The Lyceum routine.--Barry, the stage door-keeper.--The rule as to
letters and telegrams.--“Behind the scenes.”--Mr. Gladstone.--Irving’s
dressing-room.--A painful recollection.--Loveday’s economy.--I cry
for new dresses.--On tenterhooks.--Hysterics at rehearsal.--“Do it
again.”--The Lyceum rehearsals.--A sharp little lesson.--Incessant
work.--Mr. Fernandez gives me advice.--The rehearsals for “Much Ado
about Nothing.”--Saving an explosion.--A triumphant “first night.”--A
“call” for criticism.--Pride and a fall.--Lunch with Tennyson.--The
Laureate’s comment.--Sir Johnston Forbes Robertson.--Sir George
Alexander.--Sir Martin Harvey “walks on.”--Mr. Mead.--Some
“Meadisms.”--Mr. Howe.--Repertoire.--Irving’s first American tour.
It is, I know, a popular idea that the “behind the scenes” of a theatre
must be a very amusing place, where all is fun and frivolity and
nothing is taken seriously. Every actor and actress, of course, knows
better, but I fancy that many professionals of the younger generation
would be a trifle amazed if they were suddenly confronted with the
strict routine of the Lyceum of Irving’s day.
A short description of the regime behind the curtain may not be
uninteresting.
The company, of course, had their own entrance to the theatre, guarded
by Barry, the old door-keeper, whose pride was a most wonderful
collection of signed photographs. I often wonder what has become of
those photographs, for the collection of them was the old man’s hobby,
and there are few celebrities who had not at one time or another
visited the Lyceum and met old Barry.
No one was ever allowed “behind” except on business, and--this rule
would perhaps startle the younger generation--no letters or telegrams
were delivered to any member of the company during a performance.
On the first floor, leading from the stage, there were three green
rooms. One, comfortably furnished with couches and chairs, its walls
hung with old prints, a large looking-glass at the end and a huge fire
always burning, was for the principals. Another was given up to the
“extra ladies and gentlemen,” and a third was for “supers and crowd,”
and in each of these rooms the comfort of every member of the company
was considered.
On the same floor were the ladies’ dressing-rooms.
On the floor above were the gentlemen’s dressing-rooms, Henry Irving’s
armoury and private suite, and the Beefsteak Room.
The call-boy gave special calls to the leading members of the company
assembled in the green room, and it was a strict rule of the theatre
that no one was allowed on the stage until his or her call came.
On the right side of the stage were private offices and above them
Irving’s reception room, with his small dressing-room leading out of
it. Miss Terry’s room was on the same floor, and above, again, was the
wardrobe.
It is needless to say that no visitors were ever allowed on the stage
during a performance, and one of the very few exceptions to this rule
was made in favour of Mr. Gladstone, who in his later years grew very
deaf, and whom I have often seen sitting, with his hand to his ear, in
a little corner specially fitted up for him on the O.P. side.
There was nothing ornate or elaborate about Irving’s small
dressing-room, and many a fashionable modern “star” would consider
himself or herself insulted if asked to dress in it, and would at
least insist on its being re-decorated and re-furnished on some
futurist or jazz scheme of decoration. It was Irving’s work-room, pure
and simple, and I have good reason to remember it, so, lest I forget,
let me set down a painful recollection of it.
In one way or another, I am sure that my obvious nervousness of Irving
afforded him heaps of kindly fun. I remember at the end of my first
season that we were rehearsing “Louis XI” for the repertoire and the
American tour, and to my dismay I found that I was expected to wear
the very same dresses that Miss Bateman had worn some twenty years
previously. I was terribly disappointed, for I was as fond of new
frocks then as I am now, and at rehearsal I went up to Mr. Loveday,
Irving’s faithful friend and stage manager, and implored him to let me
have some new dresses.
“No,” he said firmly, but not unkindly, “the revival is only for
repertoire; there is no need to go to any extra expense, and what was
good enough for Miss Bateman should be good enough for you.”
I suppose I must have been a dreadful cry-baby in those days, for I
immediately burst into floods of tears--half of disappointment and, I
fear, half of anger--and ran off the stage to my dressing-room.
In my flight I passed Irving--I did not see him, but he saw me, and
soon after I had a message that he wished to see me in his room. By
this time I had recovered my senses, and was very much frightened,
feeling sure that I was in for a severe lecture for my childishness. So
in fear and trembling I went to his room.
“Sit down, sit down,” he said kindly, and I did so in the nearest
chair, and was immediately conscious that my seat was anything but a
bed of roses, but I was far too flurried and nervous to dare to move.
“You’ve been crying,” he said. “Why?”
Feeling very much ashamed of myself and half inclined to cry again I
succeeded in telling him, and blurted out that Mr. Loveday had said I
couldn’t have new dresses.
Instead of laughing or telling me what a little idiot I was: “Of
_course_ you shall have new dresses,” he said soothingly, and sent for
Mrs. Reid, the wardrobe mistress.
Mrs. Reid appeared, the situation was explained to her, and I was
allowed to select whatever materials I chose.
But all this time I was literally on tenterhooks.
Suddenly Irving turned to me.
“And now, my child, are you quite comfortable,” he asked.
“Oh, _yes_, Mr. Irving, thank you very much.”
“Quite sure you’re comfortable?”
“Oh quite sure.”
“Then, that’s all right,” he smiled, “because you are sitting on my
spurs.”
It was another involuntary outburst of tears that indirectly helped me
to make a hit as an emotional actress. During the rehearsals of “The
Lyons Mail” I used always to be greatly affected by the scene in which
I, as the daughter, had to part with Irving, as my father. As I have
said, I was never nervous when on the stage with Irving, and his superb
acting of the part used to affect me intensely. The dress rehearsal had
been a very long and fatiguing one, and when we came to this scene I
was altogether overcome.
I felt that nothing but tears could express my feelings, but at the
same time I felt that it would be ridiculous to give way to tears at a
mere rehearsal.
However, what with fatigue, what with the effect of Irving’s playing,
and what with the intensity with which I felt the part of the daughter,
I suddenly broke down and fell into violent hysterics.
As soon as I could, I managed to pull myself together and fully
expected to be reproved for making a little fool of myself, but when he
saw that I had recovered Irving came up to me.
“Very good, my dear, very good,” he said. “Er--do it again to-morrow
night.”
Of course I did _not_ go into hysterics again the next night, but
thanks to this encouragement I lost the fear of “letting myself go” and
came in for some very favourable criticisms.
At the Lyceum rehearsals always commenced at 11 a.m., and I never knew
Irving to be late.
Punctually to the minute his little terrier “Fussy”--who never missed
a rehearsal but who had his likes and dislikes, and would deliberately
leave the stage during the rehearsal of a play he disliked--arrived on
the stage, followed by Irving and his stage manager, Henry Loveday, and
then to work without a break until three o’clock.
And the work was work indeed; nothing was allowed to interfere with it.
Many and many a dress rehearsal has lasted all night, and many and many
a time in the early morning, as I drove home exhausted, I have been
glad to stop and get a cup of hot coffee at the coffee stall outside
Hyde Park gates.
Quite early in my experience of the Lyceum, I received one sardonic
reproof, which did me no end of good, and which I have never forgotten.
[Illustration: IRVING AT REHEARSAL. _By Bernard Partridge_]
I had been invited to join a luncheon party after rehearsal, so I
arrived at the theatre in my best new “bib and tucker” feeling very
pleased with myself, and hoping to goodness that the rehearsal would go
quickly and smoothly.
Before long I noticed that Irving kept looking at me, and, as I
thought, admiring my “turn-out.”
Presently he beckoned me over to him.
“Very pretty frock--very pretty indeed,” he said. “What is it for?”
“I’m going to join a luncheon party as soon as the rehearsal is over,”
I babbled proudly.
“Go at once, my dear; go at once,” was his disconcerting reply. “Don’t
let the rehearsal detain you. But--to-morrow--come in your working
clothes to-morrow--with your mind full of work.”
It was a sharp little lesson, and I never forgot it.
But there was small time for luncheon parties during my first season at
the Lyceum. To begin with, there was the production of “Much Ado about
Nothing,” and when that was launched there were constant rehearsals
of the repertoire in preparation for the American tour. In addition,
Irving strongly advised me to take lessons in fencing, dancing and
singing, so my time was fully occupied. Had such things as _thés
dansants_, supper and dance clubs existed in those days, I, for one,
should have been far too tired to indulge in them.
As I look back upon the interesting but incessant work which was in
those days held to be a vital part in the training for the stage I
sometimes permit myself to wonder if the average young actress of
to-day really knows what work is.
Everybody was very kind to me at the Lyceum, and one day at rehearsal
that fine old actor, Mr. James Fernandez, gave me a memorable piece of
advice.
“If you are asked,” he said, “always say that you can play everything
and anything; that you can dance, sing, fence, jump--_anything_.”
It seemed an excellent idea so: “I will!” I assured him solemnly.
At that time the rehearsals of “Much Ado about Nothing” were in full
swing, and at night the company was playing “Romeo and Juliet,” in
which I had no part.
One morning Irving called for me.
“Ever played Juliet?” he asked.
Now, I had been on the real stage exactly three months, but remembering
Mr. Fernandez’s advice: “Oh, _yes_!” I replied blithely.
“I’m very pleased to hear it,” said Irving. “Miss Terry is not well,
and you may have to play it to-morrow night.”
How I blessed Mr. Fernandez for his awful advice!
I went home. I sat up all night reading, learning, spouting, with cold
cloths round my aching head, and drinking hot coffee to keep myself
awake. All next day I waited, in an agony of suspense, to be called
for--and nothing happened!
As the date grew near for the production of “Much Ado,” the dress
rehearsals lengthened and lengthened, and many times they lasted until
seven or eight in the morning.
Irving seemed made of steel and whipcord: nothing tired him, and his
patience was wonderful, but with some of the others nerves became on
edge and tempers a little frayed.
On one occasion Mr. Terriss saved an explosion, for even Irving
had grown impatient at a constantly recurring hitch in one of the
processions. The distance between each member of the procession had
been spaced out again and again with the most meticulous care, but one
of them--I am afraid it was a Miss Millward--never seemed able to keep
her proper distance between the person in front and the person behind
her when it came to the crucial moment.
Once again Irving stopped the rehearsal, and this time it seemed as if
the storm must break. But Terriss braved the tempest.
“It’s all right, guv’nor,” he exclaimed. “Stop a bit, and let me
explain it.”
Then, turning to me: “You see, it’s like this,” he explained, and
shamelessly parodying Irving’s walk he proceeded to pace out the exact
distance. Irving roared--no one could become angry with Terriss--and
once more the sun shone.
With Irving Mr. Terriss was a chartered libertine: he could do things
with the Lyceum chief that no one else dared attempt. But even he stood
in awe of the great man at times, and he often told me that one of his
most nervous experiences at the theatre occurred a few months before I
joined the company.
He was playing the thankless and overrated part of Laertes in a revival
of “Hamlet” in the autumn of 1882, and having a wait of two hours after
the third scene of the play, in which Laertes receives the lengthy
advice and the blessing of Polonius, he was in the habit of changing
and going for a blow on the Embankment to enjoy the air and a cigar.
One night, for some extraordinary reason, after the finish of Scene I
he forgot altogether about Scene III and the garrulous Polonius, and
calmly proceeded to dress and leave the theatre. He had just reached
the stage door, with the cigar well alight, and was chatting with
Barry, when anxious voices were heard, calling louder and louder and
coming nearer and nearer.
“Terriss! Terriss!” they cried. “Stage wait! Stage wait!”
For a moment he stood amazed, and then the whole awful truth flashed
across his mind.
His first impulse was to dash to his dressing-room, fling on his stage
clothes, and rush upon the stage, but a second’s thought was enough to
show that it was an impossibility.
Meanwhile: “Terriss? Terriss? Stage wait!” rang the voices.
The next impulse was to drop through the floor to the cellar below,
but the floor refused to open; and the next was to rush out into the
street--anywhere out of the theatre, and out of the world, if possible.
So he fled out into the darkness.
However, the time drew near when he had to return to the theatre to
face the reproachful gaze of his chief and whatever punishment awaited
him, but Irving only smiled when the reason for the catastrophe was
explained to him, and remarked calmly:
“Don’t do it again, my boy; don’t do it again!”
It seemed that Miss Terry and Mr. Howe had proceeded quietly with the
scene as if Laertes had been non-existent, and no further inconvenience
was caused than that “Hamlet” was “for this occasion only” played
without the scene in which the venerable gentleman gives his valuable
advice to his son.
When the last dress rehearsal of “Much Ado about Nothing” at last came
to an end, Mr. Fernandez came up to a very dejected and nervous Jessie
Millward.
“You are a very charming and promising young actress,” said the dear
old gentleman, “and you have a future before you, but you’ve felt
frightened to death at rehearsal, and you’ve been called back over and
over again. But to-morrow night you can’t be called back. Have every
confidence, go ahead, and you’ll make a great success.”
The next night I appeared as Hero and made my success, but so
overwrought was I that I remember next to nothing of the performance.
The following morning, according to the Lyceum custom, we were called
for a criticism of our respective performances. As I recollected next
to nothing of mine I felt it must have been unutterably bad.
As I have already said, Irving knew that I was frightened of him, and
on this occasion I think he deliberately kept me in suspense.
One by one the other members of the company were called forward and
criticized in the most gentle and kindly manner, and one by one they
were dismissed. I alone was left.
“Oh dear!” I cried to myself, as I saw Irving approaching. “Now I am
going to catch it! I was so bad that he didn’t like to tell me before
the others.” I positively trembled with fright. But all Irving said
(I could see he was gently enjoying my obvious fear) was: “Nothing to
correct, my dear. Very good; very good indeed.”
And then I knew what it was to be in the seventh heaven of delight.
It did not take me long to realize the tremendous privilege of being
associated with the Lyceum of Henry Irving’s day, and I did my best to
take advantage of my opportunities under such a master.
After much sheer hard work I was conscious of gradual improvement in my
art, but one was never allowed to become conceited, and one fine day my
very small pride received a very great fall.
During my first season with him, Irving gave a big benefit at the
Lyceum, and invited me to take part in the programme, suggesting that
I should recite Tennyson’s “May Queen,” which Irving had, for reasons
of time, slightly condensed for the occasion. I felt very flattered,
of course; recited the poem, and, to my delight, was complimented on
the success of my first big recitation by Irving himself, who said: “I
should like my friend Tennyson to hear you.”
Naturally, I felt highly pleased with myself, and on several occasions
afterwards when asked to recite I gave the “May Queen,” feeling that if
my delivery of that poem was good enough for Irving it was good enough
for anybody.
Some time later, Mr. Terriss and myself, after giving a costume recital
at Guildford, were invited to lunch with Tennyson, who had evidently
been told by Irving of my success with his poem, for no sooner was
lunch over than he asked me to recite it.
Immediately after lunch is not an ideal moment for the recital of a
Laureate’s poem to that Laureate himself, but though I was very nervous
and uncomfortable I thought I had not done so badly, and when I had
finished I felt that I had earned some little compliment, however
perfunctory.
[Illustration: JESSIE MILLWARD AS HERO. _Photo by London Stereoscopic
Company_]
One or two people, it is true, did murmur the inevitable “Thank you,
_so_ much,” but I could not help noticing that the “friends of the
house” were looking rather anxiously at the poet, and seemed to be
awaiting his verdict before committing themselves.
At last Tennyson spoke, or rather growled:
“Why have you left out some of my lines?”
And not a word more did he say.
Later, when I told Irving of my experience, he smiled.
“Poor dear Tennyson’s sense of humour is not his strong point,” he
said, and proceeded to tell me a little experience of his own. A
discussion had arisen between Bram Stoker, Joe Hatton and the Laureate
over Shelley, and Hatton, turning to Tennyson, observed consolingly:
“But you are in the ascendant now, sir.”
“Ah,” observed Tennyson complacently: “Shelley had no humour.”
If I have dwelt at some length on my first appearance at the Lyceum
Theatre, a glance at the cast of that wonderful revival of “Much Ado”
will furnish my excuse.
I had been but three months on the stage, and yet not only had I the
tremendous good fortune to be selected for an important Shakespearean
rôle, in which, with equal good fortune, I contrived to make my first
big success, but I had the privilege of forming one of a company which
contained many names afterwards to become famous.
Apart from Irving and Miss Terry, in the cast of “Much Ado about
Nothing” were the present Sir Johnston Forbes Robertson, who played
Claudio, and whose part, during his engagement elsewhere, was rehearsed
by the present Sir Frank Benson; Mr. Terriss, Mr. Fernandez, Mr. Howe
and that fine old Shakespearean actor Mr. Mead, and playing in the
Lyceum repertoire were the late Sir George Alexander, the present
Sir Martin Harvey--who was then cast to “walk on”--and his wife,
then Nellie de Silva, and Mr. Haviland, while Mr. Jack Robertson, the
great concert singer--no relation, by the way, of Sir Johnston Forbes
Robertson--was specially engaged to play the small part of Baltazar,
and to sing “Sigh no more, Ladies.”
Irving had a genius for surrounding himself with clever people, and
neither in casting nor in staging his plays did he stop to consider
expense when he had a certain effect in mind.
The chapel scene alone in “Much Ado” was a revelation in stage setting,
with its wonderful lighting, and its huge organ specially built on the
stage.
And in connection with that chapel scene two “Meadisms” at once rise in
my mind.
Mead was a fine actor of the old school, with the appearance of Dante,
and a wonderful reverberating voice which at times he failed to
modulate, and, as he grew older, his memory played him tricks.
As Hero, I was kneeling at the altar in the wedding scene, and old
Mead, as the priest, instead of Shakespeare’s lines started with the
words of the Prayer Book Marriage Service.
“Dearly beloved----” boomed that tremendous voice over my bowed head,
and I am afraid Hero giggled. Mead caught the sound of my giggle.
“Dearly beloved,” he repeated sternly, in those deep organ tones, and
then, in what was meant to be an indignant aside, but in reality was
exactly the same intonation--“and--these--_damned_--amateurs!”
The only time I ever saw Irving laugh on the stage was on another
occasion in that same wedding scene, and Mead was the cause.
Hero had fainted and was lying on the steps of the altar, with Beatrice
on one side of her and Benedick, his back to the audience, on the
other. Mead, as the priest, was descending the steps to Hero’s side,
when he tripped, took the whole short flight in a sort of pantomime
fall, and landed full length beside Hero.
Irving, convulsed with laughter himself, still retained enough presence
of mind to gasp: “Don’t laugh, my dear! For God’s sake, don’t laugh!”
to the naturally frivolous Hero.
Another magnificent veteran in the cast of this great revival was the
late Henry Howe, who had graduated in the Macready school, and was a
living link between the new and old tradition.
He was full of stories of that extraordinary man and great tragedian,
of whom so many extraordinary stories have been told, and one of the
best I remember was of an experience with him in “Macbeth.” Mr. Howe
was the Macduff, and it was Macready’s uncomfortable habit as Macbeth
to fight so vigorously with Macduff that he was eternally damaging the
unfortunate actors who played the part. In fact, at one time it was not
easy to find anyone to play it, and it was said that every Macduff who
had acted with Macready carried a Macready trade mark in the shape of a
cut or a bruise.
After disabling several, he engaged Mr. Howe to support him at Covent
Garden, and at rehearsal it was arranged that in order to give Macready
breathing space during the great fight, while he was puffing and
blowing, the cue for Howe to “come on” was the treading upon a brass
nail that shone upon the boards.
But at night, Macready, in the grunting, blustering and cursing
in which he indulged to “work himself up,” forgot all about the
arrangement, and as Macduff, with his eyes firmly fixed on the brass
nail, waited for his cue the great man became more exasperated than
ever.
“Come on, you brute! Why the devil don’t you come on, you beast!” he
snarled _sotto voce_.
“Why the devil don’t you tread on the nail?” retorted Howe indignantly,
and then the fight was resumed with immense spirit on both sides.
My first year on the stage was a wonderful experience for a young
actress, for after playing Hero until the end of the run, as the Lyceum
season finished with a short revival of repertoire in preparation for
the American visit, I played in “The Merchant of Venice,” “The Lyons
Mail,” “Louis XI,” and “The Bells,” in London, and in a short tour,
which included Edinburgh--where Irving opened the Lyceum Theatre, built
by Messrs. Howard and Wyndham--Glasgow, and Liverpool, the scene of my
little contretemps under the Kendal regime, whence we sailed for the
United States on the “City of Rome” in October, 1883.