_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.
The scene was changed.
It was the 1st of June. I remember the date because it was my birthday,
and this particular June day is doubly engraven on my mind as the most
important Sunday in 1902. It was a warm summer’s evening as I drove
down Harley Street to dine with Sir Anderson and Lady Critchett, whose
dinners are as famous as his own skill as an oculist.
Most of the company had assembled. Mr. and Mrs. Kendal were already
there, Frank Wedderburn, K.C., Mr. Luke Fildes, R.A., who had just
completed his portrait of the King, Mr. Orchardson, R.A., Mr. Lewis
Coward, K.C., and their wives, Mr. and Mrs. Edward Sassoon, Mr. and
Mrs. W. L. Courtney, when the Beerbohm Trees were announced. He bore a
telegram in his hand.
“Have you heard the news?” he asked.
“No,” every one replied, guessing by his face it was something of
importance.
“Peace has been officially signed,” was the reply.
Great was the joy of all present. There had been a possibility felt all
day that the good news from South Africa might be confirmed on that
Sunday, although it was supposed it could not be known for certain
until Monday. Sunday is more or less a _dies non_ in London, but as
the tape is always working at the theatre, Mr. Tree had instructed a
clerk to sit and watch the precious instrument all day, so as to let
him have the earliest information of so important an event. As he was
dressing for dinner in Sloane Street, in rushed the clerk, breathless
with excitement, bearing the news of the message of Peace that had sped
across a quarter of the world.
This in itself made that dinner-party memorable, but it was memorable
in more ways than one, as among the twenty people round that table sat
four of the chief performers in _The Merry Wives of Windsor_, which was
to electrify London as a Coronation performance ten days later.
Sir Anderson himself is connected with the drama, for his brother is
Mr. R. C. Carton, the well-known dramatic author. Sir Anderson is also
an indefatigable first-nighter, and being an excellent _raconteur_,
knows many amusing stories of actors of the day. In his early years an
exceptionally fine voice almost tempted him on to the lyric stage, but
he has had no cause to regret that his ultimate choice was ophthalmic
surgery.
It was a stroke of genius, the genius of the seer, on the part of
Beerbohm Tree, to invite the two leading actresses of England to
perform at his theatre during Coronation season.
It came about in this way. On looking round the Houses, Mr. Tree
noticed that, although Shakespeare was to the fore in the provinces,
filling two or three theatres, there happened to be no Shakespearian
production—except an occasional _matinée_ at the Lyceum—going on
in London during the Coronation month. Of course London without
Shakespeare is like _Hamlet_ without the Dane to visitors from the
Colonies and elsewhere. Something must be done. He decided what. A
good all-round representation, played without any particular star part
would suit the purpose, and a record cast would suit the stranger.
Accordingly Mr. Tree jumped into a hansom and drove to Mrs. Kendal’s
home in Portland Place, where he was announced, and exclaimed:
“I have come to ask you to act for me at His Majesty’s for the
Coronation month. Your own tour will be finished by that time.”
For one hour they talked, Mrs. Kendal declaring she had not played
under any management save her husband’s for so many years that the
suggestion seemed well-nigh impossible.
“Besides,” she added, “you should ask Ellen Terry, who is my senior,
and stands ahead of me in the profession. She has not yet appeared
since she returned from America. There is your chance.”
Whereupon there ensued further discussion, till finally Mrs. Kendal
laughingly remarked:
“Well, if you can get Ellen Terry to act, I will play with you both
with pleasure.”
Off went Mr. Tree to the hansom, and directed the driver to take him
at once to Miss Terry’s house, for he was determined not to let the
grass grow under his feet. He brought his personal influence to bear
on the famous actress for another hour, at the end of which time she
had consented to play _if_ Sir Henry Irving would allow her. This
permission was quickly obtained, and two hours after leaving Portland
Place Mr. Tree was back to claim Mrs. Kendal’s promise. It was sharp
work; one morning overcame what at the outset seemed insurmountable
obstacles, and thus was arranged one of the best and luckiest
performances ever given. For weeks and weeks that wonderful cast played
to overflowing houses. The month wore on, but the public taste did not
wear out, July found all these stars still in the firmament, and even
in August they remained shining in town.
Moral: the very best always receives recognition. The “best” lay in
the acting, for as a play the _Merry Wives_ is by no means one of
Shakespeare’s best. It is said he wrote it in ten days by order of
Queen Elizabeth. How delighted Bouncing Bess would have been if she
could have seen the Coronation performance!
[Illustration:
_Photo by London Stereoscopic Co., Ltd., Cheapside, E.C._
MR. BEERBOHM TREE AS FALSTAFF.]
I passed down the Haymarket early in the morning preceding that famous
first night. There, sitting on camp-stools, were people who had been
waiting from 5 a.m. to get into the pit and gallery that evening. They
had a long wait, over twelve hours some of them, but certainly they
thought it worth while if they enjoyed themselves as much as I did. It
was truly a record performance.
The house was packed; in one box was the Lord Chief Justice of
England, in the stalls below him Sir Edward Clarke, at one time
Solicitor-General, and who has perhaps the largest practice at the Bar
of any one in London. Then there was Mr. Kendal not far off, watching
his wife. Mr. and Mrs. Beerbohm Tree’s daughter—showing a strong
resemblance to both parents—was in a box; Princess Colonna was likewise
there; together with some of the most celebrated doctors, such as Sir
Felix Semon, learned in diseases of the throat, Sir Anderson Critchett,
our host of a few nights before, while right in the front sat old Mrs.
Beerbohm, watching her son with keen interest and enjoyment, and, a
little behind, that actor’s clever brother, known on an important
weekly as “Max,” a severe and caustic dramatic critic.
The enthusiasm of the audience was extraordinary. When some one had
called for the feminine “stars” at one of the rehearsals, Mrs. Kendal,
with ready wit, seized Ellen Terry by the hand, exclaiming:
“Ancient Lights would be more appropriate, methinks!”
Below is the programme.
TUESDAY, JUNE 10th, 1902, at 8.15
SHAKESPEARE’S COMEDY
The Merry Wives of Windsor
Sir John Falstaff Mr. TREE
Master Fenton Mr. GERALD LAWRENCE
Justice Shallow Mr. J. FISHER WHITE
Master Slender (_Cousin to Shallow_) Mr. CHARLES QUARTERMAIN
Master Ford } _Gentlemen dwelling at_ { Mr. OSCAR ASCHE
Master Page } _Windsor_ { Mr. F. PERCIVAL STEVENS
Sir Hugh Evans (_a Welsh Parson_) Mr. COURTICE POUNDS
Dr. Caius (_a French Physician_) Mr. HENRY KEMBLE
Host of the “Garter” Inn Mr. LIONEL BROUGH
Bardolph } { Mr. ALLEN THOMAS
Nym } _Followers of Falstaff_ { Mr. S. A. COOKSON
Pistol } { Mr. JULIAN L’ESTRANGE
Robin (_Page to Falstaff_) Master VIVYAN THOMAS
Simple (_Servant to Slender_) Mr. O. B. CLARENCE
Rugby (_Servant to Dr. Caius_) Mr. FRANK STANMORE
Mistress Page Miss ELLEN TERRY
(By the Courtesy of
Sir HENRY IRVING)
Mistress Anne Page (_Daughter to Mrs. Page_) Mrs. TREE
Mistress Quickly (_Servant to Dr. Caius_) Miss ZEFFIE TILBURY
Mistress Ford Mrs. KENDAL
(By the Courtesy of
Mr. W. H. KENDAL)
_The Merry Wives of Windsor_ is a comedy, but it was played on the
first night as a comedy of comedies, every one, including Lionel Brough
as the Innkeeper, being delightfully jovial. Every one seemed in the
highest spirits, and all those sedate actors and actresses thoroughly
enjoyed a romp. When the two ladies of the evening appeared on the
scene hand in hand, convulsed with laughter, they were clapped so
enthusiastically that it really seemed as if they would never be
allowed to begin.
What a contrast they were, in appearance and style. They had played
together as children, but never after, till that night. During the
forty years that had rolled over Ellen Terry’s head since those young
days she has developed into a Shakespearian actress of the first rank.
Her life has been spent in declaiming blank verse, wearing mediæval
robes, and enacting tragedy and comedy of ancient days by turn, and
added to her vast experience, she has a great and wonderful personality.
Mrs. Kendal, on the other hand, who stands at the head of the comedians
of the day, and is also mistress of her art, has played chiefly modern
parts and depicted more constantly the sentiment of the time; but has
seldom attacked blank verse; therefore, the two leading actresses of
England are distinctly dissimilar in training and style. No stronger
contrast could have been imagined; and yet, although neither part
actually suited either, the finished actress was evident in every
gesture, every tone, every look of both, and it would be hard to say
which achieved the greatest triumph, each was so perfect in her own
particular way.
Miss Ellen Terry did not know her words—she rarely does on a first
night, and is even prone to forget her old parts. Appearing in a new
character that she was obliged to learn for the occasion, she had not
been able to memorise it satisfactorily; but that did not matter in the
least. She looked charming, she was charming, the prompter was ever
ready, and if she did repeat a line a second time while waiting to be
helped with the next, no one seemed to think that of any consequence.
When she went up the stairs to hide while Mrs. Kendal (Mrs. Ford) made
Tree (Falstaff) propose to her, Mrs. Kendal packed her off in great
style, and then wickedly and with amusing emphasis remarked:
“Mistress Page, remember your cue,” which of course brought down the
house.
Their great scene came in the third act, when they put Falstaff into
the basket. Mr. Tree was excellent as the preposterously fat knight—a
character verily all stuff and nonsense. He is a tall man, and in his
mechanical body reaches enormous girth. Falstaff and the Merry Wives
had a regular romp over the upset of the basket, and the audience
entering into the fun of the thing laughed as heartily as they did. Oh
dear, oh dear! how every one enjoyed it.
A few nights later during this same scene Mr. Tree was observed to grow
gradually thinner. He seemed to be going into a “rapid decline,” for
his belt began to slip about, and his portly form grew less and less.
Ellen Terry noticed the change: it was too much for her feelings. With
the light-hearted gaiety of a child she was convulsed with mirth. She
pointed out the phenomenon to Mrs. Kendal, who at once saw the humour
of it, as did the audience, but the chief actor could not fathom the
cause of the immoderate hilarity until his belt began to descend. Then
he realised that “Little Mary”—which in his case was an air pillow—had
lost her screw, and was rapidly fading away.
But to return to that memorable first night; as the curtain fell on the
last act the audience clapped and clapped, and not content with having
the curtain up four or five times, called and called until the entire
company danced hand in hand across the stage in front of the curtain.
Even that was not enough, although poor Mrs. Kendal lost her enormous
horned head-dress during the dance. The curtain had to be rung up again
and again, till Mr. Tree stepped forward and said he had no speech to
make beyond thanking the two charming ladies for their assistance and
support, whereupon these two executed _pas seuls_ on either side of the
portly Falstaff.
It was a wonderful performance, and although the two women mentioned
stood out pre-eminently, one must not forget Mrs. Tree, who appeared
as “Sweet Anne Page.” She received quite an ovation when her husband
brought her forward to bow her acknowledgments. Bows on such an
occasion or in such a comedy are quite permissible; but was ever
anything more disconcerting than to see an actor who has just died
before us in writhing agony, spring forward to bow at the end of some
tragedy—to rise from the dead to smile—to see a man who has just moved
us to tears and evoked our sympathy, stand gaily before us, to laugh
at our sentiment and cheerily mock at our enthusiasm? Could anything
be more inartistic? A “call” often spoils a tragedy, not only in
the theatre but at the opera. Over zeal on the part of the audience,
and over vanity on the side of the actor, drags away the veil of
mystery which is our make-believe of reality, and shows glaringly the
make-believe of the whole thing.
Mr. Beerbohm Tree never hesitates to tell a story against himself, and
he once related an amusing experience in connection with his original
production of _The Merry Wives of Windsor_.
In the final scene at Herne’s oak, where Falstaff is pursued by fairy
elves and sprites, the burly knight endeavours to escape from his
tormentors by climbing the trunk of a huge tree. In order to render
this possible the manager had ordered some pegs to be inserted in the
bark, but on the night of the final dress rehearsal these necessary
aids were absent. A carpenter was summoned, and Mr. Tree, pointing to
his namesake, said in tones of the deepest reproach:
“No pegs! No pegs!”
When the eventful first night came Falstaff found to his annoyance
and amazement that he was still unable to compass the climb by which
he hoped to create much amusement. On the fall of the curtain the
delinquent was again called into the managerial presence and addressed
in strong terms. He, however, quickly cut short the reproof by
exclaiming:
“’Ere, I say, guvnor, ’old ’ard: what was your words last night at the
re-’earsal? ’No pegs,’ you said—’no pegs’—well, there ain’t none,” and
he gave a knowing smack of the lips as if to insinuate another kind of
peg would be acceptable.
Experience has shown Mr. Tree that he can give the necessary appearance
of bloated inflation to the cheeks of the fat knight by the aid of a
paint-brush alone; but then Mr. Tree mixes his paints with brains. When
he first essayed the character of Falstaff he relied for his effect
on cotton wool and wig-paste. Even now his nose is deftly manipulated
with paste to increase its size and shape, and I once saw him give
it a tweak after a performance with droll effect. A little lump of
nose-paste remained in his hand, while his own white organ shone forth
in the midst of a rubicund countenance.
On an early occasion at the Crystal Palace Mr. Tree was delighted
at a burst of uproarious merriment on the part of the audience,
and flattered himself that the scene was going exceptionally well.
Happening to glance downwards, however, he saw that the padding had
slipped from his right leg, leaving him with one lean shank while the
other leg still assumed gigantic proportions. He looked down in horror.
The audience were not laughing _with_ him, but _at_ him. He endeavoured
to beat a hasty retreat, but found he could not stir, for one of his
cheeks had fallen off when leaning forward, and in more senses than
one he had “put his foot in it” and required extra cheek, not less, to
compass an exit from the stage.
Such are the drolleries incumbent on a character like Falstaff.
Mr. Tree has his serious moments, however, and none are more serious
than his present contemplation of his Dramatic School, which he
believes “will appeal not only to the profession of actors, but to
all interested in the English theatre, the English language, and
English oratory, men whose talents are occupied in public life, in
politics, in the pulpit, or at the Bar. Unless a dramatic school
can be self-supporting it is not likely to survive. Acting cannot
be taught—but many things can—such as voice-production, gesture and
deportment, fencing and dancing.”
Every one will wish his bold venture success; and if he teaches a few
of our “well-known” actors and actresses to speak so that we can follow
every word of what they say, which at present we often cannot do, he
will confer a vast boon on English playgoers, and doubtless add largely
to the receipts of the theatres. It is a brave effort on his part, and
he deserves every encouragement.
As this chapter began with a first-night performance, it shall end with
first-night thoughts.
Are we not one and all hypercritical on such occasions?
[Illustration:
_Photo by Window & Grove, Baker Street, W._
MISS ELLEN TERRY AS QUEEN KATHERINE.]
We little realise the awful strain behind the scenes in the working
of that vast machinery, the play. Not only is the author anxious, but
the actors and actresses are worn out with rehearsals and nervousness:
property men, wig-makers, scene-painters, and fly-men are all in a
state of extreme tension. The front of the house little realises what
a truly awful ordeal a first night is for all concerned, and while it
is kind to encourage by clapping, it is cruel to condemn by hissing or
booing.
All behind the footlights do their best, or try so far as nervousness
will let them, and surely we in the audience should not expect a
perfect or a smooth representation, and should give encouragement
whenever possible.
After all, however much the actors may suffer from nervousness and
anxiety on a first night, their position is not really so trying as
that of the author. If the actor is not a success, it may be “the part
does not suit him,” or “it is a bad play,” there may be the excuse of
“want of adequate support,” for he is only one of a number; but the
poor author has to bear the brunt of everything. If his play fail the
whole thing is a _fiasco_. He is blamed by every one. It costs more to
put on another play than to change a single actor. The author stands
alone to receive abuse or praise; he knows that, not only may failure
prove ruin to him, but it may mean loss to actors, actresses, managers,
and even the call boy. Therefore the more conscientious he is, the more
torture he suffers in his anxiety to learn the public estimation of his
work. The criticism may not be judicious, but if favourable it brings
grist to the mill of all concerned.