_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.
Another striking instance of hereditary theatrical talent is Miss
Winifred Emery, than whom there is no more popular actress in
London. This pretty, agreeable little lady—who, like Mrs. Kendal
and Miss Terry, may be said to have been born in the theatre—is the
only daughter of Samuel Sanderson Emery, a well-known actor, and
grand-daughter of John Emery, who was well known upon the stage. Her
first appearance was at Liverpool, at the advanced age of eight.
The oldest theatrical names upon the stage to-day are William Farren
and Winifred Emery. Miss Emery’s great-grandfather was also an actor,
so she is really the fourth generation to adopt that profession, but
her grandmother and herself are the only two women of the name of
Emery who have appeared on playbills.
As is well known, Miss Emery is the wife of Mr. Cyril Maude, lessee
with Mr. Frederick Harrison—not the world-renowned Positivist writer—of
the Haymarket Theatre.
Although Mrs. Maude finds her profession engrossing, she calls it a
very hard one, and the necessity of being always up to the mark at a
certain hour every day is, she owns, a great strain even when she is
well, and quite impossible when she is ill.
Some years ago, when she was even younger than she is now, and not
overburdened with this world’s gold, she was acting at the Vaudeville.
It was her custom to go home every evening in an omnibus. One
particularly cold night she jumped into the two-horse vehicle and
huddled herself up in the farthest corner, thinking it would be warmer
there than nearer the door in such bitter weather. She pulled her fur
about her neck, and sat motionless and quiet. Presently two women at
the other end arrested her attention; one was nudging the other, and
saying:
“It is ’er, I tell yer; I know it’s ’er.”
“Nonsense, it ain’t ’er at all; she couldn’t have got out of the
theayter so quick.”
“It is ’er, I tell yer; just look at ’er again.”
The other looked.
“No it ain’t; she was all laughing and fun, and that ’ere one looks
quite sulky.”
The “sulky one,” though thoroughly tired and weary, smiled to herself.
I asked Miss Emery one day if she had ever been placed in any awkward
predicament on the stage.
“I always remember one occasion,” she replied, “tragedy at the time,
but a comedy now, perhaps. I was acting with Henry Irving in the
States when I was about eighteen or nineteen, and felt very proud of
the honour. We reached Chicago. _Louis XI._ was the play. In one act—I
think it was the second—I went on as usual and did my part. Having
finished, as I thought, I went to my room and began to wash my hands.
It was a cold night, and my lovely white hands robbed of their paint
were blue. The mixture was well off when the call boy shouted my name.
Thinking he was having a joke I said:
“‘All right, I’m here.’
“‘But Mr. Irving is waiting for you.’
“‘Waiting for me? Why, the act isn’t half over.’
“‘Come, Miss Emery, come quick,’ gasped the boy, pushing open the door.
‘Mr. Irving’s on the stage and waiting for you.’
“Horrors! In a flash I remembered I had two small scenes as Marie in
that act, and usually waited in the wing. Had I, could I have forgotten
the second one?
[Illustration:
_Photo by Window & Grove, Baker Street, W._
MISS WINIFRED EMERY AND MR. CYRIL MAUDE IN “THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.”]
“With wet red hands, dry white arms, my dress not properly fastened at
the back, towel in hand, along the passage I flew. On the stage was
poor Mr. Irving walking about, talking—I know not what. On I rushed,
said my lines, gave him my lobster-coloured wet hand to kiss—a pretty
contrast to my ashen cheeks, and when the curtain fell, I dissolved in
tears.
“Mr. Irving sent for me to his room. In fear and trembling I went.
“‘This was terrible,’ he said. ‘How did it happen?’
“‘I forgot, I forgot, why I know not, but I forgot,’ I said, and my
tears flowed again. He patted me on the back.
“‘Never mind,’ he said kindly, ‘but please don’t let it occur again.’”
Once when I was talking to this clever little lady the conversation
turned on games.
“Games!” she exclaimed. “I know nothing of them: as a child I never had
time to play, and when I was sixteen years old I had to keep myself and
my family. Of late years I have been far too busy even to take up golf.”
Mrs. Maude has two charming daughters, quaint, old-fashioned little
creatures, and some years their junior is a small brother.
The two girls were once invited to a fancy dress ball in Harley Street:
it happened to be a Saturday, and therefore _matinée_ day. Their mother
arranged their dresses. The elder was to wear the costume of Lady
Teazle, an exact replica of the one reproduced in this volume, and
which Mrs. Maude wore when playing that part, while the younger was to
be dressed as a Dutch bride, also a copy of one of Miss Emery’s dresses
in the _Black Tulip_. They all lunched together, and as the mother was
going off to the theatre, she told the nurse to see that the children
were dressed properly, and take them to the house at a certain hour.
“Oh, but, mummy, we can’t go unless you dress us,” exclaimed the elder
child; “we should never be right.” And therefore it was settled that
the two little people should be arrayed with the exception of the final
touches, and then driven round by way of the Haymarket Theatre, so that
their mother might attend to their wigs, earrings, hat or cap, as the
case might be.
What a pretty idea. The mother, who was attracting rounds of applause
from a crowded house every time she went on the stage, running back to
her dressing-room between the scenes, to drop down on her knees and
attend to her little girls, so that they should be all right for their
party.
Admiring the costume of the younger one, I said:
“Why, you have got on your mother’s dress.”
“No, it’s not mother’s,” she replied. “It’s _my_ dress, and _my_ shoes,
and _my_ stockings—all my very own; but it’s mother’s gold cap, and
mother’s earrings, and mother’s necklace, and mother’s apron—with a
tuck in,” and she nodded her wise little head.
This was a simple child, not like the small American girl whose mother
was relating wonderful stories of her precocity to an admiring friend,
when a shrill voice from the corner called out:
“But you haven’t told the last clever thing I said, mamma,” evidently
wishing none of her brilliant wit to be lost.
They looked sweet, those two children of Mrs. Maude’s, and the way the
elder one attended upon her smaller sister was pretty to see.
In a charming little house near the Brompton Oratory Mrs. Maude lived
for years, surrounded by her family, perfectly content in their
society. She is in every sense a thoroughly domesticated woman, and
warmly declares she “loves housekeeping.”
One cannot imagine a happier home than the Maudes’, and no more
charming gentleman walks upon the stage than this well-known descendant
of many distinguished army men. Mr. Maude was at Charterhouse, one of
our best public schools, and is a most enthusiastic old Carthusian. So
is General Baden-Powell, whose interest in the old place went so far as
to make him spend his last night in England among his old schoolfellows
at the City Charterhouse when he returned invalided on short leave from
the Transvaal. The gallant soldier gave an excellent speech, referring
to Founders’ Day, which they were then commemorating, and delighted his
boy hearers and “Ancient Brethren” equally.
On Charterhouse anniversaries Mr. Maude drops his jester’s cap and
solemnly, long stick in hand, takes part in the ceremony at the old
Carthusian Church made popular by Thackeray’s _Newcomes_.
Cyril Maude was originally intended for another profession, but, in
spite of family opposition, elected to go upon the stage, and as
his parents did not approve of such a proceeding, he commenced his
theatrical career in America, where he went through many vicissitudes.
He began in a Shakespearian _rèpertoire_ company, playing through
the Western mining towns of the States, where he had to rough it
considerably.
“I even slept on a bit of carpet on a bar-room floor one night,” he
said; “but our beautiful company burst up in ’Frisco, and I had to come
home emigrant fashion, nine days and nine nights in the train, with
a little straw mattress for my bed, and a small tin can to hold my
food. They were somewhat trying experiences, yet most interesting, and
gave great opportunities for studying mankind. I have played in every
conceivable sort of play, and once ‘walked on’ for months made up as
Gladstone in a burlesque, to a mighty dreary comic song.”
So Mr. Maude, like the rest who have climbed to the top, began at the
bottom of the ladder, and has worked his way industriously up to his
present position, which he has held at the Haymarket since 1896, and
where—he laughingly says—he hopes to die in harness.
Cyril Maude gives rather an amusing description of his first theatrical
performance. When he was a boy of eighteen his family took a house at
Dieppe for six months, and he was sent every day to study French with
_Monsieur le Pasteur_.
“One day, when I had been working with him for three or four weeks, he
asked me what I was going to make my profession.
“‘Comédien,’ I replied.
“‘Comment? Comédien? Etes-vous fou?’ he exclaimed, horrified and
astounded at such a suggestion, and added more gravely, ‘I am quite
sure you have not the slightest idea how to act; so, my boy, you had
better put such a ridiculous idea out of your head and stick to your
books. Besides, you must choose a profession fit for a gentleman.’
“Of course I felt piqued, and as I walked home that evening I just
wondered if there were not some way by which I could show the old man
that I _could_ act if I chose.
“The Pasteur had a resident pupil of the name of Bishop, a nice young
fellow, and to him I related my indignation.
“‘Of course you can act,’ he said; so between us we concocted the
brilliant idea that I should dress up as Bishop’s aunt and go and call
upon the Pasteur, with the ostensible view of sending another nephew
to his excellent establishment. Overjoyed at the scheme I ransacked my
mother’s wardrobe, and finally dressed myself up to resemble a somewhat
lean, cadaverous English old maid.
“I walked down the street to the house, and to my joy the servant did
not recognise me. The old man received me with great cordiality and
politeness. I told him in very bad French, with a pronounced Cockney
accent, that I was thinking of sending another of my nephews to him
if he had room. At this suggestion the Pasteur was delighted, took me
upstairs, showed me all the rooms, and made quite a fuss over me.
Then he called ‘my nephew,’ who nearly gave the show away by choking
with laughter when I affectionately greeted him with a chaste salute.
This was the only part of the business I did not really enjoy! As we
were coming downstairs, the Pasteur well in front, I smiled—perhaps I
winked—at Bishop, anyhow I slipped, whereupon the polite old gentleman
turned round, was most _désolé_ at the accident, gave me his arm, and
assisted me most tenderly all the rest of the way to the dining-room,
his wife following and murmuring:—
“‘Prenez garde, madame, prenez garde.’
“Having arrived at the _salle-à-manger_ the dear old Pasteur said he
would leave me for a moment with his wife, in case there was anything
I might like to discuss with her, and to my horror I was left closeted
with madame, nervously fearing she might touch on subjects fit only for
ladies’ ears, but not for the tender years of my manly youth. Needless
to say I escaped from her clutches as quickly as possible.
“For two days I kept up the joke. Then it became too much for me,
and as we were busily working at French verbs, in the curé’s study,
I changed my voice and returned to the old lady’s Cockney French
intonations, which was not in the least difficult, as my own French
was none of the brightest. The Pasteur turned round, looked hard at
me for a moment, and then went back to the verbs. I awaited another
opportunity, and began again. This time he almost glared at me, and
then, clapping his hands to his head and bursting into laughter, he
exclaimed:
“‘Mais c’était vous, c’était vous la tante de Bishop?’
“It turned out he had written that morning to Bishop’s real aunt,
accepting her second nephew as a pupil, and arranging all the details
of his arrival. How surprised the good lady must have been.”
June 3rd, 1899, was the eleventh anniversary of Cyril Maude and
Winifred Emery’s wedding day, and they gave a delightful little
luncheon party at their pretty house in Egerton Crescent, where they
then lived. The host certainly looked ridiculously young to have been
married eleven years, or to be the father of the big girl of nine and
the smaller one of six who came down to dessert.
Their home was a very cosy one—not big or grand in those days, but
thoroughly carried out on a small scale, with trees in the gardens in
front, trees in the back-yard behind, and the aspect was refreshing on
that frightfully hot Oaks day.
Winifred Emery had a new toy—a tiny little dog, so small that it could
curl itself up quite happily in the bottom of a man’s top hat, but yet
wicked enough to do a vast amount of damage, for it had that morning
pulled a blouse by the sleeves from the bed to the floor, and had
calmly dissevered the lace from the cambric.
The Maudes are a most unconventional theatrical pair. They love
their home and their children, and seem to wish to get rid of every
remembrance of the theatre once they pass their own front door. And
yet it is impossible to get rid of the theatre in the summer, for
besides having eight performances a week of _The Manœuvres of Jane_
at that time—which was doing even better business at the end of nine
months than it was at the beginning—those unfortunate people were
giving charity performances every week for seven consecutive weeks,
which of course necessitated rehearsals apart from the performances
themselves. Really the charity distributed by the theatrical world is
enormous.
We had a delightful luncheon: much of my time was spent gazing at Miss
Ellaline Terriss, who is even prettier off the stage than she is on.
When Mrs. Maude said she had been married for eleven years, with the
proudest air in the world Mrs. Hicks remarked:
“And we have been married nearly six.”
But certainly to look at Ellaline Terriss and Seymour Hicks made it
seem impossible to believe that such could be the case. Hard work seems
to agree with some people, and the incessant labour of the stage had
left no trace on these young couples.
After luncheon the Maudes’ eldest little girl recited a French poem
she had learnt at school, and it was quite ridiculous to see the small
child already showing inherited talent. She was calm and collected, and
when she had done and I congratulated her, she said in the simplest way
in the world:
“I am going to be an actress when I am grown up, and so is Baby,”
nodding her head at the other small thing of six, for the boy had not
then arrived to usurp “Baby’s” place.
“Oh yes, so am I,” said little six-year-old. But when I asked her to
recite something, she said:
“I haven’t learnt yet, but I shall soon.”
The Maudes were then eagerly looking forward to some weeks’ holiday
which they always enjoy every autumn.
“I like a place where I need not wear gloves, and a hat is not a
necessity,” she said. “I have so much dressing-up in my life that it is
a holiday to be without it.”
Somehow the conversation turned on a wedding to which they had just
been, and Winifred Emery exclaimed:
“I love going to weddings, but I always regret I am not the bride.”
“Come, come,” said her husband, “that would be worse than the Mormons.
However many husbands would you have?”
“Oh, I always want to keep my own old husband, but I want to be the
bride.” At which he laughed immoderately, and said:
“I declare, Winifred, you are never happy unless you are playing the
leading lady.”
“Of course not,” she retorted; “women always appreciate appreciation.”
They were much amused when I told them the story of my small boy, who,
aged about seven, was to go to a wedding as a page in gorgeous white
satin with lace ruffles and old paste buttons.
“I don’t want to go,” he remarked; “I hate weddings”—for he had
officiated twice before. Something he said leading me to suppose he was
a little shy, I soothingly answered:
“Oh, well, every one will be so busy looking at the bride that they
will never look at you.”
To which the small gentleman indignantly replied:
“If they aren’t even going to look at me, then I don’t see why I need
go at all!”
So after all there is a certain amount of vanity even in a small boy of
seven.
“I cannot bear a new play,” Mrs. Maude once said. “I am nervous,
worried, and anxious at rehearsal, and it is not until I have got on
my stage clothes that it ceases to be a trouble to me. Not till I have
played it for weeks that I feel thoroughly at home in a new part.
“It is positively the first real holiday I have ever had in my life,”
she exclaimed to me at the time of her illness; “for although we always
take six weeks’ rest in the summer, plays have to be studied and work
is looming ahead, whereas now I have six months of complete idleness in
front of me. It is splendid to have time to tidy my drawers in peace,
ransack my bookshelves, see to a hundred and one household duties
without any hurry, have plenty of time to spend with the children, and
actually to see something of my friends, whom it is impossible to meet
often in my usually busy life.”
So spoke Miss Winifred Emery, and a year later Mrs. Kendal wrote, “I’ve
had ten days’ holiday this year, and am now rehearsing literally day
and night.”
After that who can say the life of the successful actress is not a
grind? A maidservant or shopgirl expects her fortnight’s holiday in a
twelvemonth, while one of the most successful actresses of modern times
has to be content with ten days during the same period. Yet Mrs. Kendal
is not a girl or a beginner, she is in full power and at the top of her
profession.
All theatrical life is not a grind, however, and it has its brighter
moments. For instance, one beautiful warm sunny afternoon, the
anniversary of their own wedding day—the Cyril Maudes gave an “At Home”
at the Haymarket. Guests arrived by the stage door at the back of the
famous theatre, and to their surprise found themselves at once upon the
stage, for the back scene and Suffolk Street are almost identical. Mrs.
Maude, with a dear little girl on either side, received her friends,
and an interesting group of friends they were. Every one who was any
one seemed to have been bidden thither. The stage was, of course, not
large enough for this goodly throng, so a great staircase had been
built down from the footlights to where the stalls usually stand.
The stalls, however, had gone—disappeared as though they had never
existed—and where the back row generally cover the floor a sumptuous
buffet was erected. It was verily a fairy scene, for the dress-circle
(which at the Haymarket is low down) was a sort of winter garden of
palms and flowers behind which the band was ensconced.
What would the players of old, Charles Mathews, Colley Cibber, Edmund
Kean, Liston, and Colman, have said to such a sight? What would
old Mr. Emery have thought could he have known that one day his
grand-daughter would reign as a very queen on the scene of his former
triumphs? What would he have said had he known that periwigs and old
stage coaches would have disappeared in favour of closely-cut heads,
electric broughams, shilling hansoms with C springs and rubber tyres,
or motor cars? What would he have thought of the electric light in
place of candle dips and smelling lamps? How surprised he would have
been to find neatly coated men showing the audience to their seats at
a performance, instead of fat rowdy women, to see the orange girls and
their baskets superseded by dainty trays of tea and ices, and above all
to note the decorous behaviour of a modern audience in contrast to the
noisy days when Grandpapa Emery trod the Haymarket boards.
Almost the most youthful person present, if one dare judge by
appearances, was the actor-manager, Cyril Maude. There is something
particularly charming about Mr. Maude—there is a merry twinkle
in his eyes, with a sound of tears in his voice, and it is this
combination, doubtless, which charms his audience. He is a low
comedian, a character-actor, and yet he can play on the emotional
chord when necessity arises. He and his co-partner, Mr. Harrison, are
warm friends—a delightful situation for people so closely allied in
business.
Immediately off the stage is the green-room, now almost unused.
Formerly the old green-room on the other side of the stage was a
fashionable resort, and the green-rooms at the Haymarket and Drury
Lane were crowded nightly at the beginning of the last century with
all the fashionable men of the day. Kings went there to be amused,
plays began at any time, the waits between the acts were of any length,
and general disorder reigned in the candle and oil-lighted theatres—a
disorder to which a few visitors did not materially add. All is
changed nowadays. The play begins to the minute, and ends with equal
regularity. Actors do not fail to appear without due notice, so that
the under-study has time to get ready, and order reigns both before and
behind the footlights. Therefore at the Haymarket no one is admitted to
the green-room, in fact, no one is allowed in the theatre “behind the
scenes” at all, except to the dressing-room of the particular star who
has invited him thither.
Mrs. Maude made a charming hostess at that party.
I think the hour at which we were told on the cards “to leave” was 6.0,
or it may have been 6.30; at any rate, we all streamed out reluctantly
at the appointed time, and the stage carpenters streamed in. Away went
the palms, off came the bunting, down came the staircase, and an hour
later the evening audience were pouring in to the theatre, little
knowing what high revelry had so lately ended.
Some people seem to be born old, others live long and die young;
judging by their extraordinary juvenility, Mr. Seymour Hicks and his
charming wife, _née_ Ellaline Terriss, belong to the latter category.
They are a boyish man and a girlish woman, in the best sense of
lighthearted youthfulness, yet they have a record of successes behind
them, of which many well advanced in years might be proud. No daintier,
prettier, more piquante little lady trips upon our stage than Ellaline
Terriss. She is the personification of everything mignonne, and whether
dressed in rags as _Bluebell in Fairyland_, or as a smart lady in a
modern play, she is delightful.
It is a curious thing that so many of our prominent actors and
actresses have inherited their histrionic talents from their parents
and even grandparents, and Mrs. Hicks is no exception, for she is
the daughter of the late well-known actor, William Terriss. She was
not originally intended for the stage, and her adoption of it as a
profession was almost by chance. A letter of her own describes how this
came about.
“I was barely sixteen when Mr. Calmour, who wrote _The Amber Heart_
and named the heroine after me, suggested we should surprise my father
one day by playing _Cupid’s Messenger_ in our drawing-room, and that I
should take the leading part. We had a brass rod fixed up across the
room, and thus made a stage, and on the preceding night informed a
few friends of the morrow’s performance. The news greatly astonished
my father, who laughed. I daresay he was secretly pleased, though he
pretended not to be. A couple of months passed, and I heard that Miss
Freke was engaged at the Haymarket to play the part I had sustained.
Oh, how I wished it was I! Little did I think my wish was so near
fulfilment. I was sitting alone over the fire one day when a telegram
was handed to me, which ran:
“‘_Haymarket Theatre. Come up at once. Play Cupid’s Messenger,
to-night._’
“I rushed to catch a train, and found myself at the stage door of the
theatre at 7.15 p.m. All was hurry and excitement. I did not know how
to make-up. I did not know with whom I was going to appear, and Miss
Freke’s dress was too large for me. The whole affair seemed like a
dream. However, I am happy to say Mr. Tree stood by and saw me act, and
I secured the honour of a ‘call.’ I played for a week, when Mr. Tree
gave me a five-pound note, and a sweet letter of thanks. My father then
said that if it would add to my happiness I might go on the stage, and
he would get me an engagement.”
How proud the girl must have been of that five-pound note, for any
person who has ever earned even a smaller sum knows how much sweeter
money seems when acquired by one’s own exertions. Five-pound notes have
come thick and fast since then, but I doubt if any gave the actress so
much pleasure as Mr. Beerbohm Tree’s first recognition of her talent.
Thus it really was quite by accident Miss Terriss entered on a
theatrical career. Her father, knowing the hard work and many
disappointments attendant on stage life, had not wished his daughter to
follow his own calling. But talent will out. It waits its opportunity,
and then, like love, asserts itself. The opportunity came in a kindly
way; the talent was there, and Miss Terriss was clever and keen enough
to take her chance when it came and make the most of it. From that
moment she has never been idle, even her holidays have been few and far
between.
Every one in London must have seen _Bluebell in Fairyland_, which ran
nearly a year. Indeed, at one time it was being played ten times a
week. Think of it. Ten times a week. To go through the same lines, the
same songs, the same dances, to look as if one were enjoying oneself,
to enter into the spirit and fun of the representation, was indeed
a herculean task, and one which the Vaudeville company successfully
carried through. But poor Mrs. Hicks broke down towards the close, and
was several times out of the bill.
[Illustration:
_Photo by London Stereoscopic Co., Ltd., Cheapside, E.C._
MR. AND MRS. SEYMOUR HICKS.]
It is doubtful whether Seymour Hicks will be better known as an actor
or an author in the future, for he has worked hard at both professions
successfully. He was born at St. Heliers, Jersey, in 1871, and is the
eldest son of Major Hicks, of the 42nd Highlanders. His father intended
him for the army, but his own taste did not lie in that direction, and
when only sixteen and a half he elected to go upon the stage, and five
years later was playing a principal light comedy part at the Gaiety
Theatre. Like his wife, he has been several times in America, where
both have met with success, and when not acting, at which he is almost
constantly employed, this energetic man occupies his time by writing
plays, of a light and musical nature, which are usually successful.
_One of the Best_, _Under the Clock_, _The Runaway Girl_, _Bluebell in
Fairyland_, and _The Cherry Girl_ have all had long runs.
When the Hicks find time for a holiday their idea of happiness is an
out-of-door existence, with rod or gun for companions. Most of our
actors and actresses, whose lives are necessarily so public, love the
quiet of the country coupled with plenty of exercise when able to
take a change. The theatre is barely closed before they rush off to
moor or fen, to yacht or golf—to anything, in fact, that carries them
completely away from the glare of the footlights.
Another instance of theatrical heredity is Ben Webster, whose talent
for acting doubtless comes from his grandfather. Originally young
Ben read for the Bar with that eminent and amusing man, Mr. Montagu
Williams. It was just at that time that poor Montagu Williams’s throat
began to trouble him: later on, when no longer able to plead in court,
he was given an appointment as magistrate. I only remember meeting him
once—it was at Ramsgate. When walking along the Esplanade one day—I
think about the year 1890—I found my father talking to a neat, dapper
little gentleman in a fur coat, thickly muffled about the throat. He
introduced his friend as Montagu Williams, a name very well known at
that time. Alas! the eminent lawyer was hardly able to speak—disease
had assailed his throat well-nigh to death, and the last time I saw
that wonderful painter and charming man Sir John Everett Millais, at
a private view at the Royal Academy, he was almost as speechless, poor
soul.
Well, Montagu Williams was made a magistrate, and young Ben Webster,
realising his patron’s influence was to a certain extent gone, and
his own chances at the Bar consequently diminished, gladly accepted
an offer of Messrs. Hare and Kendal to play a companion part to his
sister in the _Scrap of Paper_, then on tour. He had often acted as
an amateur; and earned some little success during his few weeks’
professional engagement, so that when he returned to town and found
Montagu Williams removed from active practice at the Bar, he went at
once to Mr. Hare and asked for the part of Woodstock in _Clancarty_.
Thus he launched himself upon the stage, although his grandfather had
been dead for three years, and so had not directly had anything to do
with his getting there.
Old Grandfather Ben seems to have been a very irascible old gentleman,
and a decidedly obstinate one. On one occasion his obstinacy saved his
life, however, so his medical man stoutly declared.
The doctor had given Ben Webster up: he was dying. Chatterton and
Churchill were outside the room where he lay, and the medico when
leaving told them “old Ben couldn’t last an hour.”
“Ah, dear, dear!” said Chatterton; “poor old Ben going at last,” and he
sadly nodded his head as he entered the room.
“Blast ye! I’m not dead yet,” roared a voice from the bed, where old
Ben was sitting bolt upright. “I’m not going to die to please any of
you.”
He fell back gasping; but from that moment he began to get better.
Another eminent theatrical family, the Sotherns, were born on the
stage, so to speak, and took to the profession as naturally as ducks to
water, while their contemporaries the Irvings and Boucicaults have done
likewise.
It must have been towards the end of the seventies that my parents
took a house one autumn in Scarborough. We had been to Buxton for
my father’s health, and after a driving tour through Derbyshire,
finally arrived at our destination. To my joy, Mr. Sothern and his
daughter, who was then my schoolfellow in London, soon appeared upon
the scene. He had come in consequence of an engagement to play at the
Scarborough Theatre in _Dundreary_ and _Garrick_, and had secured a
house near us. Naturally I spent much of my time with my girl friend,
and we used often to accompany her father in a boat when he went on
his dearly-loved fishing expeditions. Never was there a merrier, more
good-natured, pleasanter gentleman than this actor. He was always
making fun which we children enjoyed immensely. Practical jokes to him
seemed the essence of life, and I vaguely remember incidents which,
though amusing to him, rather perturbed my juvenile mind. At the time
I had been very little to theatres, but as he had a box reserved every
night, I was allowed now and then to go and gaze in wild admiration at
_Garrick_ and _Dundreary_.
One afternoon I went to the Sotherns for a meat tea before proceeding
to the theatre, but the great comedian was not there. “Pops,” for
so he was called by his family, had gone out at four o’clock that
morning with a fisherman, and still remained absent. The weather had
turned rough, and considerable anxiety was felt as to what could have
become of him. His eldest son, Lytton, since dead, appeared especially
distressed. He had been down to the shore to inquire of the boatmen,
but nothing could be heard of his father. We finished our meal—Mr.
Sothern’s having been sent down to be kept warm—and although he had
not appeared, it was time to go to the theatre. Much perturbed in his
mind, Lytton escorted his sister and myself thither, and leaving us in
the box, went off once more to inquire if his father had arrived at the
stage door; again without success.
This seemed alarming; the wind was still boisterous and the stage
manager in a fright because he knew the only attraction to his audience
was the appearance of Edward Sothern as Lord Dundreary. It was the
height of the season, and the house was packed. Lytton started off
again to the beach, this time in a cab; the stage manager popped his
head into our box to inquire if the missing hero had by chance arrived,
the orchestra struck up, but still no Mr. Sothern. It was a curious
experience. The “gods” became uneasy, the pit began to stamp, the
orchestra played louder, and at last, dreading a sudden tumult, the
stage manager stepped forward and began to explain that “Mr. Sothern,
a devoted fisherman, had gone out at four o’clock that morning; but
had failed to return. As they knew, the weather was somewhat wild,
therefore, they could only suppose he had been detained by the storm——”
At this juncture an unexpected and dishevelled figure appeared on the
scene. The usually spick-and-span, carefully groomed Mr. Sothern, with
his white locks dripping wet and hanging like those of a terrier dog
over his eyes, hurried up, exclaiming:
“I am here, I am here. Will be ready in a minute,” and the weird
apparition disappeared through the opposite wing. Immense relief and
some amusement kept the audience in good humour, while with almost
lightning rapidity the actor changed and the play began.
In one of the scenes the hero goes to bed and draws the curtain to
hide him from the audience. Mr. Sothern went to bed as usual, but when
remarks should have been heard proceeding from behind the curtain, no
sound was forthcoming. The other player went on with his part; still
silence from the bed. The stage manager became alarmed, knowing that
Sothern was terribly fatigued and had eaten but little food, he tore
a small hole in the canvas which composed the wall of the room, and,
peeping through, saw to his horror that the actor was fast asleep. This
was an awkward situation. He called him—no response. The poor man on
the stage still gagged on gazing anxiously behind him for a response,
till at last, getting desperate, the stage manager seized a broom and
succeeded in poking Sothern’s ribs with the handle. The actor awoke
with a huge yawn, quite surprised to find himself in bed wearing
Dundreary whiskers, which proved a sharp reminder he ought to have been
performing antics on the stage.
Actor and fisherman had experienced a terrible time in their boat. The
current was so strong that when they turned to come back they were
borne along the coast, and as hour after hour passed poor Sothern
realised that not only might he not be able to keep his appointment at
the theatre, but was in peril of ever getting back any more. He made
all sorts of mental vows never to go out fishing again when he was
due to play at night; never to risk being placed in such an awkward
predicament, never to do many things; but in spite of this experience,
when once safe on land, his ardour was not damped, for he was off
fishing again the very next day.
When I went to America in 1900 Mrs. Kendal kindly gave me some
introductions, and one among others to Mr. Frohman. His is a name to
conjure with in theatrical circles on that side of the Atlantic, and is
becoming so on this side, for he controls a vast theatrical trust which
either makes or mars stage careers.
I called one morning by appointment at Daly’s Theatre, and as there
happened to be no rehearsal in progress all was still except at the box
office. I gave my card, and was immediately asked to “step along to Mr.
Frohman’s room.”
Up dark stairs and along dimly lighted passages I followed my
conductor, till he flung open the door of a beautiful room, where at
a large writing-table sat Mr. Frohman. He rose and received me most
kindly, and was full of questions concerning the Kendals and other
mutual friends, when suddenly, to my surprise, I saw a large photograph
hanging on the wall, of a Hamlet whose face I seemed to know.
“Who is that?” I asked.
“Mr. Edward Sothern, the greatest Hamlet in America, the son of the
famous Dundreary.”
“I had the pleasure of playing with that Hamlet many times when I was a
little girl,” I remarked; “for although ‘Eddy’ was somewhat older, he
used often to come to the nursery in Harley Street to have games with
us children when his mother lived a few doors from the house in which I
was born.”
Mr. Frohman was interested, and so was I, to hear of the great success
of young Edward Sothern, for of course Sam Sothern is well known on the
English stage.
The sumptuous office of Mr. Frohman is at the back of Daly’s Theatre.
It is a difficult matter to gain admittance to that sacred chamber,
but preliminaries having been arranged, the attendant who conducts
one thither rings a bell to inform the great man that his visitor is
about to enter. Mr. Frohman was interesting and affable. He evidently
possesses a fine taste, for pieces of ancient armour, old brocade, and
the general air of a _bric-à-brac_ shop pervaded his sitting-room.
“English actors are as successful over here,” he said, “as Americans
are in London, and the same may be said of plays, the novelty, I
suppose, in each case.”
The close alliance between England and America is becoming more
emphasised every day. Why, in the matter of acting alone we give them
our best and they send us their best in return. So much is this the
case that most of the people mentioned in these pages are as well known
in New York as in London; for instance, Sir Henry Irving, Miss Ellen
Terry, Mr. and Mrs. Kendal, Mr. Weedon Grossmith, Mr. E. S. Willard,
Miss Fay Davis, Madame Sarah Bernhardt, Miss Winifred Emery, Mr. Cyril
Maude, Miss Ellaline Terriss, Mr. Seymour Hicks, Mr. and Mrs. Beerbohm
Tree, Mr. W. S. Gilbert, Mr. Anthony Hope, Mr. A. W. Pinero, and a host
of others. Sir Henry Irving has gone to America, for the eighth time
during the last twenty years, with his entire company. That company
for the production of _Dante_ consists of eighty-two persons, and no
fewer than six hundred and seventy-three packages, comprising scenery,
dresses, and properties.
“No author should ever try to dramatise his own books: he nearly always
fails,” Mr. Frohman added later during our pleasant little chat, after
which he took me round his theatre, probably the most celebrated in the
United States, for it was built by the famous Daly, and still maintains
its position at the head of affairs. On the whole, American theatres
are smaller than our own, the entire floor is composed of stalls which
only cost 8_s._ 4_d._ each, and there is no pit. In the green-room,
halls, and passages Mr. Frohman pointed out with evident delight
various pictures of Booth as Hamlet, since whose time no one had been
so successful till Edward Sothern junior took up that _rôle_ in 1900.
There was also a large portrait of Charlotte Cushman, and several
pictures of Irving, Ellen Terry, Jefferson, and others, as well as some
photographs of my old friend Mr. Sothern.
I have quoted the Terrys, Kendals, Ellaline Terriss, Ben Webster,
Winifred Emery, and the Sotherns as products of the stage, but there
are many more, including Dion and Nina Boucicault, whose parents were a
well-known theatrical couple, George and Weedon Grossmith, the sons of
an entertainer, and George’s son is also on the stage. Both the Irvings
are sons of Sir Henry of that ilk, and so on _ad infinitum_.
From the above list it will be seen that most of our successful actors
and actresses were cradled in the profession. They were “mummers” in
the blood, if one may be forgiven the use of such a quaint old word to
represent the modern exponents of the drama.