Choosing a career.--Mrs. Kendal.--An unpromising start.--“Walking
on.”--A lecture on my presumption.--Toole.--“Can I have your
theatre?”--“Of course.”--Billington’s horror.--A successful
_matinée_.--With the Kendals.--The matron of the drama and an
“unmaidenly performance.”---An indiscreet enthusiast.--Brandon
Thomas.--An unsympathetic atmosphere.--Mrs. Kendal and Irving.--I
achieve my ambition.--Miss Genevieve Ward.--A letter from
Irving.--Edward Ledger’s suggestion.--“Can Irving afford five
pounds a week?”--Irving asks me to play Hero.--The question of
salary.--Shillings or pounds?--I meet William Terriss.--My first
Lyceum rehearsal.--Miss Terry’s sympathy.--Great teachers.--A friend
for life.
On my father’s fatal illness, after having enjoyed the luxuries of life
we found ourselves in straitened circumstances, and it was necessary
for those of us who were able to do so to earn our own livings.
For myself, I never had a moment’s doubt as to the career I should
choose.
“Would you like to be a governess?” suggested my mother.
There was only one answer to that question, and I gave it. School life,
even with the possibility of escaping it, had never appealed to me. The
prospect of an eternal school life was appalling.
So I plucked up courage.
“No,” I said definitely, and then plucked up more courage. “I think I
should like to go on the stage.”
In view of my mother’s attitude towards the stage as a profession I
expected an indignant refusal, but to my astonishment and delight,
after a few moments’ thought, she replied quietly:
“Very well, if you really think that is your vocation, you may go on
the stage, provided you start under Mrs. Kendal.”
There was nothing “raffish” or Bohemian about Mrs. Kendal, even in
those somewhat Bohemian days, and not for nothing did she become known
as the matron of the British drama.
In my excitement at such an easy consent to what I had long looked upon
as an impossible ambition, I would have accepted any condition, so,
making myself look as old and as prim as possible, in a poke bonnet and
a long skirt I sallied down to the St. James’s Theatre, and saw Mrs.
Kendal.
Her first words were not encouraging. I explained my desire, and then:
“How old are you?” she asked abruptly.
“Eighteen.”
“My dear, you are telling lies; you are twenty-five at the very least.”
I forget whether I had my birth certificate with me, but I succeeded in
convincing her that I was telling the truth.
At the same time, I could not help feeling that the start was not
particularly promising.
After some more conversation on similar lines, I was told that out
of friendship for my father I might be permitted to “walk on” in the
Kendal Company.
The phrase “walk on” was beyond me, and I asked for an explanation. I
got it.
“But,” I cried, half in tears, “I don’t want to ‘walk on’; I want to
act!”
As I look back, I shiver at my audacity.
Then, I vaguely remember, followed a lecture, pointing out my
unheard-of presumption, my utter lack of fitness for the stage, my
youthful callowness, and a few other pleasant little home truths.
“But I _want_ to act,” I kept on repeating obstinately, and obstinacy
at last led to a practical suggestion.
“Can you afford to give a _matinée_ and invite the critics?”
I shook my head. For financial reasons, a special _matinée_ seemed out
of the question.
Then I had a flash of inspiration, and leaving the St. James’s Theatre
I hurried round to the Folly, and asked to see our old family friend,
John Toole.
He was in his dressing-room, talking with his manager, John Billington,
when I was shown in, and seemed rather surprised to see me.
“Hullo!” he cried. “It’s little ‘Cissie’ Millward! What do you want, my
dear?”
“I want to go on the stage!” I blurted.
“Good!” said the dear old man encouragingly.
“And I want to give a special _matinée_!”
“Splendid!”
“And--and--can I have your theatre?”
“Of course!”
“Come,” said I to myself, “it is not hard to get on the stage after
all!”
“And when do you want the theatre?” asked Toole.
[Illustration: IRVING AND TOOLE. _Caricature by Sir Herbert Tree_]
Now for my “support” I was relying on my fellow members of the Carlton
Dramatic Club, and I knew that all the male members were engaged
during the week in the sordid pursuits of their sordid businesses and
professions. Obviously, a half-holiday was the only day for my “special
_matinée_.”
“Can I have it on Saturday afternoon?” I asked in all innocence, and to
this day I can see Billington’s face.
But kind old Toole never moved an eyelash.
“Er--haven’t _I_ a _matinée_ on Saturday, Billington?” he asked.
“You have,” said Billington grimly.
Something in Billington’s face and manner roused me to desperation.
And after all it did seem rather absurd. Here was Mr. Toole, a famous
actor, who could have a _matinée_ any day in the week he pleased, while
Saturday was the only day I _could_ choose.
“But can’t you have _your matinée_ another day?” I pleaded. “You see,
it’s fearfully important for me.”
“Of course I can,” replied Toole, as if the idea was entirely new to
him; “of course I can. Billington, see that things are arranged, and do
what you can for her.”
And so in huge elation I rushed off to find the amateur stage manager
of our dramatic society, the Carlton Dramatic Club, who as soon as he
heard the news was in as huge a state of elation as myself.
The society had already played “Love’s Sacrifice” at St. George’s Hall,
so we at once decided to give it at the Folly, with a comedy scene from
“The Hunchback,” with John Billington as Modus and myself as Helen.
The excitement of my fellow members at playing in a real theatre, on
a real stage, to a real audience, with real critics can be imagined,
and when it was all over we had a banquet, in the course of which my
grateful and enthusiastic company presented their equally grateful
and enthusiastic actress-manageress with two silver bracelets to
commemorate the great event.
And there was little doubt about the success of the _matinée_ from
my point of view, for, as an immediate result, I had offers from the
Kendals, from Mr. Hare, from the Bancrofts for “Ours,” from Edgar Bruce
for “The Colonel,” and from dear old Toole for the part of leading lady
in “Uncle Dick’s Darling.”
It was indeed a happy afternoon, and in the course of it Mrs. Kendal
had visited my mother’s box and announced definitely that she would
engage me--“but she does the most _ridiculous_ things.”
So, in pursuance of my mother’s wishes, my first professional
engagement, after all, was with the Kendals, and I made my first
professional appearance as Mrs. Mildmay in “Still Waters Run Deep,” and
as the _ingénue_ in “Coralie,” following Miss Winifred Emery in the
part.
The tour--for we started immediately on tour--included Birmingham,
Manchester and Liverpool, and in Liverpool a terrible episode occurred.
My father, as proprietor of the “Porcupine,” was well known in the
Mersey city, and for his sake, many of his friends had taken seats
to give a welcome to his daughter on her first dramatic essay. So it
came about that on my entrance in the leading juvenile part I received
for the first time in my life an enthusiastic reception, which so
completely upset me that instead of waiting for my guardian in the play
(John Hare) to kiss me I rushed up to him and kissed him.
No sooner had the curtain fallen on the first act than Mrs. Kendal sent
for me to her dressing-room.
After some severe remarks on decorum, she concluded her reproof by
describing my lapse as “the most unmaidenly performance I have ever
seen in my life!”
Not for nothing did Mrs. Kendal earn her title of matron of the drama.
Naturally enough, I was completely upset for the rest of the evening,
although I don’t think my “unmaidenly performance” had any particularly
distressing effect on Sir John Hare, who, after all, was the person
chiefly concerned.
After a short tour we returned to the St. James’s Theatre, and I played
in a one-act play by Clement Scott, “The Cape Mail,” with Mrs. Kendal,
Gaston Murray and Brandon Thomas.
Once again an indiscreet enthusiast nearly got me into serious trouble.
On my insignificant entrance in “The Cape Mail”--which preceded “The
Squire”--my young brother, who had gone into the gallery to see his
sister, somewhat upset his neighbours by his enthusiastic shouts of
“Bravo! Bravo!” before I had spoken a single word.
“S’sh! S’sh!” hissed the galleryites.
“I shan’t s’sh!” cried my young brother indignantly. “She’s my sister!
Bravo! _Bravo!_”
It was during my engagement with the Kendals that I first met Brandon
Thomas.
He had been a drawing-room entertainer, but his ambition, like mine,
had led him to the stage, and at that time he was going through a hard
struggle for fame with indomitable pluck.
After one long and late rehearsal, with his invariable courtesy he
asked if he could escort me home, and, having an idea that at that
particular moment he was dreadfully hard-up, I insisted on walking,
though the ’bus fare was only twopence.
Long afterwards, when I was playing at the Adelphi in “The Swordman’s
Daughter,” adapted from the French by Brandon Thomas and Clement Scott,
I reminded him of that walk, and he admitted that my suspicions had
been horribly correct.
Brandon Thomas was one of those sincere and true types--all too rare,
unfortunately--whom success is unable to change or spoil.
I frankly admit that I was not particularly happy at the St. James’s.
Possibly it may have been because, temperamentally, we were as opposite
as the poles, but there was always something about Mrs. Kendal’s manner
and attitude that took all enthusiasm and ambition out of me.
I was a very young girl at the time, full of wild enthusiasm for my
art; very immature and untrained, no doubt, but, like most young
enthusiasts, almost morbidly sensitive, and it did not, for example,
comfort me in the least when one day, in sheer despair, I cried: “Oh,
shall I _ever_ be able to use my hands properly!” to be told promptly
and primly: “_Never_, my dear. _You_ were not born on the stage.”
No, I’m afraid we were not sympathetic.
In later days, when I had joined the Irving company, Mrs. Kendal, who
was in a box at the Lyceum, sent for me between the acts.
“I dare say you think you have done better for yourself, Miss
Millward,” she observed consolingly.
“Personally, I think him laughable, and I sit in the box and smile and
wonder at his success. But there is a type of girl who goes on the
stage and whose only ambition is a carriage, sealskins and diamonds.”
Not long after--the wonderful revival of “Much Ado about Nothing” had
brought me my first taste of real success, and I had gained confidence
in myself--I was driving down the Haymarket and saw Mr. Kendal. I
stopped the carriage and spoke to him.
“Do tell Mrs. Kendal that she was quite right,” I begged him. “I have
achieved my ambition; I have got a carriage, at three-and-sixpence the
hour; I have got a very small pair of diamond ear-rings, given to me
by my mother; and I have got a sealskin coat I bought off the wardrobe
mistress at the Lyceum for eight guineas.”
The poor man stared, but promised faithfully to deliver the message.
With the Kendals, then, I made my début as a professional actress, but
I did not stay long with them. I was very young, very anxious to learn,
very sensitive and very ambitious, and the Kendal atmosphere was very
crushing.
So I determined to leave them and it, and I have always counted it as
a piece of good fortune that my next professional engagement was with
that great actress Miss Genevieve Ward. She engaged me to play the part
of Alice Verney in “Forget Me Not,” and my six weeks’ provincial tour
with her was one of the turning-points of my career.
Miss Ward was a severe but a helpful critic; I felt that she understood
and sympathized with the ambitions of the very ambitious novice.
Merciless where bad or careless work was concerned, she was ever
helpful and charitable in matters of mere rawness and inexperience,
and where she saw that, however inadequate the execution and technique
might be, the intention was good, she was indefatigable in help and
advice. I owe more than I can say to the lessons in acting which she
went out of her way to give a novice to whom she was paying a salary.
Owing to the salary, I fear I must have become almost objectionably
conceited. To be a real, live actress, to have five golden sovereigns a
week of my very own, instead of the schoolgirl’s ten shillings pocket
money, to be travelling all over the country in the company of a
celebrity, to be free and independent--all this was more than enough to
turn the head of a girl whose hair had not long been out of pigtails.
And I was tremendously happy.
Everybody was so kind to me; everybody was so helpful; and I felt that
at last I was on the right road to learning in the art I adored.
It was a very happy company; the tour lay through very interesting
parts of England--all new to me--and the expeditions we made to see the
local sights were fascinating experiences.
One such expedition will ever remain in my mind.
A picnic to Chatsworth had been arranged, and when in the morning
I arrived at the stage door--we always met at the theatre for our
“outings”--the stage door-keeper handed me a letter in familiarly
illegible handwriting. I opened it, glanced at the signature, and,
being far too excited about the day’s expedition, stuffed it into my
bag, saying: “I can’t possibly bother to read it now, Irving’s writing
takes hours to understand!”
Conceited little thing! I knew at a glance it was from our old friend,
and imagined that he was anxious to hear how I was getting on. It
seemed very kind of him, of course, but his writing was awful, and
besides his anxiety seemed rather unnecessary, for was I not receiving
five whole pounds a week?
At the theatre in the evening, Mr. W. H. Vernon, who was our leading
man, said: “I hear you have had a letter from Irving. What does he say?”
I handed it to him.
“I can never make head or tail of his writing,” I said. “Do read it to
me.”
Mr. Vernon studied the letter for some time, and then handed it back to
me with an air of reverence.
“Good heavens, child,” he said in awe-struck tones. “He wants you to
play Hero in ‘Much Ado About Nothing’ and to understudy Ellen Terry.
And you’ve only been on the stage for a few weeks!”
I afterwards heard how the wonderful piece of good fortune came to me.
Irving had been worried about the casting of the part of Hero, and
dining one night with another old friend of ours, Mr. Edward Ledger, of
the “Era,” he started to discuss his problem.
“The actress I have in mind,” he said, “must be young, brown-eyed, and,
above all, be capable of being taught to act.”
“Why not try Charlie Millward’s daughter?” asked Mr. Ledger.
“Why, yes!” exclaimed Irving. “I wonder I never thought of her. That is
the exact type I want, but can she act?”
“Well,” was the reply, “of course she’s absolutely inexperienced, but
I’m sure she has it in her. She is ambitious, and I think you could
teach her.”
But the two old friends had counted without Miss Millward.
Miss Millward was very happy. For the first time in her life Miss
Millward was quite independent--was she not earning a whole five pounds
a week?--and Miss Millward was very reluctant indeed to leave the kind
people who were doing so much to help her and instruct her in her
artistic path.
Besides, there was the commercial side to be considered. Of course Mr.
Irving was an old friend--but would he give a whole five pounds a week
and instruction as well?
So the young Miss Millward wrote condescendingly and non-committingly
to the Lyceum manager, saying that she was glad to hear from him, that
she would be in town in a few weeks’ time, and would then call to see
him.
Irving rose to the occasion, and the gentle irony of the great actor’s
reply to the ex-schoolgirl was exquisite.
“I also,” he wrote, “shall be in town in a few weeks’ time, and shall
be delighted if you will call and see me.”
They were then playing the great revival of “Romeo and Juliet” at the
Lyceum!
But for the rest of that tour there was little peace for me. Hardly a
day passed but Miss Ward sent for me and impressed on me the tremendous
privilege of studying under such a master; the company, when they got
to know of it, never ceased to din into my ears the magnificence of
the chance which had been offered me. But, for me, I felt like a child
changing schools, and leaving one in which I had been tremendously
happy for a new and strange one which might be even worse than merely
uncomfortable.
Besides, there was the five pounds a week to be considered. Could Mr.
Irving afford so much as that?
However, the tour came to an end, and finding myself, almost against my
will, back in town, I condescended to call at the Lyceum.
I remember well that I was horribly frightened when I was shown into
Mr. Irving’s room.
And here let me say that, though I worshipped Irving, it was long
before I ceased to be afraid of him. In some subconscious way I may
have connected him with the terrific “Eugene Aram” of my childhood
days, but for long there was a mysterious fascination about him that
almost hypnotized me into a state of awe.
He knew this, and I am sure it amused him.
And it is indeed comical to think of anyone being afraid of Irving,
for in reality there never existed a kindlier, gentler, more
generous, or more courtly spirit. Curiously enough, if I was abashed,
self-conscious, and tongue-tied when I met him off the stage, I never
once felt this nervousness when acting with him.
Well, half-scared out of my wits, I entered his room, and he received
me with that wonderful charm of manner which was his peculiar property.
He told me that he wanted me to play Hero in the forthcoming production
of “Much Ado about Nothing,” to understudy Miss Terry, and to play all
_ingénue_ parts. “And then,” he concluded, “I shall want you to come to
America with us.”
This plunge into the unknown absolutely appalled me.
“Oh,” I cried, “I couldn’t possibly come to America. You see I live in
London.”
“Well, well,” he replied soothingly, “we won’t bother about America
just now. It won’t be for some time, in any case.”
And then he went on to explain at great length that it was the
custom at the Lyceum to provide everything for the members of the
company--dresses, wigs, shoes, gloves--“everything,” he kept repeating,
with an emphasis which I could not quite understand.
I remember saying to myself: “Now, why is he telling me all this?” and
a sudden, horrid thought struck me--“Because I shall have to take a
very small salary.”
“And now,” continued Irving, “what about salary?”
“Yes,” said I to myself. “What about salary?” I saw myself returning to
my old pocket-money of ten shillings a week, but I was far too nervous
to utter one word of protest.
“How much have you been getting with Miss Ward?”
“Five pounds a week!” I managed to gasp despairingly.
“H’m,” said Irving, stroking his chin quietly with his beautiful
hand--and Irving had the most wonderfully beautiful hands--“I shouldn’t
dream of giving you that.”
“I knew it!” I told myself. “Dresses, wigs, gloves, shoes, ‘everything’
found--no, it’s the old ten shillings a week again.”
I tried one little protest.
“But I am bound to Miss Ward, Mr. Irving.”
“I know, I know; but she tells me she will release you. She thinks it
will be for your good. Of course I shan’t give you five pounds a week.”
“Of course not,” I groaned despairingly, and then to myself: “Ten
shillings a week again.”
“For the first year I will give you twelve, and for the second year
fifteen.”
I ventured to mumble something about fifteen shillings not being very
much, even if dresses and everything else were provided.
Irving laughed.
“You don’t quite understand,” he began, and a mad, incredible idea
flashed across my mind.
“You--you--you don’t mean pounds?” I stammered, and, smiling, he
explained that pounds were precisely what he did mean.
I was too flabbergasted to speak.
“And then, as to America,” he resumed. “I may want you to go to
America, and if so, of course I shall give you more--say twenty pounds.”
Again I declared that America was out of the question. My home, my
family, were in England; and America seemed a terribly long way off.
I felt I couldn’t possibly go to a strange country in the company of
strangers.
“Haven’t you a brother who’d like to see the country?” said Irving
suddenly.
“I have a brother apprenticed to the White Star Line,” I admitted.
“Well, a trip to America would do him good.”
And so that matter was arranged.
A week or so later a very young and very nervous actress went down to
Margate with her mother for a short holiday, taking with her the part
of Hero.
Walking on the jetty one day I was introduced to Mr. Terriss, who was,
I knew, to be in the great revival, and, trembling with pride, I
informed him that I was to play Hero.
“Nonsense!” he laughed. “You’re going to walk on, and you can think
yourself a very lucky girl to have even that privilege.”
It was only human nature to do a secret “gloat,” so I produced the part
and showed it to him, though his surprise was not very flattering.
The short holiday--which was not altogether a holiday--soon came to an
end, and I returned to town for the serious business of rehearsals. And
let me tell the younger generation that rehearsals at the Lyceum were
indeed a serious business.
Never shall I forget my feelings as I approached the theatre for my
first rehearsal.
Four times at least did I walk away from the stage door before I
plucked up courage to enter, and when I at last found a green room
where the “extra” ladies and gentlemen were--most of them seemed
to have grown up in the Lyceum--things were little better, for the
nervousness was at once rather severely criticized by the old hands.
“So you’re to play Hero,” observed one lady. “Well, you don’t _look_
the part.”
“Oh, yes, she _looks_ it, dear,” remarked another cheerfully, “but----”
And she left the inference that I couldn’t play it unspoken.
If it was possible, I was feeling more lonely and more miserable than
ever, when in came Miss Terry.
Seeing my nervousness, she came up to me at once.
“Come along to the stage with me, my dear,” she said. “You’ll hold my
hand all through this rehearsal, and to-morrow you will be able to walk
alone.”
And so all through that rehearsal I metaphorically held her hand, but
it was many a day before I learned to “walk alone” in my art, and never
should I have done so but for the wonderful kindness, patience and
sympathy of those great artists and great teachers Henry Irving and
Ellen Terry.
And at that first rehearsal Mr. Terriss came up to me with outstretched
hand.
“Hullo, ‘Cissie’ Millward!” he cried cheerily, “so you _are_ Hero after
all!”
“‘Miss Millward’ to people in the theatre, please, Mr. Terriss,” I
retorted, very much on my new dignity.
“Nonsense,” said he. “Here’s my hand; take it, and you’ll have a friend
for life.”
I took his hand, and he was my friend from that day until the terrible
day, when I sat holding his hand while life ebbed from the wound made
by a murderer’s knife.