heartily as words can do it for your true kindness in letting me
bring D. behind the scenes to you. You will know without my telling
you what an intense pleasure you thereby gave to a warm-hearted
girl, and what love (which I fancy you value more than mere
admiration) you have won from her. Her wild longing to try the
stage will not, I think, bear the cold light of day when once she
has tried it, and has realized what a lot of hard work and weary
waiting and 'hope deferred' it involves. She doesn't, so far as I
know, absolutely need, as N. does, to earn money for her own
support. But I fancy she will find life rather a _pinch_, unless
she can manage to do something in the way of earning money. So I
don't like to advise her strongly _against_ it, as I would with any
one who had no such need.
"Also thank you, thank you with all my heart, for all your great
kindness to N. She does write so brightly and gratefully about all
you do for her and say to her."
"N." has since achieved great success on the music-halls and in
pantomime. "D." is a leading lady!
This letter to my sister Floss is characteristic of his "Wonderland"
style when writing to children:
"Ch. Ch., _January, 1874._
"My dear Florence,--
"Ever since that heartless piece of conduct of yours (I allude to the
affair of the Moon and the blue silk gown) I have regarded you with a
gloomy interest, rather than with any of the affection of former
years--so that the above epithet 'dear' must be taken as conventional
only, or perhaps may be more fitly taken in the sense in which we talk
of a 'dear' bargain, meaning to imply how much it has cost us; and who
shall say how many sleepless nights it has cost me to endeavor to
unravel (a most appropriate verb) that 'blue silk gown'?
"Will you please explain to Tom about that photograph of the family
group which I promised him? Its history is an instructive one, as
illustrating my habits of care and deliberation. In 1867 the picture was
promised him, and an entry made in my book. In 1869, or thereabouts, I
mounted the picture on a large card, and packed it in brown paper. In
1870, or 1871, or thereabouts, I took it with me to Guilford, that it
might be handy to take with me when I went up to town. Since then I have
taken it two or three times to London, and on each occasion (having
forgotten to deliver it to him) I brought it back again. This was
because I had no convenient place in London to leave it in. But _now_ I
have found such a place. Mr. Dubourg has kindly taken charge of it--so
that it is now much nearer to its future owner than it has been for
seven years. I quite hope, in the course of another year or two, to be
able to remember to bring it to your house: or perhaps Mr. Dubourg may
be calling even sooner than that and take it with him. You will wonder
why I ask you to tell him instead of writing myself. The obvious reason
is that you will be able, from sympathy, to put my delay in the most
favorable light--to make him see that, as hasty puddings are not the
best of puddings so hasty judgments are not the best of judgments, and
that he ought to be content to wait even another seven years for his
picture, and to sit 'like patience on a monument, smiling at grief.'
This quotation, by the way, is altogether a misprint. Let me explain it
to you. The passage originally stood, '_They_ sit like patients on the
Monument, smiling at Greenwich.' In the next edition 'Greenwich' was
printed short, 'Green'h,' and so got gradually altered into 'grief.' The
allusion of course is to the celebrated Dr. Jenner, who used to send all
his patients to sit on the top of the Monument (near London Bridge) to
inhale fresh air, promising them that, when they were well enough, they
should go to 'Greenwich Fair.' So of course they always looked out
towards Greenwich, and sat smiling to think of the treat in store for
them. A play was written on the subject of their inhaling the fresh air,
and was for some time attributed to him (Shakespeare), but it is
certainly not in his style. It was called 'The Wandering Air,' and was
lately revived at the Queen's Theater. The custom of sitting on the
Monument was given up when Dr. Jenner went mad, and insisted on it that
the air was worse up there and that the _lower_ you went the _more airy_
it became. Hence he always called those little yards, below the
pavement, outside the kitchen windows, '_the kitchen airier_,' a name
that is still in use.
"All this information you are most welcome to use, the next time you are
in want of something to talk about. You may say you learned it from 'a
distinguished etymologist,' which is perfectly true, since any one who
knows me by sight can easily distinguish me from all other etymologists.
"What parts are you and Polly now playing?
"Believe me to be (conventionally)
"Yours affectionately,
"L. DODGSON."
No two men could be more unlike than Mr. Dodgson and Mr. J.M. Barrie,
yet there are more points of resemblance than "because there's a 'b' in
both!"
If "Alice in Wonderland" is the children's classic of the library, and
one perhaps even more loved by the grown up children than by the others,
"Peter Pan" is the children's stage classic, and here again elderly
children are the most devoted admirers. I am a very old child, nearly
old enough to be a "beautiful great-grandmother" (a part that I have
entreated Mr. Barrie to write for me), and I go and see "Peter" year
after year and love him more each time. There is one advantage in being
a grown-up child--you are not afraid of the pirates or the crocodile.
I first became an ardent lover of Mr. Barrie through "Sentimental
Tommy," and I simply had to write and tell him how hugely I had enjoyed
it. In reply I had a letter from Tommy himself!
"Dear Miss Ellen Terry,--
"I just wonder at you. I noticed that Mr. Barrie the author (so-called)
and his masterful wife had a letter they wanted to conceal from me, so I
got hold of it, and it turned out to be from you, and _not a line to me
in it_! If you like the book, it is _me_ you like, not him, and it is to
me you should send your love, not to him. Corp thinks, however, that you
did not like to make the first overtures, and if that is the
explanation, I beg herewith to send you my warm love (don't mention this
to Elspeth) and to say that I wish you would come and have a game with
us in the Den (don't let on to Grizel that I invited you). The first
moment I saw you, I said to myself, 'This is the kind I like,' and while
the people round about me were only thinking of your acting, I was
wondering which would be the best way of making you my willing slave,
and I beg to say that I believe I have 'found a way,' for most happily
the very ones I want most to lord it over, are the ones who are least
able to resist me.
"We should have ripping fun. You would be Jean MacGregor, captive in the
Queen's Bower, but I would climb up at the peril of my neck to rescue
you, and you would faint in my strong arms, and wouldn't Grizel get a
turn when she came upon you and me whispering sweet nothings in the
Lovers' Walk? I think it advisible to say _in writing_ that I would only
mean them as nothings (because Grizel is really my one), but so long as
they were sweet, what does that matter (at the time); and besides, _you_
could _love me_ genuinely, and I would carelessly kiss your burning
tears away.
"Corp is a bit fidgety about it, because he says I have two to love me
already, but I feel confident that I can manage more than two.
"Trusting to see you at the Cuttle Well on Saturday when the eight
o'clock bell is ringing,
"I am
"Your indulgent Commander,
"T. SANDYS.
"P.S.--Can you bring some of the Lyceum armor with you, and two
hard-boiled eggs?"
Henry Irving once thought of producing Mr. Barrie's play "The
Professor's Love Story." He was delighted with the first act, but when
he had read the rest he did not think the play would do for the Lyceum.
It was the same with many plays which were proposed for us. The ideas
sounded all right, but as a rule the treatment was too thin, and the
play, even if good, on too small a scale for the theater.
One of our playwrights of whom I always expected a great play was Mrs.
Craigie (John Oliver Hobbes). A little one-act play of hers, "Journeys
End in Lovers' Meeting"--in which I first acted with Johnston
Forbes-Robertson and Terriss at a special matinŽe in 1894--brought about
a friendship between us which lasted until her death. Of her it could
indeed be said with poignant truth, "She should have died hereafter."
Her powers had not nearly reached their limit.
Pearl Craigie had a man's intellect--a woman's wit and apprehension.
"Bright," as the Americans say, she always managed to be even in the
dullest company, and she knew how to be silent at times, to give the
"other fellow" a chance. Her _executive_ ability was extraordinary.
Wonderfully tolerant, she could at the same time not easily forgive any
meanness or injustice that seemed to her deliberate. Hers was a splendid
spirit.
I shall always bless that little play of hers which first brought me
near to so fine a creature. I rather think that I never met any one who
_gave out_ so much as she did. To me, at least, she _gave, gave_ all the
time. I hope she was not exhausted after our long "confabs." _I_ was
most certainly refreshed and replenished.
The first performance of "Journeys End in Lovers' Meeting" she watched
from a private box with the Princess of Wales (our present Queen) and
Henry Irving. She came round afterwards just _burning_ with enthusiasm
and praising me for work which was really not good. She spoiled one for
other women.
Her best play was, I think, "The Ambassador," in which Violet Vanbrugh
(now Mrs. Bourchier) played a pathetic part very beautifully, and made a
great advance in her profession.
There was some idea of Pearl Craigie writing a play for Henry Irving and
me, but it never came to anything. There was a play of hers on the same
subject as "The School for Saints," and another about Guizot.
"_February 11, 1898._
"My very dear Nell,--
"I have an idea for a real four-act comedy (in these matters nothing
daunts me!) founded on a charming little episode in the private lives of
Princess Lieven (the famous Russian ambassadress) and the celebrated
Guizot, the French Prime Minister and historian. I should have to veil
the identity _slightly_, and also make the story a husband and wife
story--it would be more amusing this way. It is comedy from beginning to
end. Sir Henry would make a splendid Guizot, and you the ideal Madame de
Lieven. Do let me talk it over with you. 'The School for Saints' was, as
it were, a born biography. But the Lieven-Guizot idea is a play.
"Yours ever affectionately,
"PEARL MARY THERESA CRAIGIE."
In another letter she writes:
"I am changing all my views about so-called 'literary' dialogue. It
means pedantry. The great thing is to be lively."
"A first night at the Lyceum" was an institution. I don't think that it
has its parallel nowadays. It was not, however, to the verdict of all
the brilliant friends who came to see us on the first night that Henry
Irving attached importance. I remember some one saying to him after the
first night of "Ravenswood": "I don't fancy that your hopes will be
quite fulfilled about the play. I heard one or two on Saturday night--"
"Ah yes," said Henry very carelessly and gently, "but you see there were
so many _friends_ there that night who didn't pay--_friends_. One must
not expect too much from friends! The paying public will, I think,
decide favorably."
Henry never cared much for society, as the saying is--but as host in the
Beefsteak Room he thoroughly enjoyed himself, and every one who came to
his suppers seemed happy! Every conceivable type of person used to be
present--and there, if one had the _mind_[1] one could study the world
in little.
[Footnote 1: "Wordsworth says he could write like Shakespeare if he had
the _mind_. Obviously it is only the mind that is lacking."--_Charles
Lamb's Letters._]
One of the liveliest guests was Sir Francis Burnand--who entirely
contradicted the theory that professional comedians are always the most
gloomy of men in company.
A Sunday evening with the Burnand family at their home in The Bottoms
was a treat Henry Irving and I often looked forward to--a particularly
restful, lively evening. I think a big family--a "party" in itself--is
the only "party" I like. Some of the younger Burnands have greatly
distinguished themselves, and they are all perfect dears, so unaffected,
kind, and genial.
Sir Francis never jealously guarded his fun for _Punch_. He was always
generous with it. Once when my son had an exhibition of his pictures, I
asked Mr. Burnand, as he was then, to go and see it or send some one on
Mr. Punch's staff. He answered characteristically!
"WHITEFRIARS,
"London, E.C.
"My dear Ellen Terry,--
"Delighted to see your hand--'wish your face were with it'
(Shakespeare).
"Remember me (Shakespeare again--'Hamlet') to our Sir Henry. May you
both live long and prosper!
"GORDON CRAIG'S PICTURES
He opens his show
A day I can't go.
Any Friday
Is never my day.
But I'll see his pictures
(Praise and no strictures)
'Ere this day week;
Yet I can't speak
Of them in print
(I might give a hint)
Till each on its shelf
I've seen for myself.
I've no one to send.
Now I must end.
None I can trust,
So go I must.
Yours most trul_ee_
V'la F.C.B.
All well here,
All send love.
Likewise misses
Lots of kisses.
From all in this 'ere shanty
To _you_ who don't play in Dante!
What a pity!
Whuroo-oo
Oo-oo-oo!"
BITS FROM MY DIARY
What is a diary as a rule? A document useful to the person who keeps it,
dull to the contemporary who reads it, invaluable to the student,
centuries afterwards, who treasures it!
Whatever interest the few diaries of mine that I have preserved may have
for future psychologists and historians, they are for my present purpose
almost worthless. Yet because things written at the time are considered
by some people to be more reliable than those written years afterwards
when memory calls in imagination to her help, I have hunted up a few
passages from my diaries between 1887 and 1901; and now I give them in
the raw for what they are worth--in my opinion nothing!
_July 1887._--E.B.-J. (Sir Edward Burne-Jones) sent me a picture he
has painted for me--a troop of little angels.
_August 2._--(We were in Scotland.) Visited the "Blasted Heath."
Behold a flourishing potato field! Smooth softness everywhere. We
must blast our own heath when we do Macbeth!
_November 29._---(We were in America.) MatinŽe "Faust"--Beecher
Memorial. The whole affair was the strangest failure. H.I. himself
took heaps of tickets, but the house was half empty.
The following Saturday.--MatinŽe "Faust." House crammed. Why
couldn't they have come when it was to honor Beecher?
_January 1890._--In answer to some one who has said that Henry had
all his plays written for him, he pointed out that of twenty-eight
Lyceum productions only three were written "for" him--"Charles I.,"
"Eugene Aram," and "Vanderdecken."
_February 27._--(My birthday.) Henry gave me a most exquisite
wreath for the head. It is made of green stones and diamonds and is
like a myrtle wreath. I never saw anything so simple and grand.
It's lovely.
(During this year our readings of "Macbeth" took place.)
_April._--Visit to Trentham after the reading at Hanley. Next day
to hotel at Bradford, where there were beetles in the beds!
I see that Bulwer, speaking of Macready's Macbeth, says that
Macbeth was a "trembler when opposed by his conscience, a warrior
when defied by his foes."
_August._--(At Winchelsea.) We drove to Cliffe End. Henry got the
old pony along at a spanking rate, but I had to seize the reins now
and again to save us from sudden death.
_August 14._--Drove to Tenterden. Saw Clowe's Marionettes.
(Henry saw one of their play-bills in a shop window, but found that the
performances only took place in the evening. He found out the proprietor
and asked him what were the takings on a good night. The man said £5, I
think. Henry asked him if he would give him a special show for that sum.
He was delighted. Henry and I and my daughter Edy and Fussie sat in
solemn state in the empty tent and watched the show, which was most
ingenious and clever. Clowe's Marionettes are still "on the road," but
ever since that "command" performance of Henry's at Tenterden their bill
has had two extra lines:
"Patronized by SIR HENRY IRVING
and
MISS ELLEN TERRY.")
_September._--"Method," (in last act of "Ravenswood"), "to keep very
still, and feel it all quietly and deeply." George Meredith,
speaking of Romance, says: "The young who avoid that region, escape
the title of Fool at the cost of a Celestial Crown." Good!
_December._--Mr. Gladstone behind the scenes. He likes the last act
very much.
_January 14, 1892._--Prince Eddie died. Cardinal Manning died.
_January 18._--(Just after successful production of "Henry VIII.")
H.I. is hard at work, studying "Lear." This is what only a great
man would do at such a moment in the hottest blush of success. No
"swelled head"--only fervent endeavor to do better work. The fools
hardly conceive what he is.
_February 8._--Morell Mackenzie died.
_March 1._--Mother died. Amazing courage in my father and sisters.
She looked so lovely when she was dead.
_March 7._--Went back to work.
_October 6._--Tennyson died.
_October 26._--A fine day. To call on the young Duchess of S----.
What a sweet and beautiful young girl she is! I said I would write
and ask Mrs. Stirling to give her lessons, but feared she could not
as she was ill.
_November._--Heard from Mrs. Stirling: "I am too ill and weak to
see any one in the way of lessons. I am just alive--in pain and
distress always, but always anxious for news from the Lyceum.
'Lear' will be a great success, I am sure. I was Cordelia with
Macready."
_November 10._--First night of "Lear." Such a foggy day! H. was
just marvelous, but indistinct from nervousness. T. spoke out, but
who cared! Haviland was very good. My Ted splendid in the little
bit he had to do as Oswald. I was rather good to-night. It _is_ a
wee part, but fine.
_December 7._--Poor Fred Leslie is dead. Typhoid. A thunderbolt to
us all. Poor, bright, charming Fred Leslie!
_December 31._--This has been a dark year. Mother died. Illness
rife in the family. My son engaged--but that may turn out well if
the young couple will not be too hasty. H.I. not well. Business by
no means up to the proper point. A death in the Royal Family.
Depression--depression!
_March 9, 1897._--Eunice (Mrs. Henry Ward Beecher) is dead. Poor
darling! She was a great friend to me.
_April 10._--First night of "Sans-Gne." A wonderful first-night
audience. I acted courageously and fairly well. Extraordinary
success.
_April 14._--Princess Louise (Lorne) came to see the play and told
me she was delighted. Little Elspeth Campbell was with her, looking
lovely. I did not play well--was depressed and clumsy.
_May 13._--It's all off about "The Man of Destiny" play with H.I.
and G.B.S.
_May 15._--To "Princess and Butterfly" with Audrey and AimŽe. Miss
Fay Davis better than ever.
_May 17._---Nutcombe Gould has lost his voice, and Ted was called
upon at a moment's notice to play Hamlet at the Olympic to-night.
_June 20._--Thanksgiving Service at St. Paul's for the Queen's
Jubilee. Went with Edy and Henry. Not at all adequate to the
occasion was the ceremony. The Te Deum rather good, the sermon
sensible, but the whole uninspired, unimpassioned and _dull_. The
Prince and Princess looked splendid.
_June 22._--To Lady Glenesk's, Piccadilly. Wonderfullest sight I
ever saw. All was perfect, but the little Queen herself more
dignified than the whole procession put together! Sarah B. was in
her place at the Glenesks' at six in the morning. Bancroft made a
Knight. Mrs. Alma-Tadema's "at home." Paderewski played. What a
divinely beautiful face!
_July 14._--The Women's Jubilee Dinner at the Grafton Galleries.
Too ill to go. My guests were H.I., Burne-Jones, Max Beerbohm, W.
Nicholson, Jimmy Pryde, Will Rothenstein, Graham Robertson, Richard
Hardig Davis, Laurence Irving, Ted and Edy.
_December 11._--(In Manchester.) Poor old Fussie dropped down a
trap 30 feet and died in a second.
_December 16._--Willie Terriss was murdered this evening.
Newspapers sent me a wire for "expressions of sympathy"!!
_January 22, 1901._--(Tenterden.) Nine o'clock evening and the bell
is tolling for our dearest Queen--Victoria, who died this evening
just before seven o'clock--a grand, wise, good woman. A week ago
she was driving out regularly. The courage of it!
_January 23._--To Rye (from Winchelsea). The King proclaimed in the
Market Place. The ceremony only took about five minutes. Very dull
and undignified until the National Anthem, which upset us all.
_January 26._--London last night when I arrived might have been
Winchelsea when the sun goes down on all our wrath and arguments.
No one in the streets ... empty buses crawling along. Black boards
up at every shop window. All the gas half-mast high as well as the
flags. I never saw such a mournful city, but why should they turn
the gas down? Thrift, thrift, Horatio!
_February 2._--The Queen's Funeral. From a balcony in S. James's I
saw the most wonderful sight I have ever seen. The silence was
extraordinary.... The tiny coffin on the gun-carriage drawn by the
cream-colored ponies was the most pathetic, impressive object in
all that great procession. All the grandest carriages were out for
the occasion. The King and the German Emperor rode side by side....
The young Duke of Coburg, the Duchess of Albany's son, like Sir
Galahad. I slept at Bridgewater House, but on my way to St. James's
from there my clothes were torn and I was half squeezed to death.
One man called out to me: "Ah, now you know what it feels like at
the pit door, Miss Terry."
_April 15._--Lyceum. "Coriolanus" produced. Went home directly
after the play was over. I didn't seem to know a word of my part
yesterday at the dress-rehearsal, but to-night I was as firm as if
I had played it a hundred times.
_April 16._--The critics who wrote their notices at the
dress-rehearsal, and complained of my playing pranks with the text,
were a little previous. Oh, how bad it makes one feel to find that
they all think my Volumnia "sweet," and _I_ thought I was fierce,
contemptuous, overbearing. Worse, I felt as if I must be appearing
like a cabman rating his Drury Lane wife!
_April 20._--Beginning to play Volumnia a little better.
_June 25._--Revival of "Charles I." The play went marvelously. I
played first and last acts well. H. was magnificent. Ted saw play
yesterday and says I don't "do Mrs. Siddons well." I know what he
means. The last act too declamatory.
_June 26._--Changed the "Mrs. Siddons" scene, and like it much
better. Simpler--more nature--more feeling.
_July 16._--Horrible suicide of Edith and Ida Yeoland. The poor
girls were out of an engagement. Unequal to the fight for life.
_July 20._--Last day of Lyceum season--"Coriolanus."
(On that night, I remember, H.I. for the first time played Coriolanus
_beautifully_. He discarded the disfiguring beard of the warrior that he
had worn during the "run" earlier in the season--and now that one could
see his face, all was well. When people speak of the evils of long runs,
I should like to answer with a list of their advantages. An actor, even
an actor of Henry Irving's caliber, hardly begins to play an immense
part like Coriolanus for what it is worth until he has been doing it for
fifty nights.)
_November 16._--"New York. Saw delightful Maude Adams in 'Quality
Street'--charming play. She is most clever and attractive.
_Unusual_ above everything. Queer, sweet, entirely delightful."
From these extracts, I hope it will be seen that by burning most of my
diaries I did not inflict an unbearable loss upon present readers, or
posterity!
I am afraid that I think as little of the future as I do of the past.
The present for me!
If my impressions of my friends are scanty, let me say in my defense
that actors and actresses necessarily _see_ many people, but _know_ very
few.
If there has been more in this book about my life in the theater than
about my life outside it, the proportion is inevitable and natural. The
maxim is well-worn that art is long and life is short, and there is no
art, I think, which is longer than mine! At least, it always seems to me
that no life can be long enough to meet its requirements.
If I have not revealed myself to you, or succeeded in giving a faithful
picture of an actor's life, perhaps I have shown what years of practice
and labor are needed for the attainment of a permanent position on the
stage. To quote Mrs. Nancy Oldfield:--
"Art needs all that we can bring to her, I assure you."
THE END
INDEX