_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.
One of our youngest dramatists, for it was only in 1897 that Captain
Robert Marshall’s first important play appeared, has suddenly leapt
into the front rank. His earlier days were in no way connected with the
stage.
It is not often a man can earn an income in two different professions;
such success is unusual. True, Earl Roberts is a soldier and a writer;
Forbes Robertson, Weedon Grossmith, and Bernard Partridge are actors
as well as artists; Lumsden Propert, the author of the best book on
miniatures, was a doctor by profession; Edmund Gosse and Edward Clodd
have other occupations besides literature. Although known as a writer,
W. S. Gilbert could earn an income at the Bar or in Art; A. W. Pinero
is no mean draughtsman; Miss Gertrude Kingston writes and illustrates
as well as acts; and Harry Furniss has shown us he is as clever with
his pen as with his brush in his _Confessions of a Caricaturist_.
Still, it is unusual for any one to succeed in two ways.
Nevertheless Captain Robert Marshall, once in the army, is now a
successful dramatist. He was born in Edinburgh in 1863, his father
being a J.P. of that city. Educated at St. Andrews, the ancient
town famous for learning and golf, he later migrated to Edinburgh
University. While studying there his brother entered Sandhurst at the
top of the list, and left in an equally exalted position. This inspired
the younger brother with a desire for the army, and he enlisted in
the Highland Light Infantry, then stationed in Ireland. The ranks
gave him an excellent training, besides affording opportunities for
studying various sides of life. Three years later he entered the Duke
of Wellington’s West Riding Regiment as an officer, receiving his
Captaincy in 1895, after having filled the post of District Adjutant at
Cape Town and A.D.C. to the Governor of Natal, Sir W. Hely-Hutchinson.
No one looking at Captain Marshall now would imagine that ill-health
had ever afflicted him; such, however, was the case, and but for the
fact that a delicate chest necessitated retiring from the army, he
would probably never have become a dramatist by profession. It was
about 1898 that he left the Service; but he has made good use of the
time since then, for such plays as _His Excellency the Governor_,
_A Royal Family_, _The Noble Lord_, and _The Second in Command_ have
followed in quick succession. Then came an adaptation of M.M. Scribe
and Legouvé’s _Bataille de Dames_, which he called _There’s Many a
Slip_, but which T. Robertson translated with immense success as _The
Ladies’ Battle_ some years before.
Mrs. Kendal, _àpropos_ of this, writes me the following:
“My dear brother Tom had been dead for years before I ever played
in _The Ladies’ Battle_. He translated and sold it to Lacy, an old
theatrical manager and agent, for about £10. Mr. Kendal and Mr. Hare
revived it at the Court Theatre when I was under their management.”
What would a modern dramatist say to a £10 note? What, indeed, would
Captain Marshall say for such a small reward, instead of reaping a
golden harvest as he did with his translation of the very same piece.
Times have changed indeed during the last few years, for play-writing
is now a most remunerative profession when it proves successful.
I remember once at a charming luncheon given by the George Alexanders
at their house in Pont Street, hearing Mr. Lionel Monckton bitterly
complaining of the difficulty of getting royalties for musical plays
from abroad. Since then worse things have happened, and pirated copies
of favourite songs have been sold by hundreds of thousands in the
streets of London for which the authors, composers, and publishers have
never received a cent. Mr. J. M. Barrie, who was sitting beside me,
joined in, and declared, if I am not mistaken, that he had never got a
penny from _The Little Minister_ in America, or _The Window in Thrums_;
indeed, it was not till _Sentimental Tommy_ appeared in 1894 that he
ever received anything at all from America, so _The Little Minister_,
like _Pinafore_, was acted thousands of times without any royalties
being paid to the respective authors by the United States.
Of course there was no copyright at all in England till 1833, and until
that date a play could be produced by any one at any time without
payment. The idea was preposterous, and so much abused that the Royal
Assent was given in Parliament to a copyright bill proposed by the Hon.
George Lamb, and carried through by Mr. Lytton Bulwer, who afterwards
became famous as Lord Lytton. Still, even this, unfortunately, does not
prevent piracy. Pirate thieves of other people’s brains have had a good
innings lately.
The only way to safeguard against the confiscation of a play without
the author receiving any dues is to give a “copyright performance.”
With this end in view the well-known writer, Mr. I. Zangwill, gave an
amusing representation of his play called _Merry Mary Ann_, founded
on his novel of the same name. The performance took place at the Corn
Exchange, Wallingford, and Mr. Zangwill was himself stage manager. This
took place a week before it was given with such success in Chicago, and
secured the English copyright to its author as well as the American.
The _modus operandi_ under these circumstances is:
(1) To pay a two-guinea fee for a licence.
(2) To hire a hall which is licensed for stage performances.
(3) To notify the public by means of posters that the play will take
place.
To make some one pay for admission. If only one person pay one guinea,
that person constitutes an audience, which, if small, is at least
unanimous.
Having arranged all these preliminaries the author and his friends
proceed to read, or whenever possible act, the parts of the drama, and
a very funny performance it sometimes is.
Mr. Zangwill’s caste was certainly amusing. Mr. Jerome K. Jerome,
author of _Three Men in a Boat_, was particularly good; but then he is
an old actor. He lives at Wallingford-on-Thames, where he represents
literature and journalism, G. F. Leslie, R.A., representing art; both
joined forces for one afternoon at that strange performance which was
in many ways a record. Sir Conan Doyle, of Sherlock Holmes fame, was to
have played; but was called away at the last moment.
Mr. Zangwill is an old hand at this sort of thing; when a copyright
performance of Hall Caine’s _Mahdi_ was given at the Haymarket Theatre
he began at first by playing his allotted part; but as one performer
after another threw up their _rôles_ he was finally left to act them
all. The female parts he played in his shirt-sleeves, with a high
pitched voice. Mr. Clement Scott gave a long and favourable notice in
the _Daily Telegraph_ next day. Mr. Zangwill has lately taken unto
himself a wife, none too soon, as he was the only member left in his
Bachelor Club!
It is rather amusing to contrast the first plays of various men;
for instance, Mr. Pinero, writing in the _Era Annual_, graphically
described his beginning thus:
“First play of all: _Two Hundred a Year_. This was written for my old
friends Mr. R. C. Carton and Miss Compton (Mrs. Carton) as a labour
of love when I was an actor, and was produced at the Globe in 1877.
The love, however, was and is more considerable than the composition,
which did not employ me more than a single afternoon. My next venture
was in the same year, and entitled _Two Can Play at the Game_, a farce
produced at the Lyceum Theatre by Mrs. Bateman in order really to
provide myself with a part. I acted in this many times in London, and
afterwards under Mr. Irving, as he then was, throughout the provinces.
By the way, Mrs. Bateman paid me five pounds for this piece.”
Mr. Sydney Grundy tells the following story:
“In 1872 I amused myself by writing a comedietta. I had it printed,
and across the cover of one copy I scrawled in a large bold hand, “You
may play this for nothing,” addressed it to J. B. Buckstone, Esq.,
Haymarket Theatre, London, posted it, and forgot all about it. A week
afterwards I received a letter in these terms: ‘Dear Sir,—Mr. Buckstone
desires me to inform you that your comedietta is in rehearsal, and will
be produced at his forthcoming Benefit. Mr. and Mrs. Kendal will play
the principal parts.—Yours faithfully, F. Weathersby.’ New authors
were such rare phenomena in those days, that Mr. Buckstone did not know
how to announce me, so adopted the weird expedient of describing me as
‘Mr. Sydney Grundy, of Manchester.’ The comedietta was a great success
and received only one bad review. One critic was so tickled by the
circumstance that the author lived in Manchester that he mentioned it
no fewer than three times in his ‘notice.’”
G. R. Sims describes his initial attempt thus:
“My first play was produced at the Theatre Royal, 113, Adelaide Road,
and was a burlesque of _Leah_; the parts were played by my brothers
and sisters and some young friends. The price of admission to the
day nursery, in which the stage was erected, was one shilling, which
included tea, but visitors were requested to bring their own cake and
jam. The burlesque was in four scenes. Many of the speeches were lifted
bodily from the published burlesque of Henry J. Byron.
“That was my first play as an amateur. My first professional play
_was_, _One Hundred Years Old_, and _is_ now twenty-seven years
old. It was produced July 10th, 1875, at a _matinée_ at the Olympic
Theatre, by Mr. E. J. Odell, and was a translation or adaptation of _Le
Centenaire_, by D’Ennery and another. It was less successful than my
amateur play. It did not bring me a shilling. The burlesque brought me
two—one paid by my father and one by my mother.”
Such were the first experiences of three eminent dramatic authors.
It must be delightful when author and actor are in unison. Such a
thing as a difference of opinion cannot be altogether unknown between
them; but no more united little band could possibly be found than that
behind the scenes at the Haymarket Theatre, where the rehearsals are
conducted in the spirit of a family party. The tyrannical author and
the self-assertive representatives of his creations all work in harmony.
“As one gets up in the Service,” amusingly said Captain Marshall, “one
receives a higher rate of pay, and has proportionately less to do.
Thus it was I found time for scribbling; it was actually while A.D.C.
and living in a Government House that I wrote _His Excellency the
Governor_. Three days after it came out I left the army.”
“Was that your first play?” I inquired.
“No. My first was a little one-act piece which Mr. Kendal accepted. It
dealt with the flight of Bonnie Prince Charlie from Scotland in 1746.
My first acted play appeared at the Lyceum, and was another piece
in one act, called _Shades of Night_, which finally migrated to the
Haymarket.”
It is curious how success and failure follow one on the other. No
play of Captain Marshall’s excited more criticism than _The Broad
Road_ at Terry’s; but nevertheless it was a failure. It was succeeded
immediately by _A Royal Family_ at the Court, which proved popular.
He has worked hard during the last few years, and deserves any meed
of praise that may be given him by the public. Many men on being told
to relinquish the profession they loved because of ill-health would
calmly sit down and court death. Not so Robert Marshall. He at once
turned his attention elsewhere, chose an occupation he could take about
with him when driven by necessity to warmer climes, lived in the fresh
air, did as he was medically advised, with the result that to-day he is
a comparatively strong man, busy in a life that is full of interest.
As a subaltern in the army the embryo dramatist once painted the
scenery for a performance of _The Mikado_ in Bermuda, and was known to
write, act, stage-manage, and paint the scenes of another play himself.
Enthusiasm truly; but it was all experience, and the intimate knowledge
then gained of the difficulties of stage craft have since stood him in
good stead.
Captain Marshall is a broad, good-looking man, retiring by
disposition, one might almost say shy—for that term applies, although
he emphatically denies the charge—and certainly humble and modest
as regards his own work. The author of _The Second in Command_ is
athletically inclined; he is fond of golf, fencing, and tennis—the love
of the first he doubtless acquired in his childhood’s days, when old
Tom Morris was so well known on the St. Andrews links.
The playwright is also devoted to music, and nothing gives him greater
pleasure than to spend an evening at the Opera. One night I happened to
sit in a box between him and Mr. Cyril Maude, and probably there were
no more appreciative listeners in the house than these two men, both
intensely interested in the representation of _Tannhäuser_. Poor Mr.
Maude having a sore throat, had been forbidden to act that evening for
fear of losing the little voice which remained to him. As music is his
delight, and an evening at the Opera an almost unknown pleasure, he
enjoyed himself with the enthusiasm of a child, feeling he was having a
“real holiday.”
Captain Marshall is so fond of music that he amuses himself constantly
at his piano or pianola in his charming flat in town.
“I like the machine best,” he remarked laughingly, “because it makes no
mistakes, and with a little practice can be played with almost as much
feeling as a pianoforte.”
When in London Captain Marshall lives in a flat at the corner of
Berkeley Square; but during the winter he migrates to the Riviera
or some other sunny land. The home reflects the taste of its owner;
and the dainty colouring, charming pictures, and solid furniture of
the flat denote the man of artistic taste who dislikes show without
substance even in furniture.
The first time I met Robert Marshall was at W. S. Gilbert’s delightful
country home at Harrow Weald. The Captain has a most exalted opinion
of Mr. Gilbert’s writings and witticisms. He considers him a model
playwright, and certainly worships—as much as one man can worship at
the shrine of another—this originator of modern comedy.
One summer, when Captain Marshall found the alluring hospitality of
London incompatible with work, he took a charming house at Harrow
Weald, and settled himself down to finish a play. He could not,
however, stand the loneliness of a big establishment by himself—a
loneliness which he does not feel in his flat. Consequently that peace
and quiet which he went to the country to find, he himself disturbed by
inviting friends down on all possible occasions, and being just as gay
as if he had remained in town. He finished his play, however, between
the departure and arrival of his various guests.
Two of the most successful plays of modern times have been written
by women; the first, by Mrs. Hodgson Burnett, was founded on her own
novel, _Little Lord Fauntleroy_, of which more anon. The second had no
successful book to back it, and yet it ran over three hundred nights.
This as far as serious drama is concerned—for burlesque touched up may
run to any length—is a record.
_Mice and Men_, by Mrs. Ryley, must have had something in it, something
special, or why should a play from an almost unknown writer have taken
such a hold on the London public? It was well acted, of course, for
that excellent artist Forbes Robertson was in it; but other plays have
been well acted and yet have failed.
Why, then, its longevity?
Its very simplicity must be the answer. It carried conviction. It was
just a quaint little idyllic episode of love and romance, deftly woven
together with strong human interest. It aimed at nothing great, it
merely sought to entertain and amuse. Love rules the world, romance
enthrals it, both were prettily depicted by a woman, and the play
proved a brilliant success. To have written so little and yet made such
a hit is rare.
On the other hand, one of our most successful playwrights has been very
prolific in his work. Sir Francis Burnand has edited _Punch_ for more
than thirty years, and yet has produced over one hundred and twenty
plays. ’Tis true one of the most successful of these was written in a
night. Mr. Burnand, as he was then, went to the St. James’s Theatre
one evening to see _Diplomacy_, and after the performance walked home.
On the way the idea for a burlesque struck him, so he had something to
eat, found paper and pens, and began. By breakfast-time next morning
_Diplomacy_ was completed, and a few days later all London was laughing
over it. There is a record of industry and speed.
The stage, however, has not claimed so much of his attention of late
years as his large family and Mr. Punch. Sir Francis is particularly
neat and dapper, with a fresh complexion and grey hair. He wears a
pointed white beard, but looks remarkably youthful. He is a busy man,
and spends hours of each day in his well-stocked library at the Boltons
(London, Eng.: as our American friends would say), or at Ramsgate, his
favourite holiday resort, where riding and sea-boating afford him much
amusement, and time for reflection. He is a charming dinner-table
companion, always full of good humour and amusing stories.
It was when dining one night at the Burnands’ home in the Boltons that
I met Sir John Tenniel after a lapse of some years, for he virtually
gave up dining out early in the ’90’s in order to devote his time to
his _Punch_ cartoon. One warm day in July, 1902, however, John Tenniel
was persuaded to break his rule, and proved as kind and lively as ever.
Although eighty-two years of age he drew a picture for me after dinner.
There are not many men of eighty-two who could do that; but then, did
he not draw the _Punch_ cartoon without intermission for fifty years?
“What am I to draw?” he asked. “I have nothing to copy and no model to
help me.”
“Britannia,” I replied. “That ever-young lady is such an old friend of
yours, you must know every line in her face by heart.” And he did. The
dear old man’s hand was very shaky, until he got the pencil on to the
paper, and then the lines themselves were perfectly clear and distinct;
years of work on wood blocks had taught him precision which did not
fail him even when over fourscore.
Every one loves Sir John. He never seems to have given offence with
his cartoons as so many have done before and since. Cartoonists and
caricaturists ply a difficult trade, for so few people like to be made
fun of themselves, although they dearly love a joke at some one else’s
expense.
A few doors from the Burnands’ charming house in Bolton Gardens lives
the author of _Charley’s Aunt_.
When in the city of Mexico, one broiling hot December day in 1900, I
was invited to dine and go to the theatre. I had only just arrived in
that lovely capital, and was dying to see and do everything.
“Will there be any Indians amongst the audience?” I inquired.
“Si, Señora. The Indians and half-castes love the theatre, and always
fill the cheaper places.”
This sounded delightful; a Spanish play acted in Castilian with
beautiful costumes of matadors and shawled ladies—what could be
better? Gladly I accepted the invitation to dine and go to the theatre
afterwards, where, as subsequently proved, they have a strange
arrangement by which a spectator either pays for the whole performance,
or only to witness one particular act.
We arrived. The audience looked interesting: few, however, even in the
best places wore dress-clothes, any more than they do in the United
States. The performance began.
It did not seem very Spanish, and somehow appeared familiar. I looked
at the programme. “LA TIA DE CARLOS.”
What a sell! I had been brought to see _Charley’s Aunt_.
One night after my return to London I was dining with William
Heinemann, the publisher, to meet the great “Jimmy” Whistler. I was
telling Mr. Brandon Thomas, the author of _Charley’s Aunt_, this funny
little experience, when he remarked:
“I can tell you another. My wife and I had been staying in the Swiss
mountains, when one day we reached Zürich. ‘Let us try to get a decent
dinner,’ I said, ‘for I am sick of _table d’hôtes_.’ Accordingly we
dined on the best Zürich could produce, and then asked the waiter what
play he would recommend.
“‘The theatres are closed just now,’ he replied.
“‘But surely something is open?’
“‘Ah, well, yes, there’s a sort of music hall, but the _Herrschaften_
would not care to go there.’
“‘Why not?’ I exclaimed, longing for some diversion.
“‘Because they are only playing a very vulgar piece, it would not
please the _gnädige Frau_, it is a stupid English farce.’
“‘Never mind how stupid. Tell me its name.’
“‘It is called,’ replied the waiter, ‘_Die Tante_.’”
Poor Brandon Thomas nearly collapsed on the spot, it was his very own
play. They went. Needless to say, however, the author hardly recognised
his child in its new garb, although he never enjoyed an evening more
thoroughly in his life.
The first draft of this well-known piece was written in three weeks,
and afterwards, as the play was considerably cut in the provinces, Mr.
Thomas restored the original matter and entirely re-wrote it before it
was produced in London, when the author played the part of Sir Francis
Chesney himself.
I have another recollection in connection with _Charley’s Aunt_. It
must have been about 1895 that my husband and I were dining with that
delightful little gentleman and great Indian Prince, the Gaekwar of
Baroda, and the Maharanee (his wife), and we all went on to the theatre
to see _Charley’s Aunt_. At that time His Highness the Gaekwar was
very proud of a grand new theatre he had built in Baroda, and was busy
having plays translated for production. Several Shakespearian pieces
had already been done. He thought _Charley’s Aunt_ might be suitable,
but as the play proceeded, turning to me he remarked:
“This would never do, it would give my people a bad idea of English
education; no, no—I cannot allow such a mistake as that.”
So good is His Highness’s own opinion of our education that his sons
are at Harrow and Oxford as I write.
_Charley’s Aunt_ has been played in every European language—verily
a triumph for its author. How happy and proud a man ought to be who
has brought so much enjoyment into life; and yet Brandon Thomas feels
almost obliged to blush every time the title is mentioned. When Mr.
Penley asked him to write a play, in spite of being in sad need of
cash, he was almost in despair. His eye fell upon the photograph of an
elderly relative, and showing it to Penley he asked:
“How would you like to play an old woman like that?”
“Delighted, old chap; I’ve always wanted to play a woman’s character.”
And when the play was written Penley acted the part made up like the
old lady in the photograph which still stands on Brandon Thomas’s
mantelshelf.
London is changing terribly, although _Charley’s Aunt_ seems as if it
would go on for ever. Old London is vanishing in a most distressing
manner. Within a few months Newgate has been pulled down, the Bluecoat
School has disappeared, and now Clifford’s Inn has been sold for
£100,000 and is to be demolished. Many of the sets of chambers therein
contained beautiful carving, and in one of these sets dwelt Frederick
Fenn, the dramatist, son of Manville Fenn, the novelist. He determined
to have a bachelor party before quitting his rooms, and an interesting
party it proved.
I left home shortly after nine o’clock with a friend, and when we
reached Piccadilly Circus we found ourselves in the midst of the crowd
waiting to watch President Loubet drive past on his way to the Gala
performance at Covent Garden (July, 1903). The streets were charmingly
decorated, and must have given immense satisfaction not only to the
President of France but to the entire Republic he represented. From the
Circus through Leicester Square the crowd was standing ten or fifteen
deep on either side of the road, and we had various vicissitudes in
getting to our destination at all. The police would not let us pass,
and we drove round and round back streets, unable to get into either
the Strand or St. Martin’s Lane. However, at last a mighty cheer told
us the royal party had passed, and we were allowed to drive on our way
to Clifford’s Inn. Up a dark alley beyond the Law Courts we trudged,
and rang the big sonorous bell for the porter to admit us to the
courtyard surrounded by chambers.
Ascending a spiral stone staircase, carpeted in red for the occasion,
we passed through massive oak doors with their low doorways and entered
Mr. Fenn’s rooms.
“How lovely! Surely those carvings are by the famous Gibbons?”
“They are,” he said, “or at any rate they are reputed to be, and in a
fortnight will be sold by auction to the highest bidder.”
This wonderful decoration had been there for numbers of years, the
over-doors, chimneypieces and window-frames were all most beautifully
carved, and the whole room was panelled from floor to ceiling. The
furniture was in keeping. Beautiful inlaid satinwood tables, settees
covered with old-fashioned brocade, old Sheffield cake-baskets, were in
harmony with the setting.
It was quite an interesting little party, and I thoroughly enjoyed my
chat with James Welsh, the clever comedian, who played in the _New
Clown_ for eighteen months consecutively. Such an interesting little
man, with dark round eyes and pale eyelashes, and a particularly broad
crown to his head.
“I don’t mind a long run at all,” he said, “because every night there
is a fresh audience. Sometimes they are so dull we cannot get hold of
them at all till the second act, and sometimes it is even the end of
the second act before they are roused to enthusiasm; another time
they will see the fun from the first rise of the curtain. Personally I
prefer the audience to be rather dull at the beginning, for I like to
work them up, and to work up with them myself. The most enthusiastic
audiences to my mind are to be found in Scotland—I am of course
speaking of low comedy. In Ireland they may be as appreciative, but
they are certainly quieter. Londoners are always difficult to rouse to
any expression of enthusiasm. I suppose they see too many plays, and so
become _blasé_.”