_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.
It is a surprise to the public that so many novelists are becoming
dramatists.
The reason is simple enough: it is the natural evolution of romance.
In the good old days of three-volume novels, works of fiction brought
considerable grist to the mill of both author and publisher; after all
it only cost a fraction more to print and bind a three-volume work
which sold at thirty-one shillings and sixpence than it does to-day to
produce a book of almost as many words at six shillings.
Then again, half, even a quarter of, a century ago there were not
anything like so many novelists, and those who wrote had naturally less
competition; but all this is changed.
Novels pour forth on every side to-day, and money does not always pour
in, in proportion. One of the first novelists to make a large sum by
a play was Mrs. Hodgson Burnett. She wrote _Little Lord Fauntleroy_
about 1885, it proved successful, and the book contained the element
of an actable play. She dramatised the story, and she has probably
made as many thousands of pounds by the play as hundreds by the book,
in spite of its enormous circulation. I believe I am right in saying
that _Little Lord Fauntleroy_ has brought more money to its originator
than any other combined novel and play, and the next most lucrative has
probably been J. M. Barrie’s _Little Minister_.
Herein lies a moral lesson. Both are simple as books and plays, and
both owe their success to that very simplicity and charm. They contain
no problem, no sex question, nothing but a little story of human life
and interest, and they have succeeded in English-speaking lands, and
had almost a wider influence than the more elaborate physiological work
and ideas of Ibsen, Maeterlinck, Sudermann, or Pinero.
For twenty years _Little Lord Fauntleroy_ has stirred all hearts, both
on the stage and off, in England and America, adored by children and
loved by grown-ups.
Being anxious to know how the idea of the play came about, I wrote
to Mrs. Burnett, and below is her reply in a most characteristically
modest letter:
“NEW YORK,
“_November 26th, 1902_.
“DEAR MRS. ALEC-TWEEDIE,
“I hope it is as agreeable as it sounds to be ’a-roaming in
Spain.’ It gives one dreams of finding one’s lost castles there.
Concerning the play of _Fauntleroy_; after the publication of the
book it struck me one day that if a real child could be found
who could play _naturally_ and ingenuously the leading part,
a very unique little drama might be made of the story. I have
since found that almost any child can play Fauntleroy, the reason
being, I suppose, that only child emotions are concerned in the
representation of the character. At that time, however, I did
not realise what small persons could do, and by way of proving
to myself that it could—or could not—be done with sufficient
simplicity and convincingness, I asked my own little boy to pretend
for me that he was Fauntleroy making his speech of thanks to the
tenants on his birthday. The little boy in question was the one
whose ingenuous characteristics had suggested to me the writing
of the story, so I thought if it could be done he could do it. He
had, of course, not been allowed to suspect that he himself had any
personal connection with the character of Cedric. He was greatly
interested in saying the speech for me, and he did it with such
delightful warm-hearted naturalness that he removed my doubts as
to whether a child-actor could say the lines without any air of
sophistication—which was of course the point.
Shortly afterwards we went to Italy, and in Florence I began the
dramatisation. I had, I think, about completed the first act
when I received news from England that a Mr. Seebohm had made a
dramatisation and was producing it. I travelled to London at once
and consulted my lawyer, Mr. Guadella, who began a suit for me. I
felt very strongly on the subject, not only because I was unfairly
treated, but because it had been the custom to treat all writers
in like manner, and it seemed a good idea to endeavour to find a
defence. I was frightened because I could not have afforded to lose
and pay costs—but I felt rather fierce, and made up my mind to
face the risk. Fortunately Mr. Guadella won the case for me. Mr.
Seebohm’s version was withdrawn and mine produced with success both
in England and America—and, in fact, in various other countries. I
never know dates, but I _think_ it was produced in London in ’88.
It has been played ever since, and is played for short engagements
on both sides of the Atlantic every year. I have not the least idea
how many times it has been given. It is a queer little dear, that
story—‘plays may come and books may go, but little Fauntleroy stays
on for ever.’ I am glad I wrote it—I always loved it. I should have
loved it if it had not brought me a penny. I am afraid I am not
very satisfactory as a recorder of detail of a business nature.
I never remember dates or figures. If we were talking together I
should doubtless begin to recall incidents. It is the stimulating
meanderings of conversation which stir the pools of memory.”
Mrs. Hodgson Burnett may indeed be proud of her success, although she
writes of it in such a simple, unaffected manner. ’Twas well for her
she faced the lawsuit, for ruin scowled on one side while fortune
smiled on the other.
No novelist’s works have sold more freely than those of Hall Caine and
Miss Marie Corelli. Both are highly dramatic in style, but Miss Corelli
has not taken to play-writing, preferring the novel as a means of
expression.
Hall Caine, on the other hand, has been tempted by the allurements of
the stage. When I asked him why he took up literature as a profession,
he replied:
“I write a novel because I love the motive, or the story, or the
characters, or the scene, or all four, and I dramatise it because I
like to see my subject on the stage. If more material considerations
sometimes influence me, more spiritual ones are, I trust, not always
absent. I don’t think the time occupied in writing a book or a play has
ever entered into my calculations, nor do I quite know which gives me
most trouble.”
Continuing the subject, I ventured to ask him whether he thought drama
or fiction the higher art.
“I like both the narrative and the dramatic forms of art, but perhaps I
think the art of fiction is a higher and better art than the art of a
drama, inasmuch as it is more natural, more free, and more various, and
yet capable of equal unity. On the other hand, I think the art of the
drama is in some respects more difficult, because it is more artificial
and more limited, and always hampered by material conditions which
concern the stage, the scenery, the actors, and even the audience. I
think,” he continued, “the novel and the drama have their separate joys
for the novelist and dramatist, and also their separate pains and
penalties.
“On the whole, I find it difficult to compare things so different, and
all I can say for myself is that, notwithstanding my great love of the
theatre, I find it so trying in various ways—owing, perhaps, to my
limitations—that I do not grudge any one the success he achieves as
a dramatist, and I deeply sympathise with the man who fails in that
character.”
How true that is! By far the most lenient critics are the workers. It
is the man who never wrote a book who criticises most severely, the man
who never painted a picture who is the hardest to please.
Speaking about the dramatic element of the modern novel, Mr. Caine
continued:
“But then the novel, since the days of Scott, has so encroached upon
the domain of the drama, and become so dramatic in form that the author
who has ‘the sense of the theatre’ may express himself fairly well
without tempting his fate in that most fascinating but often most fatal
little world.”
Such was Mr. Caine’s opinion on the novelist as dramatist.
Hall Caine’s personality is too well known to need describing; but his
handwriting is a marvel. He gets more into a page than any one I know,
unless it be Whistler, Sydney Lee, or Zangwill. Mr. Caine’s calligraphy
at a little distance looks like Chinese, it is beautifully neat and
tidy—but most difficult to read. Like Frankfort Moore, Richard Le
Gallienne, and a host of others, he scribbles with a small pad in his
hand, or on his knee. Some people prefer writing in queer positions,
cramped for room—others, on the contrary, require huge tables and vast
space.
“John Oliver Hobbes” is the uneuphonious pseudonym chosen by Pearl
Teresa Craigie, another of our novel-dramatists. She has hardly been as
successful with her plays as with her brilliant books, and therefore
it seems unlikely that she will discard the latter for the former. The
world has smiled on Mrs. Craigie, for she was born of rich parents.
Although an American she lives in London (Lancaster Gate), and has a
charming house in the Isle of Wight. She has only one son, so is more
or less independent, can travel about and do as she likes, therefore
her thoughtful work and industry are all the more praiseworthy. Ability
will out.
Mrs. Craigie is an extremely good-looking woman. She is _petite_, with
chestnut hair and eyes; is always dressed in the latest gowns from
Paris; has a charming voice; is musical and devoted to chess.
J. M. Barrie, one of the most successful of our novel dramatists, is
most reticent about his work. He is a shy, retiring little man with a
big brain and a charitable heart; but he dislikes publicity in every
form. He seems almost ashamed to own that he writes, and he cannot bear
his plays to be discussed—so when he says, “Please excuse me. I have
such a distaste for saying or writing anything about my books or plays
for publication; if it were not so I should do as you suggest with
pleasure,” one’s hand is tied, and Mr. Barrie’s valuable opinion on the
novel and the drama is lost.
It was a difficult problem to decide. Naturally the public expect much
mention of J. M. Barrie among the playwrights of the day, for had he
not four pieces running at London theatres at the same moment? But to
make mention means to offend Mr. Barrie and lose a friend.
This famous author creates and writes, but no one must write about
him. Whether his simple childhood, passed in a quaint little Scotch
village, is the source of this reticence, or whether it is caused by
the oppression of the fortune he has accumulated by his plays, no one
discourses upon Mr. Barrie except at the risk of earning his grave
displeasure. He is probably the most fantastic writer of the day, and
most of the accounts of him have been as fantastic as his work. Thus
the curtain cannot be lifted, while he smokes and dreams delicately
pitiless sentiment behind the scenes so far as this volume is concerned.
“Anthony Hope” is another dramatic novelist. He began his career as a
barrister, tried for Parliamentary honours, and failed; took to writing
novels and succeeded, and now seems likely to end his days in the
forefront of British dramatists.
He was educated at Marlborough, became a scholar of Balliol College,
Oxford, where he gained first-class Mods. and first-class Lit. Hum.,
so he has gone through the educational mill with distinction, and
is now inclined to turn aside from novels of pure romance to more
psychological studies. This is particularly noticeable in _Quisanté_
and _Tristram of Blent_.
The author of _The Prisoner of Zenda_ is one of the best-known men in
London society. He loves our great city. Mr. Hope is most sociable by
nature; not only does he dine out incessantly, but as a bachelor was
one of those delightful men who took the trouble to entertain his lady
friends. Charming little dinners and luncheons were given by this man
of letters, and as he had chambers near one of our largest hotels, he
generally took the guests over to his flat after the meal for coffee
and cigars. Many can vouch what pleasant evenings those were; the
geniality of the host, the frequent beauty of his guests, and the
generally brilliant conversation made those bachelor entertainments
things to be remembered. His charming sister-in-law often played
the _rôle_ of hostess for him; she is a Norwegian by birth, and an
intimate friend of the Scandinavian writer Björnstjerne-Björnson, whose
personality impressed me more than that of any other author I ever met.
The bachelor life has come to an end.
[Illustration:
_From a painting by Hugh de T. Glazebrook._
MR. ANTHONY HOPE.]
Nearly twenty years ago Anthony Hope began to write novels with
red-haired heroines—_The Prisoner of Zenda_ is perhaps the best-known
of the series. No one could doubt that he admired warm-coloured hair,
for auburns and reds appeared in all his books. One fine day an
auburn-haired goddess crossed his path. She was young and beautiful,
and just the living girl he had described so often in fiction. Anthony
Hope, the well-known bachelor of London, was conquered by the American
maid. A very short engagement was followed by a beautiful wedding in
the summer of 1903, at that quaint old city church, St. Bride’s, where
his father has been Rector so long. It was a lovely hot day as we drove
along the Embankment, through a labyrinth of printing offices and early
newspaper carts, to the door of the church. All the bustle and heat
of the city outside was forgotten in the cool shade of the handsome
old building, decorated for the occasion with stately palms. Never
was there a prettier wedding or a more lovely bride, and all the most
beautiful women in London seemed to be present.
The bridegroom, who was wearing a red rosebud which blossomed somewhat
alarmingly during the ceremony, looked very proud and happy as he led
the realisation of twenty years’ romance down the aisle.
“Anthony Hope” is not his real name, and yet it is, which may appear
paradoxical. He was born a Hawkins, being the second son of the Rev.
E. C. Hawkins, and nephew of Mr. Justice Hawkins, now known as Baron
Brampton. The child was christened Anthony Hope, and when he took to
literature to fill in the gaps in his legal income, he apparently
thought it better for the struggling barrister not to be identified
with the budding journalist, and consequently dropped the latter part
of his name. Thus it was he won his spurs as Anthony Hope, and many
people know him by no other title, although he always signs himself
Hawkins, and calls himself by that nomenclature in private life. Rather
amusing incidents have been the result. People when first introduced
seldom realise the connection, and discuss “Lady Ursula,” or other
books, very frankly with their new acquaintance. Their consequent
embarrassment or amusement may be better imagined than described!
_Aliases_ often lead to awkward moments.
Literary men are not, as a rule, famed for “speechifying,” but Mr.
Hawkins is an exception. He went to America a few years ago an
indifferent orator, and returned a good one. This was the result of
a lecturing tour—one of those expeditions of many thousand miles of
travel and daily discourse in different towns. Literary men are not
generally more orderly at their writing-tables than they are good at
delivering a speech, but here again Anthony Hope is an exception.
His desk is so neat and precise it reminds one irresistibly of a
punctilious old maid (I trust he will forgive the simile?), so
methodical are his arrangements. He writes everything with his own
hand, and replies to letters almost by return of post, although he is
a busy man, for he not only writes for four or five hours a day, but
attends endless charity meetings, and takes an energetic part among
other things in the working of the Society of Authors, of which he is
chairman. He does nothing by halves; everything he undertakes he is
sure to see through, being most conscientious in all his work. In many
ways Anthony Hope often reminds one of the late Sir Walter Besant, both
alike ever ready to help a colleague in distress, ever willing to aid
by council or advice those in need, and untiring so far as literary
work for themselves, or helping others, is concerned.
Mr. Hawkins is generally calm and collected, but I remember an occasion
when he was quite the reverse. It was the first performance of one of
his plays, and he stood behind me in a box, well screened from public
gaze by the curtain. First he rested on one foot, then on the other,
always to the accompaniment of rattling coins. Oh, how he turned those
pennies over and over in his pockets, until at last I entreated to be
allowed to “hold the bank” until the fall of the curtain.
First nights affect playwrights differently, but although they
generally disown it, they seem to suffer tortures, poor creatures.
For an important production there are as many as two or three thousand
applications for seats on a “first night,” but to a great extent each
theatre has its own audience. The critics are of course the most
important element. As matters stand they know nothing of what they are
going to see, they have not studied or even read the play beforehand,
and yet are expected to sum up the whole drama and criticise the acting
an hour or two later. The idea is preposterous. If serious dramas are
to be considered seriously, time must be given for the purpose, and the
premiers must begin a couple of hours earlier, or a dress rehearsal
for the critics arranged the night before, just as a “press view” is
organised at a picture gallery. As it is, all the critics go in the
first night.
That is why the bulk of those in the stalls are men. Some take notes
throughout the acts, others jot down pungent lines during the dialogue;
but all are working at high pressure, and however clear the slate of
their mind may be on entering the theatre, it is well covered with
impressions when they leave. From that jumble of ideas they have to
unravel the play, criticise the dramatist’s work, and make a study
of the suitability of the actors to their parts. This unreflecting
impression must be quickly put together, for a critic has no time for
leisurely philosophic judgments.
The critics, or, rather, “the representatives of the papers,” are given
their seats; but the rest of the house pays. Only people of eminence,
or personal friends of the management, are permitted the honour of a
seat. Their names are on the “first-night list,” and if they apply they
receive, the outside public rarely getting a chance.
The entrance to a theatre on a first night is an interesting scene.
Many of the best-known men and women of London are chatting to friends
in the hall; but they never forget their manners, and are always in
their places in good time. Between the acts those who are near the end
of a row get up and move about; in any case the critics leave their
seats, and many of them begin their “copy” during the _entr’acte_.
Other men not professionally engaged wander round the boxes and talk
to their friends, and a general air of happy expectation pervades the
auditorium.
“Stuffed with obesity or anæmia,” exclaimed a well-known dramatist
when describing the dramatic critics. However that may be the dramatic
critic is an important person, and his post no sinecure. It is all very
well when first night representations are given on Saturday, because
then only the handful of Sunday paper writers have to scramble through
their work—but when Wednesday or Thursday is chosen, as sometimes
happens, dozens of poor unfortunate men and women have to work far into
the night over their column—they have no time to consider the comedy
or tragedy from any standpoint beyond the first impression. No doubt
a play should make an impression at once, and that is why the drama
cannot be criticised in the same way as books. The playwright must make
an immediate effect, or he will not make one at all; while the poet or
novelist can be contemplated with serenity and commented on at leisure.
There are so many problem plays nowadays, however, that it is often
difficult for the critic to make his decision between the close of the
theatre at midnight and his arrival at the nearest telegraph office
(if he be on a provincial paper), or at the London newspaper office,
a quarter of an hour later, when that impression has to be reduced to
paper and ink. Only those who have written at this nervous pressure
know its terrors. To have a “devil” (the printer’s boy) standing at
one’s elbow waiting for “copy” is horrible—the ink is not dry on the
paper as sheet after sheet goes off to the compositor waiting its
arrival. By the time the writer reaches his last sentences the first
pages are all in type waiting his corrections. At 2 a.m. the notice
must be out of his hands for good or ill, because the final “make-up”
of the paper necessitates his “copy” filling the exact space allotted
to him by the editor, and two hours later that selfsame newspaper,
printed and machined, is on its way to the provinces by the “newspaper
trains,” and on sale in Liverpool, Birmingham, or Sheffield, a few
hours only after the latest theatrical criticism has been added to its
columns.
The stage is necessarily intimately connected with the press, and a
free hand is imperative if the well-reasoned essay, and not merely a
reporter’s account, is to be of value.
Wise critics refuse to know personally the objects of their criticism,
and so avoid many troubles, for many actors are hyper-sensitive by
nature. The press is naturally a great factor, but it cannot make or
mar a play any more than it can make or mar a book; it can fan the
flame, but it cannot make the blaze.
At the O.P. Club Alfred Robbins recently delivered an address on
“Dramatic Critics: _Are they any use?_” He pertinently remarked:
“A play is like a cigar—if it is bad no amount of puffing will make
it draw; but if good then every one wants a box.” He held that the
great danger was that the critic should lack pluck to protest against
a revolting play on a well-advertised stage, and follow the lead of
the applause of programme-sellers in a fashionable house; while making
up for it by hunting for faults with a microscope in the case of a
young author or manager. The critic should tell not so much how the
play affected him as how it affected the audience. Critics were always
useful when they were interesting, but not when they tried to instruct.
E. F. Spence, as a critic himself, pointed out that some critics had
no words that were not red and yellow, while others wrote entirely
in grey. When one man said a play was “not half bad,” and another
described it as an “unparalleled masterpiece,” they meant often the
same thing. And the readers of each, accustomed to their tone and
style, knew what to expect from their words.
Mrs. Kendal thought “criticism would be better after three weeks, when
the actor had learnt to know his points.” All agreed that the critics
of to-day are scrupulously conscientious.
G. Bernard Shaw wrote: “A dramatic criticism is a work of literary art,
useful only to the people who enjoy reading dramatic criticisms, and
generally more or less hurtful to everybody else concerned.”
Clement Shorter’s opinion was: “I do not in the least believe in the
utility of dramatic critics. The whole sincerity of the game has been
spoilt. The hand of the dramatic critic is stayed because the dramatist
and the important actor have a wide influence with the proprietors of
newspapers.”
An anonymous manager wrote: “The few independent critics are of great
use, but the critic who turns his attention to play-writing should not
be allowed to criticise, for he is never fair to any author’s work
except his own. It has paid managers to accept plays from critics even
if they don’t produce them.”
Apart from criticism the theatre is in daily touch with the papers, for
one of the greatest expenses in connection with a theatre is the “Press
Bill.” From four to six thousand pounds a year is paid regularly for
newspaper advertising, just for those advertisements that appear “under
the clock,” and in those columns announcing plays, players, and hours.
The distribution of “paper” is a curious custom, some managers prefer
to fill their houses by such means, others disdain the practice,
especially the Kendals, who are as adverse to “free passes” as they
are to dress rehearsals, and who always insist on paying for their
own tickets to see their friends act. An empty house is nevertheless
dispiriting—dispiriting to the audience and dispiriting to the
performers—so a little paper judiciously used may often bolster up a
play in momentary danger of collapse.
“Stalls full.” “Dress Circle full.” “House full.” Such notices are
often put outside the playhouse during a performance, and in London
they generally mean what they say. In the provinces, however, a
gentleman arrived at an hotel, and after dinner went off to the theatre
as he had no club. He saw the placards, but boldly marched up to the
box office in the hope that perchance he might obtain an odd seat
somewhere.
“A stall, please.”
“Yes, sir, which row?” When he got inside he found the place half
empty, in spite of the legend before the doors.
A well-known singer wired for a box in London one night—it being an
understood thing that professional people may have seats free if they
are not already sold. She prepaid the answer to the telegram as usual.
It ran:
“So sorry, no boxes left to-night.”
The next day she met a friend at luncheon who had been to that
particular theatre the night before. He remarked:
“It was a most depressing performance: the house was half empty, and
the actors dull in consequence.”
Then the singer told her story, and both had a good laugh over the
telegram.
There are certain bad weeks which appear with strict regularity in the
theatrical world. Bank-holiday time means empty houses in the West End.
Just before Easter or Christmas are always “off” nights. Royal mourning
reduces the takings, and one night’s London fog half empties the house.
Lent does not make anything like so great a difference as formerly;
indeed, in some theatres its advent is hardly noticed at all. Saturday
always yields the biggest house. Whether this is because Sunday being a
day of rest people need not get up so early, or because Saturday is pay
day, or because it is either a half or whole holiday, no one knows; but
it always produces the largest takings of the week, just as Monday is
invariably the fattest booking-day. This may possibly be due to Sunday
callers discussing the best performances, and recommending their
friends to go to this or that piece. The good booking of Monday is more
often than not followed by a bad house on Monday night, which is the
“off” day of the week. A play will run successfully for weeks, suddenly
Black Monday arrives, and at once down, down, down goes the sale, until
the play is taken off; no one can tell why it declines any more than
they can predict the success or failure of a play until after its first
two or three performances.
It seems to be generally imagined that Royalty do not pay for their
seats; but this is a mistake. One fine day a message comes from one
of the ticket agents to the theatres to say that the King and Queen,
or Prince and Princess of Wales, will go to that theatre on a certain
night. Generally a couple of days’ notice is given. Consternation often
ensues, for it sometimes happens the Royal box has been sold. The
purchaser has to be called upon to explain that by Royal command his
box is required for the night in question, and will he graciously take
it some other evening instead? or he is offered other seats. People are
generally charming about the matter and ready to meet the manager at
once—but sometimes there are difficulties. Wild pursuit of the owner
of the box occasionally occurs; indeed, he sometimes has not been
traceable at all, and has even arrived at the theatre, only to be told
the situation.
The box is duly paid for by the library; Royalty never accept their
seats, and are most punctilious about paying for them.
At the back of the Royal box there is generally a retiring-room, where
the gentlemen smoke, and sometimes coffee is served. The King, who is
so noted for his cordiality, usually sends for the leading actor and
actress during an _entr’acte_, and chats with them for a few minutes in
the ante-room; but the Queen rarely leaves her seat. After the death
of Queen Victoria it was a long time, a year in fact, before the King
went to the theatre at all. After that he visited most of the chief
houses in quick succession, but he did not send for the players for at
least six months, not, in fact, till the Royal mourning was at an end.
His Majesty is probably the warmest and most frequent supporter of the
drama in Britain, as the Queen is of the opera.
In olden days Royal visits were treated with much ceremony. Cyril Maude
in his excellent book on the Haymarket Theatre tells how old Buckstone
was a great favourite with Queen Victoria. The Royal entrance in those
days was through the door of “Bucky’s” house which adjoined the back of
the theatre in Suffolk Street. At the street door the manager waited
whenever the Royal box had been commanded. In either hand he carried a
massive silver candlestick, and, walking backwards, escorted the Royal
party with monstrous pomp to their seats. As soon as he had shown them
to their box, however, the amiable comedian had to hurry off to take
his place upon the stage.
Nothing of that kind is done nowadays, although the manager generally
goes to meet them; but if the manager be the chief actor too, he sends
his stage manager just to see that everything is in order—Royal folk
like to come and go as unostentatiously as possible.
Many theatres have a private door for Royalty to enter by. As a rule
they are punctual, and if not the curtain gives them a few minutes’
grace before rising. If they are not in their seats within ten minutes,
the play begins, and they just slip quietly into their places.
At the Opera on gala nights it is different—the play waits. When they
enter, the band strikes up “God Save the King,” and every one stands
up. It is a very interesting sight to see the huge mass of humanity at
Covent Garden rise together, and see them all stand during the first
verse in respect to Royalty. The Queen on ordinary occasions occupies
the Royal box on the right facing the stage on the grand tier, and
three back from the stage itself, so there are tiers of boxes above and
one below; the Queen sits in the corner the farthest from the stage;
the King often joins her during the performance, otherwise he sits in
the omnibus box below with his men friends. So devoted is Her Majesty
to music she sometimes spends three evenings a week at the Opera. She
often has a book of the score before her, and follows the music with
the greatest interest.
On ordinary operatic nights the Queen dresses very quietly; generally
her bodice is cut square back and front with elbow-sleeves, and not
off the shoulders as it is at Court. More often than not she wears
black with a bunch of pink malmaisons—of course the usual heavy collar
composed of many rows of pearls is worn, and generally some hanging
chains of pearls. No tiara, but diamond wings or hair combs of that
description. In fact, at the Opera our Queen is one of the least
conspicuously dressed among the many duchesses and millionairesses who
don tiaras and gorgeous gowns. No Opera-house in the world contains so
many beautiful women and jewels as may nightly be seen in London.
In front is a number above each box, and at the back of the box is the
duplicate number with the name of the person to whom it belongs. They
are hired for a season, and cost seven and a half to eight guineas a
night on the grand tier. These boxes hold four people, and are usually
let for ten or twelve weeks: generally for two nights a weeks to each
set of people. Thus the total cost of one of the best boxes for the
season is, roughly speaking, from one hundred and fifty, to one hundred
and eighty guineas for two nights a week.
At the theatre Queen Alexandra dresses even more simply than at the
opera. In winter her gown is often filled in with lace to the neck.
She is always a quiet, but a perfect dresser. Never in the fashion,
yet always of the fashion, she avoids all exaggerations, moderates
her skirts and her sleeves, and yet has just enough of the _dernier
cri_ about them to make them up to date. She probably never wore a big
picture hat in her life, and prefers a small bonnet with strings, to a
toque.
Royalty thoroughly enjoy themselves at the play. They laugh and chat
between the acts, and no one applauds more enthusiastically than King
Edward VII. and his beautiful Queen. They use their opera-glasses
freely, nod to their friends, and thoroughly enter into the spirit of
the evening’s entertainment.