heard from father that Macready was the greatest actor of all, and this
was our first meeting. I was utterly abashed, but Mr. Macready, looking
down with a very kindly smile, only answered: "Never mind! You are a
very polite little girl, and you act very earnestly and speak very
nicely."
I was too much agitated to do anything but continue my headlong course
to my dressing-room, but even in those short moments the strange
attractiveness of his face impressed itself on my imagination. I
remember distinctly his curling hair, his oddly colored eyes full of
fire, and his beautiful, wavy mouth.
When I first described this meeting with Macready, a disagreeable person
wrote to the papers and said that he did not wish to question my
veracity, but that it was utterly impossible that Macready could ever
have brought himself to go to the Princess's at this time, because of
the rivalry between him and Charles Kean. I know that the two actors
were not on speaking terms, but very likely Macready had come to see my
father or Mr. Harley or one of the many members of Kean's company who
had once served under him.
The period when I was as vain as a little peacock had come to an end
before this. I think my part in "Pizarro" saw the last of it. I was a
Worshiper of the Sun, and in a pink feather, pink swathings of muslin,
and black arms, I was again struck by my own beauty. I grew quite
attached to the looking-glass which reflected that feather! Then
suddenly there came a change. _I began to see the whole thing._ My
attentive watching of other people began to bear fruit, and the labor
and perseverance, care and intelligence which had gone to make these
enormous productions dawned on my young mind. _One must see things for
oneself._ Up to this time I had loved acting because it was great fun,
but I had not loved the grind. After I began to rehearse Prince Arthur
in "King John," a part in which my sister Kate had already made a great
success six years earlier, I understood that if I did not work, I could
not act. And I wanted to work. I used to get up in the middle of the
night and watch my gestures in the glass. I used to try my voice and
bring it down and up in the right places. And all vanity fell away from
me. At the first rehearsals of "King John" I could not do anything
right. Mrs. Kean stormed at me, slapped me. I broke down and cried, and
then, with all the mortification and grief in my voice, managed to
express what Mrs. Kean wanted and what she could not teach me by doing
it herself.
"That's right, that's right!" she cried excitedly, "you've got it! Now
remember what you did with your voice, reproduce it, remember
everything, and do it!"
When the rehearsal was over, she gave me a vigorous kiss. "You've done
very well," she said. "That's what I want. You're a very tired little
girl. Now run home to bed." I shall never forget the relief of those
kind words after so much misery, and the little incident often comes
back to me now when I hear a young actress say, "I can't do it!" If only
she can cry with vexation, I feel sure that she will then be able to
make a good attempt at doing it!
There were oppositions and jealousies in the Keans' camp, as in most
theaters, but they were never brought to my notice until I played Prince
Arthur. Then I saw a great deal of Mr. Ryder, who was the Hubert of the
production, and discovered that there was some soreness between him and
his manager. Ryder was a very pugnacious man--an admirable actor, and in
appearance like an old tree that has been struck by lightning, or a
greenless, barren rock; and he was very strong in his likes and
dislikes, and in his manner of expressing them.
"D'ye suppose he engaged me for my powers as an actor?" he used to say
of Mr. Kean. "Not a bit of it! He engaged me for my d----d
archaeological figure!"
One night during the run of "King John," a notice was put up that no
curtain calls would be allowed at the end of a scene. At the end of my
scene with Hubert there was tremendous applause, and when we did not
appear, the audience began to shout and yell and cheer. I went off to
the greenroom, but even from there I could still hear the voices:
"Hubert! Arthur!" Mr. Kean began the next scene, but it was of no use.
He had to give in and send for us. Meanwhile old Ryder had been striding
up and down the greenroom in a perfect fury. "Never mind, ducky!" he
kept on saying to me; and it was really quite unnecessary, for "ducky"
was just enjoying the noise and thinking it all capital fun. "Never
mind! When other people are rotting in their graves, ducky, you'll be up
there!" (with a terrific gesture indicative of the dizzy heights of
fame). When the message came to the greenroom that we were to take the
call, he strode across the stage to the entrance, I running after him
and quite unable to keep up with his long steps.
In "Macbeth" I was again associated with Ryder, who was the Banquo when
I was Fleance, and I remember that after we had been dismissed by
Macbeth: "Good repose the while," we had to go off up a flight of steps.
I always stayed at the top until the end of the scene, but Mr. Ryder
used to go down the other side rather heavily, and Mr. Kean, who wanted
perfect quiet for the dagger speech, had to keep on saying: "Ssh! ssh!"
all through it.
"Those carpenters at the side are enough to ruin any acting," he said
one night when he came off.
"I'm a heavy man, and I can't help it," said Ryder.
"Oh, I didn't know it was _you_," said Mr. Kean--but I think he did! One
night I was the innocent cause of a far worse disturbance. I dozed at
the top of the steps and rolled from the top to the bottom with a
fearful crash! Another night I got into trouble for not catching Mrs.
Kean when, as Constance, in "King John," she sank down on to the ground.
"Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it!"
I was, for my sins, looking at the audience, and Mrs. Kean went down
with a _run_, and was naturally very angry with me!
In 1860 the Keans gave up the management of the Princess's Theater and
went to America. They traveled in a sailing vessel, and, being delayed
by a calm, had to drink water caught in the sails, the water supply
having given out. I believe that although the receipts were wonderful,
Charles Kean spent much more than he made during his ten years of
management. Indeed, he confessed as much in a public announcement. The
Princess's Theater was not very big, and the seats were low-priced. It
is my opinion, however, that no manager with high artistic aims,
resolute to carry them out in his own way, can ever make a fortune.
Of the other members of the company during my three years at the
Princess's, I remember best Walter Lacy, who was the William Terriss of
the time. He knew Madame Vestris, and had many entertaining stories
about her. Then there were the Leclercqs, two clever sisters, Carlotta
and Rose, who did great things later on. Men, women and children alike
worked hard, and if the language of the actors was more Rabelaisian than
polite, they were good fellows and heart and soul devoted to their
profession. Their salaries were smaller and their lives were simpler
than is the case with actors now.
Kate and I had been hard at work for some years, but our parents had no
notion of our resting. We were now to show what our training had done
for us in "A Drawing-room Entertainment."
II
ON THE ROAD
1859-1861
From July to September every year the leading theaters in London and the
provincial cities were closed for the summer vacation. This plan is
still adhered to more or less, but in London, at any rate, some theaters
keep their doors open all the year round. During these two months most
actors take their holiday, but when we were with the Keans we were not
in a position to afford such a luxury. Kate and I were earning good
salaries for our age,[1] but the family at home was increasing in size,
and my mother was careful not to let us think that there never could be
any rainy days. I am bound to say that I left questions of thrift, and
what we could afford and what we couldn't entirely to my parents. I
received sixpence a week pocket-money, with which I was more than
content for many years. Poor we may have been at this time, but, owing
to my mother's diligent care and cleverness, we always looked nice and
neat. One of the few early dissipations I can remember was a Christmas
party in Half Moon Street, where our white muslin dresses were equal to
any present. But more love and toil and pride than money had gone to
make them. I have a very clear vision of coming home late from the
theater to our home in Stanhope Street, Regent's Park, and seeing my
dear mother stitching at those pretty frocks by the light of one candle.
It was no uncommon thing to find her sewing at that time, but if she was
tired, she never showed it. She was always bright and tender. With the
callousness of childhood, I scarcely realized the devotion and ceaseless
care that she bestowed on us, and her untiring efforts to bring us up as
beautifully as she could. The knowledge came to me later on when, all
too early in my life, my own responsibilities came on me and quickened
my perceptions. But I was a heartless little thing when I danced off to
that party! I remember that when the great evening came, our hair, which
we still wore down our backs, was done to perfection, and we really
looked fit to dance with a king. As things were, I _did_ dance with the
late Duke of Cambridge! It was the most exciting Christmas Day in my
life.
[Footnote 1: Of course, all salaries are bigger now than they were then.
The "stars" in old days earned large sums--Edmund Kean received two
hundred and fifty pounds for four performances--but the ordinary members
of a company were paid at a very moderate rate. I received fifteen
shillings a week at the Princess's until I played Puck, when my salary
was doubled.--E.T.]
Our summer holidays, as I have said, were spent at Ryde. We stayed at
Rose Cottage (for which I sought in vain when I revisited the place the
other day), and the change was pleasant, even though we were working
hard. One of the pieces father gave at the theater to amuse the summer
visitors was a farce called "To Parents and Guardians." I played the
fat, naughty boy Waddilove, a part which had been associated with the
comedian Robson in London, and I remember that I made the
unsophisticated audience shout with laughter by entering with my hands
covered with jam! Father was capital as the French usher Tourbillon;
and the whole thing went splendidly. Looking back, it seems rather
audacious for such a child to have attempted a grown-up comedian's part,
but it was excellent practice for that child! It was the success of
these little summer ventures at Ryde which made my father think of our
touring in "A Drawing-room Entertainment" when the Keans left the
Princess's.
The entertainment consisted of two little plays "Home for the Holidays"
and "Distant Relations," and they were written, I think, by a Mr.
Courtney. We were engaged to do it first at the Royal Colosseum,
Regent's Park, by Sir Charles Wyndham's father, Mr. Culverwell. Kate and
I played all the parts in each piece, and we did quick changes at the
side worthy of Fregoli! The whole thing was quite a success, and after
playing it at the Colosseum we started on a round of visits.
In "Home for the Holidays," which came first on our little programme,
Kate played Letitia Melrose, a young girl of about seventeen, who is
expecting her young brother "home for the holidays." Letitia, if I
remember right, was discovered soliloquizing somewhat after this
fashion: "Dear little Harry! Left all alone in the world, as we are, I
feel such responsibility about him. Shall I find him changed, I wonder,
after two years' absence? He has not answered my letters lately. I hope
he got the cake and toffee I sent him, but I've not heard a word." At
this point I entered as Harry, but instead of being the innocent little
schoolboy of Letitia's fond imagination, Harry appears in loud peg-top
trousers (peg-top trousers were very fashionable in 1860), with a big
cigar in his mouth, and his hat worn jauntily on one side. His talk is
all of racing, betting, and fighting. Letty is struck dumb with
astonishment at first, but the awful change, which two years have
effected, gradually dawns on her. She implores him to turn from his
idle, foolish ways. Master Harry sinks on his knees by her side, but
just as his sister is about to rejoice and kiss him, he looks up in her
face and bursts into loud laughter. She is much exasperated, and,
threatening to send some one to him who will talk to him in a very
different fashion, she leaves the stage. Master Hopeful thereupon dons
his dressing-gown and smoking cap, and, lying full length upon the sofa,
begins to have a quiet smoke. He is interrupted by the appearance of a
most wonderful and grim old woman in blue spectacles--Mrs. Terrorbody.
This is no other than "Sister Letty," dressed up in order to frighten
the youth out of his wits. She talks and talks, and, after painting
vivid pictures of what will become of him unless he alters his "vile
ways," leaves him, but not before she succeeds in making him shed tears,
half of fright and half of anger. Later on, Sister Letty, looking from
the window, sees a grand fight going on between Master Harry and a
butcher-boy, and then Harry enters with his coat off, his sleeves tucked
up, explaining in a state of blazing excitement that he "_had_ to fight
that butcher-boy, because he had struck a little girl in the street."
Letty sees that the lad has a fine nature in spite of his folly, and
appeals to his heart and the nobility of his nature--this time not in
vain.
"Distant Relations" was far more inconsequent, but it served to show our
versatility, at any rate. I was all things by turns, and nothing long!
First I was the page boy who admitted the "relations" (Kate in many
guises). Then I was a relation myself--Giles, a rustic. As Giles, I
suddenly asked if the audience would like to hear me play the drum, and
"obliged" with a drum solo, in which I had spent a great deal of time
perfecting myself. Long before this I remember dimly some rehearsal when
I was put in the orchestra and taken care of by "the gentleman who
played the drum," and how badly I wanted to play it too! I afterwards
took lessons from Mr. Woodhouse, the drummer at the Princess's. Kate
gave an imitation of Mrs. Kean as Constance so beautifully that she used
to bring tears to my eyes, and make the audience weep too.
Both of us, even at this early age, had dreams of playing all Mrs.
Kean's parts. We knew the words, not only of them, but of every female
part in every play in which we had appeared at the Princess's. "Walking
on is so dull," the young actress says sometimes to me now, and I ask
her if she knows all the parts of the play in which she is "walking on."
I hardly ever find that she does. "I have no understudy," is her excuse.
Even if a young woman has not been given an understudy, she ought, if
she has any intention of taking her profession as an actress seriously,
to constitute herself an understudy to every part in the piece! Then she
would not find her time as a "super" hang heavy on her hands.
Some of my readers may be able to remember the "Stalactite Caverns"
which used to form one of the attractions at the Colosseum. It was there
that I first studied the words of Juliet. To me the gloomy horror of the
place was a perfect godsend! Here I could cultivate a creepy, eerie
sensation, and get into a fitting frame of mind for the potion scene.
Down in this least imposing of subterranean abodes I used to tremble
and thrill with passion and terror. Ah, if only in after years, when I
played Juliet at the Lyceum, I could have thrilled an audience to the
same extent!
After a few weeks at the Colosseum, we began our little tour. It was a
very merry, happy time. We traveled a company of five, although only two
of us were acting. There were my father and mother, Kate and myself, and
Mr. Sydney Naylor, who played the very important part of orchestra. With
a few exceptions we made the journeys in a carriage. Once we tramped
from Bristol to Exeter. Oh, those delightful journeys on the open road!
I tasted the joys of the strolling player's existence, without its
miseries. I saw the country for the first time.... When they asked me
what I was thinking of as we drove along, I remember answering: "Only
that I should like to run wild in a wood for ever!" At night we stayed
in beautiful little inns which were ever so much more cheap and
comfortable than the hotels of to-day. In some of the places we were
asked out to tea and dinner and very much fted. An odd little troupe we
were! Father was what we will call for courtesy's sake "Stage Manager,"
but in reality he set the stage himself, and did the work which
generally falls to the lot of the stage manager and an army of
carpenters combined. My mother used to coach us up in our parts, dress
us, make us go to sleep part of the day so that we might look "fresh" at
night, and look after us generally. Mr. Naylor, who was not very much
more than a boy, though to my childish eyes his years were quite
venerable, besides discoursing eloquent music in the evenings, during
the progress of the "Drawing-room Entertainment," would amuse us--me
most especially--by being very entertaining himself during our journeys
from place to place. How he made us laugh about--well, mostly about
nothing at all.
We traveled in this way for nearly two years, visiting a new place every
day, and making, I think, about ten to fifteen pounds a performance. Our
little pieces were very pretty, but very slight, too; and I can only
suppose that the people thought that "never anything can be amiss when
simpleness and duty tender it," for they received our entertainment very
well. The time had come when my little brothers had to be sent to
school, and our earnings came in useful.
When the tour came to an end in 1861, I went to London with my father to
find an engagement, while Kate joined the stock company at Bristol. We
still gave the "Drawing-room Entertainment" at Ryde in the summer, and
it still drew large audiences.
In London my name was put on an agent's books in the usual way, and
presently he sent me to Madame Albina de Rhona, who had not long taken
over the management of the Royal Soho Theater and changed its name to
the Royalty. The improvement did not stop at the new play. French
workmen had swept and garnished the dusty, dingy place and transformed
it into a theater as dainty and pretty as Madame de Rhona herself.
Dancing was Madame's strong point, but she had been very successful as
an actress too, first in Paris and Petersburg, and then in London at the
St. James's and Drury Lane. What made her go into management on her own
account I don't know. I suppose she was ambitious, and rich enough for
the enterprise.
At this time I was "in standing water," as Malvolio says of Viola when
she is dressed as a boy. I was neither child nor woman--a long-legged
girl of about thirteen, still in short skirts, and feeling that I ought
to have long ones. However, when I set out with father to see Madam de
Rhona, I was very smart. I borrowed Kate's new bonnet--pink silk trimmed
with black lace--and thought I looked nice in it. So did father, for he
said on the way to the theater that pink was my color. In fact, I am
sure it was the bonnet that made Madame de Rhona engage me on the spot!
She was the first Frenchwoman I had ever met, and I was tremendously
interested in her. Her neat and expressive ways made me feel very
"small," or rather _big_ and clumsy, even at the first interview. A
quick-tempered, bright, energetic little woman, she nearly frightened me
out of my wits at the first rehearsal by dancing round me on the stage
in a perfect frenzy of anger at what she was pleased to call my
stupidity. Then something I did suddenly pleased her, and she
overwhelmed me with compliments and praise. After a time these became
the order of the day, and she soon won my youthful affections. "Gross
flattery," as a friend of mine says, "is good enough for me!" Madame de
Rhona was, moreover, very kind-hearted and generous. To her generosity I
owed the first piece of jewelery I ever possessed--a pretty little
brooch, which, with characteristic carelessness, I promptly lost!
Besides being flattered by her praise and grateful for her kindness, I
was filled with great admiration for her. She was a wee thing--like a
toy, and her dancing was really exquisite. When I watched the way she
moved her hands and feet, despair entered my soul. It was all so
precise, so "express and admirable." Her limbs were so dainty and
graceful--mine so big and unmanageable! "How long and gaunt I am," I
used to say to myself, "and what a pattern of prim prettiness she is!" I
was so much ashamed of my large hands, during this time at the Royalty,
that I kept them tucked up under my arms! This subjected me to
unmerciful criticism from Madame Albina at rehearsals.
"Take down your hands," she would call out. "_Mon Dieu!_ It is like an
ugly young _poulet_ going to roost!"
In spite of this, I did not lose my elegant habit for many years! I was
only broken of it at last by a friend saying that he supposed I had very
ugly hands, as I never showed them! That did it! Out came the hands to
prove that they were not so _very_ ugly, after all! Vanity often
succeeds where remonstrance fails.
The greenroom at the Royalty was a very pretty little place, and Madame
Albina sometimes had supper-parties there after the play. One night I
could not resist the pangs of curiosity, and I peeped through the
keyhole to see what was going on! I chose a lucky moment! One of
Madame's admirers was drinking champagne out of her slipper! It was even
worth the box on the ear that mother gave me when she caught me. She had
been looking all over the theater for me, to take me home.
My first part at the Royalty was Clementine in "Attar Gull." Of the
play, adapted from a story by Eugene Sue, I have a very hazy
recollection, but I know that I had one very effective scene in it.
Clementine, an ordinary fair-haired ingenue in white muslin, has a great
horror of snakes, and, in order to cure her of her disgust, some one
suggests that a dead snake should be put in her room, and she be taught
how harmless the thing is for which she had such an aversion. An Indian
servant, who, for some reason or other, has a deadly hatred for the
whole family, substitutes a live reptile. Clementine appears at the
window with the venomous creature coiled round her neck, screaming with
wild terror. The spectators on the stage think that the snake is dead,
and that she is only screaming from "nerves," but in reality she is
being slowly strangled. I began screaming in a frantic, heartrending
manner, and continued screaming, each cry surpassing the last in
intensity and agony. At rehearsal I could not get these screams right
for a long time. Madame de Rhona grew more and more impatient and at
last flew at me like a wild-cat and shook me. I cried, just as I had
done when I could not get Prince Arthur's terror right, and then the
wild, agonized scream that Madame de Rhona wanted came to me. I
_reproduced_ it and enlarged it in effect. On the first night the
audience applauded the screaming more than anything in the play. Madame
de Rhona assured me that I had made a sensation, kissed me and said I
was a genius! How sweet and pleasant her flattering words sounded in my
young and inexperienced ears I need hardly say.
Looking back to it now, I know perfectly well why I, a mere child of
thirteen, was able to give such a realistic display of horror. I had the
emotional instinct to start with, no doubt, but if I did it well, it was
because I was able to imagine what would be _real_ in such a situation.
I had never _observed_ such horror, but I had previously _realized_ it,
when, as Arthur, I had imagined the terror of having my eyes put out.
Imagination! imagination! I put it first years ago, when I was asked
what qualities I thought necessary for success upon the stage. And I am
still of the same opinion. Imagination, industry, and intelligence--"the
three I's"--are all indispensable to the actress, but of these three the
greatest is, without any doubt, imagination.