AND STAGE LIGHTING_
Sir Henry Irving’s Position—Miss Geneviève Ward’s
Dress—Reformations in Lighting—The most Costly Play ever
Produced—Strong Individuality—Character Parts—Irving
earned his Living at Thirteen—Actors and Applause—A
Pathetic Story—No Shakespeare Traditions—Imitation is not
Acting—Irving’s Appearance—His Generosity—The First Night
of _Dante_—First Night of _Faust_—Two Terriss Stories—Sir
Charles Wyndham 222
CHAPTER XIII
_WHY A NOVELIST BECOMES A DRAMATIST_
Novels and Plays—_Little Lord Fauntleroy_ and his
Origin—Mr. Hall Caine—Preference for Books to Plays—John
Oliver Hobbes—J. M. Barrie’s Diffidence—Anthony Hope—A
London Bachelor—A Pretty Wedding—A Tidy Author—A First
Night—Dramatic Critics—How Notices are Written—The
Critics Criticised—Distribution of Paper—“Stalls
Full”—Black Monday—Do Royalty pay for their Seats?—Wild
Pursuit of the Owner of the Royal Box—The Queen at the
Opera 240
CHAPTER XIV
_SCENE-PAINTING AND CHOOSING A PLAY_
Novelist—Dramatist—Scene-painter—An Amateur Scenic
Artist—Weedon Grossmith to the Rescue—Mrs. Tree’s
Children—Mr. Grossmith’s Start on the Stage—A
Romantic Marriage—How a Scene is built up—English and
American Theatres Compared—Choosing a Play—Theatrical
Syndicate—Three Hundred and Fifteen Plays at the
Haymarket 263
CHAPTER XV
_THEATRICAL DRESSING-ROOMS_
A Star’s Dressing-room—Long Flights of Stairs—Miss Ward
at the Haymarket—A Wimple—An Awkward Predicament—How
an Actress Dresses—Herbert Waring—An Actress’s
Dressing-table—A Girl’s Photographs of Herself—A
Greasepaint Box—Eyelashes—White Hands—Mrs. Langtry’s
Dressing-room—Clara Morris on Make-up—Mrs. Tree as
Author—“Resting”—Mary Anderson on the Stage—An Author’s
Opinion—Actors in Society 275
CHAPTER XVI
_HOW DOES A MAN GET ON THE STAGE?_
A Voice Trial—How it is Done—Anxious Faces—Singing into
Cimmerian Darkness—A Call to Rehearsal—The Ecstasy
of an Engagement—Proof Copy; Private—Arrival of the
Principals—Chorus on the Stage—Rehearsing Twelve Hours a
Day for Nine Weeks without Pay 292
CHAPTER XVII
_A GIRL IN THE PROVINCES_
Why Women go on the Stage—How to prevent it—Miss
Florence St. John—Provincial Company—Theatrical Basket—A
Fit-up Tour—A Theatre Tour—Répertoire Tour—Strange
Landladies—Bills—The Longed-for Joint—Second-hand
Clothes—Buying a Part—Why Men Deteriorate—Oceans of
Tea—E. S. Willard—Why he Prefers America—A Hunt for
Rooms—A Kindly Clergyman—A Drunken Landlady—How the Dog
Saved an Awkward Predicament 302
CHAPTER XVIII
_PERILS OF THE STAGE_
Easy to Make a Reputation—Difficult to Keep
One—The Theatrical Agent—The Butler’s Letter—Mrs.
Siddons’ Warning—Theatrical Aspirants—The Bogus
Manager—The Actress of the Police Court—Ten Years
of Success—Temptations—Late Hours—An Actress’s
Advertisement—A Wicked Agreement—Rules Behind the
Scenes—Edward Terry—Success a Bubble 325
CHAPTER XIX
“_CHORUS GIRL NUMBER II. ON THE LEFT_”
A Fantasy Founded on Fact
Plain but Fascinating—The Swell in the
Stalls—Overtures—Persistence—Introduction at Last—Her
Story—His Kindness—Happiness crept in—Love—An
Ecstasy of Joy—His Story—A Rude Awakening—The Result
of Deception—The Injustice of Silence—Back to
Town—Illness—Sleep 345
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
MISS CONSTANCE COLLIER AS PALLAS ATHENE IN “ULYSSES” _Frontispiece_
_From a sketch by Percy Anderson._
MRS. KENDAL AS MISTRESS FORD IN “MERRY WIVES
OF WINDSOR” _To face p._ 20
MR. W. H. KENDAL „ 32
MR. J. FORBES-ROBERTSON „ 36
_From a painting by Hugh de T. Glazebrook._
MISS WINIFRED EMERY AND MR. CYRIL MAUDE IN
“THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL” „ 48
MR. AND MRS. SEYMOUR HICKS „ 64
DR. HENRIK IBSEN „ 76
MR. ARTHUR W. PINERO „ 84
DRAWING OF COSTUME FOR JULIET „ 112
_By Percy Anderson._
MR. GEORGE ALEXANDER „ 128
MADAME SARAH BERNHARDT AS HAMLET „ 152
MR. BEERBOHM TREE AS FALSTAFF „ 176
MISS ELLEN TERRY AS QUEEN KATHERINE „ 184
MR. W. S. GILBERT „ 192
SIR HENRY IRVING „ 224
MR. ANTHONY HOPE „ 248
_From a painting by Hugh de T. Glazebrook._
MR. WEEDON GROSSMITH „ 264
MRS. BEERBOHM TREE „ 288
MRS. PATRICK CAMPBELL „ 312
_From a painting by Hugh de T. Glazebrook._
MR. GEORGE GROSSMITH „ 336
BEHIND THE FOOTLIGHTS
CHAPTER I
_THE GLAMOUR OF THE STAGE_
Girlish Dreams of Success—Golden Glitter—Overcrowding—Few
successful—Weedon Grossmith—Beerbohm Tree—How Mrs. Tree made
Thousands for the War Fund—The Stage Door reached—Glamour fades—The
Divorce Court and the Theatre—Childish Enthusiasm—Old Scotch Body’s
Horror—Love Letters—Temptations—Emotions—How Women began to Act
under Charles I.—Influence of the Theatre for Good or Ill.
“I want to go on the stage,” declared a girl as she sat one day
opposite her father, a London physician, in his consulting-room.
The doctor looked up, amazed, deliberately put down his pen, cast a
scrutinising glance at his daughter, then said tentatively:
“Want to go on the stage, eh?”
“Yes, I wish to be an actress. I have had an offer—oh, such a
delightful offer—to play a girl’s part in the forthcoming production at
one of our best theatres.”
Her father made no comment, only looked again steadily at the girl in
order to satisfy himself that she was speaking seriously. Then he took
the letter she held out, read it most carefully, folded it up—in what
the would-be actress thought an exasperatingly slow fashion—and after a
pause observed:
“So this is the result of allowing you to play in private theatricals.
What folly!”
The girl started up—fire flashed from her eyes, and her lips trembled
as she retorted passionately:
“I don’t see any folly, I only see a great career opening before me. I
want to go on the stage and make a name.”
The doctor looked more grave than ever, but replied calmly:
“You are very young—you have only just been to your first ball; you
know nothing whatever about the world or work.”
“But I can learn, and intend to do so.”
“Ah yes, that is all very well; but what you really see at this moment
is only the prospect of so many guineas a week, of applause and
admiration, of notices in the papers, when at one jump you expect to
gain the position already attained by some great actress. What you do
_not_ see, however, is the hard work, the dreary months, nay years,
of waiting, the many disappointments that precede success—you do not
realise the struggle of it all, or the many, many failures.”
She looked amazed. What possible struggle could there be on the stage?
she wondered.
“Is this to be the end of my having worked for you,” he asked
pathetically, “planned for you, given you the best education I could,
done everything possible to make your surroundings happy, that at the
moment when I hoped you were going to prove a companion and a comfort,
you announce the fact that you wish to choose a career for yourself, to
throw off the ties—I will not call them the pleasures—of home, and seek
work which it is not necessary for you to undertake?”
“Yes,” murmured the girl, by this time almost sobbing, for the glamour
seemed to be rolling away like mist before her eyes, while glorious
visions of tragedy queens and comic soubrettes faded into space.
“I will not forbid you,” he went on sadly but firmly—“I will not forbid
you, after you are twenty-one, for then you can do as you like; but
nearly four years stretch between now and then, and during those four
years I shall withhold my sanction.”
Tears welled up into her eyes. Moments come in the lives of all of us
when our nearest and dearest appear to understand us least. Even in our
youth we experience unreasoning sadness.
“I do not wish,” he continued, rising and patting her kindly on the
back, “to see my daughter worn to a skeleton, working when she should
be enjoying herself, taking upon her shoulders cares and worries which
I have striven for years to avert—therefore I must save you from
yourself. During the next four years I will try to show you what going
on the stage really means, and the labour it entails.”
She did not answer, exultation had given place to indignation,
indignation to emotion, and the aspirant to histrionic fame felt sick
at heart.
That girl was the present writer—her father the late Dr. George Harley,
F.R.S., of Harley Street.
During those four years he showed me the work and anxiety connection
with the stage involves, and as it was not necessary for me to earn my
living at that time, I waited his pleasure, and, finally, of my own
free will abandoned the girlish determination of becoming an actress.
Wild dreams of glory and success eventually gave place to more rational
ideas. The glamour of the footlights ceased to shine so alluringly—as I
realised that the actor’s art, like the musician’s, is ephemeral, while
the work and anxiety are great in both.
The restlessness of youth was upon me when I mooted the project, and an
injudicious word then would have sent me forth at a tangent, probably
to fail as many another has done before and since.
There may still be a few youthful people in the world who believe
the streets of London are paved with gold—and there are certainly
numbers of boys and girls who think the stage is strewn with pearls
and diamonds. All the traditions of the theatre are founded in mystery
and exaggeration; perhaps it is as well, for too much realism destroys
illusion.
Boys and girls dream great dreams—they fancy themselves leading actors
and actresses, in imagination they dine off gold, wear jewels, laces,
and furs, hear the applause of the multitude—and are happy. But all
this, as said, is in their dreams, and dreams only last for seconds,
while life lasts for years.
One in perhaps a thousand aspirants ever climbs to the top of the
dramatic ladder, dozens remain struggling on the lower rung, while
hundreds fall out weary and heart-sore before passing even the first
step. Never has the theatrical profession been more overcrowded than at
the present moment.
Many people with a wild desire to act prove failures on the stage,
their inclinations are greater than their powers. Rarely is it the
other way; nevertheless Fanny Kemble, in spite of her talent, hated
the idea of going on the stage. At that time acting was considered
barely respectable for a woman (1829). She was related to Sarah Siddons
and John Kemble, a daughter of Charles and Fanny Kemble, and yet no
dramatic fire burned in her veins. She was short and plain, with large
feet and hands, her only charm her vivacity and expression. Ruin was
imminent in the family when the girl was prevailed upon after much
persuasion to play Juliet. Three weeks later she electrified London.
Neither time nor success altered her repugnance for the stage, however.
When dressed as Juliet her white satin train lying over the chair, she
recalled the scene in the following words:
“There I sat, ready for execution, with the palms of my hands pressed
convulsively together, and the tears I in vain endeavoured to repress
welling up into my eyes, brimming slowly over, down my rouged cheeks.”
There is a well-known actor upon the stage to-day who feels much as
Fanny Kemble did.
“I hate it all,” he once said to me. “Would to Heaven I had another
profession at my back. But I never really completed any studies in my
youth, and in these days of keen competition I dare not leave an income
on the stage for an uncertainty elsewhere.”
To some people the stage is an alluring goal, religion is a recreation,
while to others money is a worship. The Church and the Stage cast
their fascinating meshes around most folk some time during the course
of their existences. It is scarcely strange that such should be the
case, for both hold their mystery, both have their excitements, and man
delights to rush into what he does not understand—this has been the
case at all times and in all countries, and, like love and war, seems
likely to continue to the end of time.
We all know the stage as seen from before the footlights—we have all
sat breathless, waiting for the curtain to rise, and there are some who
have longed for the “back cloth” to be lifted also, that they might
peep behind. In these pages all hindrances shall be drawn away, and the
theatre and its workings revealed from behind the footlights.
As every theatre has its own individuality, so every face has its own
expression, therefore one can only generalise, for it is impossible to
treat each theatrical house and its customs separately.
The strong personal interest I have always felt for the stage probably
originated in the fact that from childhood I had heard stories of James
Sheridan Knowles writing some of his plays, notably _The Hunchback_,
at my grandfather’s house, Seaforth Hall, in Lancashire. Charles
Dickens often stayed there when acting for some charity in Liverpool.
Samuel Lover was a constant visitor at the house, as also the great
American tragedian, Charlotte Cushman. Her beautiful sister Susan (the
Juliet of her Romeo) married my uncle, Sheridan Muspratt, author of
the _Dictionary of Chemistry_. From all of which it will be seen that
theatrical stories were constantly retailed at home; therefore when I
was about to “come out,” and my father asked if I would like a ball, I
replied:
“No, I should prefer private theatricals.”
This was a surprise to the London physician; but there being no
particular sin in private theatricals, consent was given, “_provided_,”
as he said, “_you paint the scenery, make your own dresses, generally
run the show, and do the thing properly_.”
A wise proviso, and one faithfully complied with. It gave an enormous
amount of work but brought me a vast amount of pleasure.
Mr. L. F. Austin, a clever contributor to the _Illustrated London
News_, wrote a most amusing account of those theatricals—in which he,
Mr. Weedon Grossmith, and Mrs. Beerbohm Tree assisted—in his little
volume _At Random_. Sir William Magnay, then a well-known amateur, and
now a novelist, was one of our tiny company. _Sweethearts_, Mr. W. S.
Gilbert’s delightful little comedy, was chosen for the performance,
but at the last moment the girl who should have played the maid was
taken ill. Off to Queen’s College, where I was then a pupil, I rushed,
dragged Maud Holt—who became Mrs Tree a few weeks later—back with me,
and that same night she made her first appearance on any stage. Very
shortly afterwards Mrs. Beerbohm Tree adopted acting as a profession,
and appeared first at the Court Theatre. Subsequently, when her husband
became a manager, she joined his company for many years.
We all adored her at College: she was tall and graceful, with a
beautiful figure: she sang charmingly, and read voraciously. In those
days she was a great disciple of Browning, and so was Mr. Tree; in
fact, the poet was the leading-string to love and matrimony.
Mrs. Beerbohm Tree considers that almost the happiest moments of her
life were spent in reciting _The Absent-minded Beggar_ for the War
Fund. It came about in this wise. She had arranged to give a recitation
at St. James’s Hall on one particular Wednesday. On the Friday before
that day she saw announced in the _Daily Mail_ that a new poem by
Rudyard Kipling on the Transvaal war theme would appear in the Tuesday
issue. This she thought would be a splendid opportunity to declaim a
topical song at the concert, so she wrote personally to the editor of
the paper, and asked him if he could possibly let her have an advance
copy of the poem, so that she might learn and recite it on Wednesday,
as the Tuesday issue would be too late for her purpose.
Through the courtesy of Mr. Harmsworth she received the proof of _The
Absent-minded Beggar_ on Friday evening, and sitting in her dining-room
in Sloane Street with her elbows on the table she read and re-read it
several times. This, she thought, might bring grist to the war mill.
Into a hansom she jumped, and off to the Palace Theatre she drove,
boldly asking for the manager. Her name was sufficient, and she was
ushered into the august presence.
“This is a remarkable poem,” she said, “by Mr. Rudyard Kipling, so
remarkable that I think if recited in your Hall nightly it would bring
some money to the fund, and if you will give me £100 a week——”
Up went the manager’s hand in horror.
“One hundred pounds a week, Mrs. Tree?”
“Yes, £100 a week, I will come and recite it every evening, and hand
over the cheque intact to the War Fund.”
It was a large sum, and the gentleman could not see his way to
accepting the offer on his own responsibility, but said he would sound
his directors in the morning.
Before lunch-time next day Mrs. Tree received a note requesting her to
recite the poem nightly as suggested, and promising her £100 a week
for herself or the fund in return. For ten weeks she stood alone every
evening on that vast stage, and for ten minutes she recited “Pay, pay,
pay.” There never have been such record houses at the Palace either
before or since, and at the end of ten weeks she handed over a cheque
for £1,000 to the fund. Nor was this all, large sums were paid into
the collecting boxes in the Palace Theatre. In addition Mrs. Tree made
£1,700 at concerts, and £700 on one night at a Club. More than that,
endless people followed her example, and the War Fund became some
£20,000 richer for her inspiration in that dining-room in Sloane Street.
This was one of the plums of the theatrical cake; but how different is
the performance and the gold and glitter as seen from the front of the
curtain, to the real thing behind. How little the audience entering
wide halls, proceeding up pile carpeted stairs, sweeping past stately
palms, or pushing aside heavy plush curtains, realise the entrance to
the playhouse on the other side of the footlights.
At the back of the theatre is the stage door. Generally up an alley,
it is mean in appearance, more like an entrance to some cheap
lodging-house than to fairyland. Rough men lounge about outside, those
scene-shifters, carpenters, and that odd list of humanity who jostle
each other “behind the scenes,” work among “flies,” and adjust “wings”
in no ornithological sense, but merely as the side-pieces of the
stage-setting.
Just inside this door is a little box-like office; nothing grand about
it, oh dear no, whitewash is more often found there than mahogany, and
stone stairs than Turkey carpets. Inside this little bureau sits that
severe guardian of order, the stage door keeper. He is a Pope and a
Czar in one. He is always busy, refuses to listen to explanations; even
a card is not sent in unless that important gentleman feels assured
its owner means business.
At that door, which is dark and dreary, the glamour of the stage begins
to wane. It is no portal to a palace. The folk hanging about are not
arrayed in velvets and satins; quite the contrary; torn cashmeres and
shiny coats are more _en évidence_.
Strange people are to be found both behind and upon the stage, as in
every other walk through life; but there are plenty of good men and
women in the profession, men and women whose friendship it is an honour
to possess. Men and women whose kindness of heart is unbounded, and
whose intellectual attainments soar far above the average.
Every girl who goes upon the stage need not enjoy the privilege of
marrying titled imbecility, nor obtain the notoriety of the Divorce
Court, neither being creditable nor essential to her calling, although
both are chronicled with unfailing regularity by the press.
The Divorce Court is a sad theatre where terrible tragedies of human
misery are acted out to the bitter end. Between seven and eight hundred
cases are tried in England every year—not many, perhaps, when compared
with the population of the country, which is over forty millions. But
then of course the Divorce Court is only the foam; the surging billows
of discontent and unhappiness lie beneath, and about six thousand
judicial separations, all spelling human tragedy, are granted yearly by
magistrates, the greater number of such cases being undefended. They
record the same sad story of disappointed, aching hearts year in year
out.
Divorces are not more common amongst theatrical folk than any other
class, so, whatever may be said for or against the morality of the
stage, the Divorce Court does not prove theatrical life to be less
virtuous than any other.
The fascination of the stage entraps all ages—all classes. Even
children sometimes wax warm over theatrical folk. Once I chanced to be
talking to a little girl concerning theatres.
“Do you know Mr. A. B. C.?” she asked excitedly, when the conversation
turned on actors.
“Yes, he is a great friend of mine.”
“Oh, do tell me all about him,” she exclaimed, seizing my arm.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because I adore him, and all the girls at school adore him, he is like
a real prince; we save up our pocket-money to buy his photographs, and
May Smith _has actually got his autograph_!”
“But tell me why you all adore him?” I asked.
“Because he is so lovely, so tall and handsome, has such a melodious
voice, and oh! doesn’t he look too beautiful in his velvet suit
as——? He is young and handsome, isn’t he? Oh, do say he is young and
handsome,” implored the enthusiastic child.
“I am afraid I cannot, for it would not be true; Mr. A. B. C. is not
tall—in fact, he is quite short.” She looked crestfallen. “He has a
sallow complexion.”
“Sallow! Oh, not really sallow! but he _is_ handsome and young, isn’t
he?”
“I should think he is about fifty-two.”
“Fifty-two!” she almost shrieked. “_My_ A. B. C. fifty-two. Oh no. You
are chaffing me; he must be young and beautiful.”
“And his hair is grey,” I cruelly added.
“Grey?”—she sobbed. “Not grey? Oh, you hurt me.”
“You asked questions and I have answered them truthfully,” I replied.
She stood silent for a moment, then in rather a subdued tone murmured:
“He is not married, is he?”
“Oh yes, he has been married for five-and-twenty years.”
The child looked so crestfallen I felt I had been unkind.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” she almost sobbed, “won’t the girls at school be
surprised! Are you quite, quite sure he is not young and beautiful? he
looks so lovely on the stage.”
“Quite, quite sure. You have only seen him from before the footlights.
He is a good fellow, clever and charming, and he works hard, but he is
no lover in velvet and jerkin, no hero of romance, and the less you
worry your foolish little head about him the better, my dear.”
How many men and women believe like this child that there are only
princes and princesses on the stage.
There was an old Scotch body—an educated, puritanical person—who once
informed me, “The the-a-ter is very bad, very wicked, ma’am.”
“Why?” I asked, amazed yet interested.
“It’s full of fire and lights like Hell. They just discuss emotions
there, ma’am, and it’s morbid to discuss emotions and just silly
conceit to think about them. I like deeds, and not talk—I do!”
“You seem to think the theatre a hotbed of iniquity?”
“Aye, indeed I do, ma’am. They even make thunder. Fancy daring to make
thunder for amusement as the good God does to show His wrath—thunder
with a machine—it’s just dreadful, it is.”
The grosser the exaggeration the more readily it provokes conversation.
I was dying to argue, but fearing to hurt her feelings, I merely
smiled, wondering what the old lady would say if she knew even prayers
were made by a machine in countries where the prayer-wheel is used.
“Have you ever been to a theatre?” I ventured to ask, not wishing to
disturb the good dame’s peace of mind.
“The Lord forbid!”
That settled the matter; but I subsequently found that the old body
went to bazaars, and did not mind a little flutter over raffles, and on
one occasion had even been to hear the inimitable George Grossmith in
Inverness, when——
“He was not dressed-up-like, so it wasn’t a regular the-a-ter, and he
was just alone, ma’am, wi’ a piano, so there was no harm in that,”
added the virtuous dame, complacently folding her hands across her
portly form.
Wishing to change the subject, I asked her how her potatoes were doing.
“Bad, bad,” she replied, “they’re awfu’ bad, the Lord’s agin us the
year; but we must jist make the best of it, ma’am.”
She was a thoroughly good woman, and this was her philosophy. She would
make the best of the lack of potatoes, as that was a punishment from
above; but she could not sanction play-acting any more than riding a
bicycle on the Sabbath.
Her horror of the wickedness of the stage was as amusing as the absurd
adoration of the enthusiastic child.
Every good-looking man or woman who “play acts” is the recipient of
foolish love-letters. Pretty girls receive them from sentimental youth
or sensual old age, and handsome men are pestered with them from old
maids, or unhappily married women. Some curious epistles are sent
across the footlights, even the most self-respecting woman cannot
escape their advent, although she can, and, does, ignore them.
Here is a sample of one:
“For _five_ nights I have been to the theatre to see you play in——. I
was so struck by your performance last week that I have been back every
night since. Vainly I hoped you would notice me, for I always occupy
the same seat, and last night I really thought you did smile at me”
(she had done nothing of the kind, and had never even seen the man),
“so I went home happy—oh so happy. I have sent you some roses the last
two nights, and felt sorry you did not wear them. Is there any flower
you like better? I hardly dare presume to ask you for a meeting, but if
you only knew how much I admire you, perhaps you would grant me this
great favour and make me the happiest man on earth. I cannot sleep for
thinking of you. You are to me the embodiment of every womanly grace,
and if you would take supper with me one night after the performance
you would indeed confer a boon on a lonely man.”
No answer does not mean the end of the matter. Some men—and, alas! some
women—write again and again, send flowers and presents, and literally
pester the object of their so-called adoration.
For weeks and weeks a man sent a girl violets; one night a diamond ring
was tied up in the bunch—those glittering stones began her ruin—she
wrote to acknowledge them, a correspondence ensued.
That man proved her curse. She, the once beautiful and virtuous girl,
who was earning a good income before she met her evil genius, died
lately in poverty and obscurity. The world had scoffed at her and
turned aside, while it still smiled upon the man, although he was the
villain; but can he get away from his own conscience?
Every vice carries with it a sting, every virtue a balm.
There are many perils on the stage, to which of course only the weak
succumb; but the temptations are necessarily greater than in other
professions. Its very publicity spells mischief. There is the horrid
man in all audiences who tries to make love and ogle pretty women
across the footlights, the class of creature who totally forgets that
the best crown a man or woman can wear is a good reputation.
Temptations lie open on all sides for the actor and actress, and those
who pass through the ordeal safely are doubly to be congratulated,
for the man who meets temptation and holds aloof is surely a finer
character than he who is merely “good” because he has never had a
chance of being anything else.
Journalism, domestic service, and the stage probably require less
knowledge and training for a beginning than any other occupations.
It costs money and time to learn to be a dressmaker, a doctor, an
architect, even a shorthand writer; but given a certain amount of
cleverness, experience is not necessary to do “scissor-and-paste” work
in journalism, rough housework, or to “walk on” on the stage; but
oh! what an amount of work and experience is necessary to ensure a
satisfactory ending, more particularly upon the boards, where all is
not gold that glitters. At best the crown is only brass, the shining
silver merely tin, and in nine theatres out of every ten the regal
ermine but a paltry rabbit-skin.
Glitter dazzles the eye. Nevertheless behind it beat good hearts and
true; while hard work, patient endurance, and courage mark the path of
the successful player.
Work does not degrade a man; but a man often degrades his work.
If, as the old body said, it be morbid to discuss emotions, and
egotistical to feel them, it is still the actor’s art, and that is
probably why he is such a sensitive creature, why he is generally in
the highest spirits or deepest depths of woe, why he is full of moods
and as varying as a weathercock. Still he is charming, and so is his
companion in stageland—the actress. Both entertain us, and amusement is
absolutely essential to a healthy existence.
When one considers the wonderful success of women upon the stage
to-day, and their splendid position socially, it seems almost
impossible to believe that they never acted in England until the reign
of Charles I., when a French Company which numbered women among its
players crossed the Channel, and craved a hearing from Queen Henrietta
Maria. One critic of the time called them “unwomanish and graceless”;
another said, “Glad am I they were hissed and hooted”; but still they
had come to stay, and slowly, very slowly, women were allowed to take
part in theatrical performances. We all know the high position they
hold to-day.
In 1660 there were only two theatres in London, the King’s and the
Duke of York’s, the dearest seats were the boxes at four shillings,
the cheapest the gallery at one shilling. Ladies wore masks at the
play, probably because of the coarse nature of the performances, which
gradually improved with the advent of actresses.
In days gone by the playhouse was not the orderly place it is
nowadays, and the unfortunate “mummers” had to put up with every kind
of nuisance until Colley Cibber protested, and Queen Anne issued a
Proclamation (1704) against disturbances. In those days folk arrived in
sedan chairs, and their noisy footmen were allowed free admission to
the upper gallery to wait for their lords and ladies, added to which
the orange girls called their wares and did a brisk trade in carrying
love-missives from one part of the house to the other. Before the
players could be heard they had to fight their way on to the boards,
where gilded youth lolled in the wings and even crossed the stage
during the rendering of a scene.
It was about this time that Queen Anne made a stand against the
shocking immorality of the stage, and ordered the Master of the Revels
(much the same post as the Lord Chamberlain now holds) to correct these
abuses. All actors, mountebanks, etc., had to submit their plays or
entertainments to the Master of the Revels in Somerset House from that
day, and nothing could be performed without his permission.
The stage has a curious effect on people. Many a person has gone to
see a play, and some line has altered the whole course of his life.
Some idea has been put forth, some tender note played upon which has
opened his eyes to his own selfishness, his own greed of wealth,
his harshness to a child, or indifference to a wife. There is no
doubt about it, the stage is a great power, and that is why it is so
important the influence should be used for good, and that illicit love
and demoralising thoughts should be kept out of the theatre with its
mixed audiences and susceptible youth. According to a recent report:
“The Berne authorities, holding that the theatre is a powerful
instrument for the education of the masses, have decided that on two
days of the week the seats in the theatre, without exception, shall
be sold at a uniform price of fivepence. ‘Under the direction of
the manager,’ writes a correspondent, ‘the tickets are enclosed in
envelopes, and in this form are sold to the public. The scheme has
proved a great success, especially among the working classes, whom it
was meant to benefit. To prevent ticket speculators making a “corner,”
the principle of one ticket for one person has been adopted, and the
playgoer only knows the location of his seat after he enters the
theatre. No intoxicants are sold and no passes are given. The expenses
exceed the receipts, but a reserve fund and voluntary contributions are
more than sufficient to meet the deficit.’”
Constantly seeing vice portrayed tends to make one cease to think
it horrible. Love of gain should not induce a manager to put on a
piece that is public poison. Some queer plays teach splendid moral
lessons—well and good; but some strange dramas drag their audience
through mire for no wise end whatever. The manager who puts such upon
his stage is a destroyer of public morality.
[Illustration:
_Photo by Window & Grove, Baker Street, W._
MRS. KENDAL AS MISTRESS FORD IN “MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.”]