Part 10

Sothern was always kind to me, whether in my early days in the provinces or afterwards in town. He was my guest at the first dinner-party I had the courage to give. Among those who sat with him were Dion Boucicault, W. S. Gilbert, W. R. McConnell and Tom Hood. I was a young host, not having struck twenty-six. He was a fearless rider and hunting man. Once, after he had met with a bad accident, following the staghounds, I went to see him at his charming old house, called The Cedars, in Kensington, and found his bed placed in the middle of the room. The house, when I last saw it, had become a home for cripples.

Sothern was the king of practical-jokers and would stop at nothing in the way of thought, time or money, to carry out his wild projects. A poor game at its best, I have often thought in mature age; a selfish form of innings.

He was an intense admirer of my wife's art. {169} Only after he had passed away did it come to my knowledge that in some stage experiences, published in America, with the title _Birds of a Feather_, he gave his judgment of her.

"Among the actresses I should certainly place Mrs. Bancroft and Mrs. Kendal in the foremost rank, their specialities being high comedy. Mrs. Bancroft I consider the best actress on the English stage; in fact, I might say on any stage."

Sam Sothern, so long a pleasant actor on our stage, is dead, so his father's name and fame are now successfully held by his son, Edward, in America.

[Sidenote: Dion Boucicault]

One of the most remarkable of Victorians in stage-land was Dion Boucicault, father of my life-long little friend, "Dot," the accomplished husband of Irene Vanbrugh. Boucicault produced his first comedy, _London Assurance_--a brilliant one in its day--about the date of my birth, when he himself was not more than twenty-one. He was a colossal worker as author, actor, and producer until 1890; a career as distinguished as it was lengthy. His delightful Irish plays, _The Colleen Bawn_, _Arrah-na-Pogue_ and _The Shaughraun_, were among the joys of my youth. I first met Boucicault {170} at Birmingham, where I was specially engaged to act his own part, the counsel for the defence in his drama _The Trial of Effie Deans_. I learnt much from him at the one rehearsal he travelled from London to attend. When about half way through the trial scene he took me aside and told me I was wrong in my treatment of the part, adding: "Let me rehearse the rest of the scene for you, and I am sure you will grasp my own idea of it directly." I saw at once how right he was, how wrong I had been. The result was a considerable success for me. In the early days of our managerial career we produced a comedy of his, _How She Loves Him_--clever, but not one of the best. A situation at the end of an act became very muddled, after being tried at rehearsal in several ways. An idea struck me, which was a distinct improvement, but I hardly dared to interfere with so great an autocrat, kind as he had always been. At last, in despair, I suggested to Boucicault that his original ending of the act was more effective than that he had changed it to. He said: "What was that?" I then boldly explained my own idea as if it were his. No doubt he saw through the strategy, but merely said: "Perhaps you're right," and rewarded my shrewdness by adopting the suggestion.

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When, years afterwards, I asked his consent to my making some alterations in _London Assurance_ and combining the fourth and fifth acts, he replied from Chicago: "Your shape of _London Assurance_ will be, like all you have done, unexceptionable, and I wish I could be there to taste your brew."

[Sidenote: Rest and rust]

Later on, when my wife was taking only a small part in some of our plays, he wrote:

"MY DEAR FRIEND,--Will you feel offended with an old soldier if he intrudes on your plan of battle by a remark?

"Why are the Bancrofts taking a back seat in their own theatre; they efface themselves! Who made the establishment? with whom is it wholly identified? of what materials is it built? There--it's out!

"Tell Marie, with my love, that there is nothing so destructive as _rest_ if persisted in; you must alter the vowel--it becomes _rust_, and eats into life. Hers is too precious to let her fool it away; she is looking splendid, and as fresh as a pat of butter. Why don't you get up a version of _The Country Girl_? Let her play Hoyden and you play Lord Foppington."

Boucicault was a perfect host, a brilliant talker and sympathetic listener. I first dined with him, when a young man, in the delightful {172} company, I remember well, of Charles Reade, J. M. Bellew and Edmund Yates. On the menu was printed: "The wine will be tabled. Every man his own butler. Smiles and self-help." And there was cognac of 1803 from the cellars of Napoleon III. I had many years of unbroken friendship with Boucicault. His final words to me were in a letter from America, following on an illness:

"I doubt whether I shall cross the ocean again. I am rusticating at Washington, having recovered some strength, and am waiting to know if my lease of life is out, or is to be renewed for another term. I have had notice to quit, but am arguing the point ('just like you,' I think I hear you say), and nothing yet is settled between Nature and me."

He was a hard worker, and said his epitaph should be: "Dion Boucicault; his first holiday."

Where shall my pen wander next?

[Sidenote: Montague and Coghlan]

I can revive memories in the old--and tell a little to the young--of actors who became prominent as members of our companies at different times. Let me try to do so. First, there was Harry Montague. Without being an actor of high rank, he had a great value as a _jeune premier_. He was what I heard an American describe as "so easy to look at." His charm {173} of manner made him a special favourite everywhere, and he was the original matinee idol. When in his company he had the gift of making you believe that he had thought but of you since your last parting, and, when he said "good-bye," that you would remain in his memory until you met again.

He was in America, acting in _Diplomacy_, when he died suddenly; as young in years as he always seemed in heart; for he was but midway between thirty and forty, that age upon the border-land when one has to own to being no more young, while resenting for a little while that ambiguous epithet, "middle-aged."

Charles Coghlan was an actor of a higher grade; gifted, cultivated and able: his acting as Alfred Evelyn and Charles Surface in our elaborate revivals of _Money_ and _The School for Scandal_ was of the highest character. It may be interesting to note that when he first joined our company his salary was £9 a week; during his last engagement we paid him £60, which would be doubled now. I asked him once to accompany me on a short holiday abroad, and found him a delightful companion. This was soon after the siege of Paris, when many of the terrible stains left on the fair city's face were sadly visible.

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Coghlan often lived outside London, at places like Elstree and Kingsbury, generally in picturesque old houses. My wife and I rode out to one of them to luncheon. For a time he drove a rather ramshackle four-in-hand, and, naturally, was in constant financial trouble. He ended his career rather recklessly in America, at Galveston, and his body was washed out to sea from the catacombs by a flood. It was afterwards recovered and reburied.

The father of the happily present Dion and Donald Calthrop, a connection of Lord Alverstone, John Clayton (Calthrop) was also a fine actor. His performance in _All for Her_ was of a high order, and he did some admirable work with Irving at the Lyceum. I also recall a remarkable piece of acting on his part in a play, adapted from the French, in which he appeared as a father whose brain was turned by his having accidentally shot his little son. Under our flag, he only acted in _Diplomacy_ and _Caste_. He was then growing fat, and never knew of a strong wish I had to revive the _Merry Wives of Windsor_, with himself as Falstaff. He was otherwise engaged, unfortunately. This was when that brilliant actress Mrs. John Wood was with us, to play with my wife the two Merry Wives, supported by myself as the jealous Mr. Ford--I always found the portrayal {175} of jealousy very amusing--and a troupe of able and suitable comedians.

Clayton gave remarkable performances in the joyous comedies by Pinero at the Court Theatre. He died young.

[Sidenote: Arthur Cecil]

Arthur Cecil comes next to my mind: an amiable gentleman and companion. It was I who, when he was "wobbling," as he did on every subject, induced him to go on the professional stage. He seemed to me to pass a large slice of his life in the effort--or want of effort--to make up his mind on trivial things, and so wasted at least one half of it.

At the dress rehearsal of _Diplomacy_--in which he gave a fine performance of Baron Stein--he appeared with a totally different make-up in each act. They were all clever and appropriate, but we, not he, had to decide for him which was to be finally adopted. He was very devoted to what Sir James Barrie christened "Little Mary." On one occasion, after dining at the Garrick Club, before his evening's work, having finished his meal with a double helping of orange tart, he was leaving the coffee-room, when he saw a friend seated near the door just beginning his dinner. Cecil sat down opposite to him for a few minutes to exchange greetings; he became so restless and agitated at the sight of a dish of stewed eels that at last he dug {176} a fork into a mouthful, saying, "I must," and so wound up his meal. There are several similar stories extant, equally amazing, equally true.

[Sidenote: Henry Kemble]

Our old and staunch friend, Henry Kemble, a descendant of the illustrious stage family whose name he bore, was for years a valued member of our company; a capable but restricted actor, from his peculiarity of diction. My wife christened him "The Beetle," owing to a large brown Inverness cape he wore at night. Many are the amusing stories told of him. He fought the income tax strenuously, and on one occasion, being brought to bay, told the collector that he belonged to a precarious profession, and begged that Her Majesty might be asked not to look upon him as a source of income!

Kemble was well up in Shakespeare, and had a greater knowledge of the Bible than any actor I have known, except one.

This reminds me of a visit paid, at his instigation, on a New Year's Eve, in the company of his close friend, Arthur Cecil, to a midnight service held in one of the big churches. They entered reverently, just before the hour, and were about to kneel, when a verger touched Kemble on the shoulder and said: "I beg your pardon, gentlemen, but this is a service being held for fallen women."

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Kemble suddenly made up his mind to retire from the stage and end his days in Jersey, not in a cloistered cathedral city, as he said would be the case. He, unfortunately, invested his savings in an annuity, as he only lived a few months after doing so. He came to see my wife, to whom he was much attached, to say good-bye, and brought her some fine Waterford glass as a farewell gift. When fatally ill, his last words were written to her on a telegraph form: "All over, dear, dear Lady B. Blessings on you all. Beetle." The doctor who attended him transcribed the words, and sent my wife the tremblingly-written farewell he had penned himself--a touching and kind act.

Another friend and comrade of those days was the humorous Charles Brookfield, son of Canon Brookfield, a distinguished preacher. My wife and I gave the young undergraduate what was practically his first engagement, and he remained a popular member of our company during the whole of our career at the Haymarket. Several of his performances showed marked ability, notably in Sardou's play, _Odette_, and Pinero's comedy, _Lords and Commons_. Many amusing stories are attributed to him. Against the accuracy of one of them I must rebel. It ran in this way: That at a time when Charles Wyndham was appearing {178} in his favourite part of David Garrick, for a run, he was sitting in the club named after the great actor, just under one of his several portraits there, when Brookfield went up to Wyndham and said: "It really seems quite surprising, you grow more like Garrick every day." Wyndham gave a delighted smile; when Brookfield continued, in his peculiar cynical way: "Yes, every day, but less like him every night." A good story; but, unfortunately, Brookfield was never a member of the Garrick Club.

[Sidenote: Charles Brookfield]

I think it was Brookfield who, when a friend asked his advice, saying that a member of a club they frequented having called him a "mangy ass," whether he should appeal to the committee or consult a solicitor, quietly told him he thought it a case for a vet to decide.

He wrote various amusing comedies, and, later on, was appointed by the Lord Chamberlain to be joint examiner of plays.

Brookfield had his serious side, and wrote us the following letter, affectionately signed, when we retired from management:

"The sadness I feel at the prospect of never again working under your management is far too genuine for me to endeavour to convey it {179} by any conventional expressions of regret. Although I have always appreciated your unvarying goodness to me, it is only by the depression of spirits and general apathy which I now experience, that I recognise how much my enjoyment of my profession was affected by the kind auspices under which I had the good fortune to practise it."

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IX

THE STAGE

II

"Pity it is that the animated graces of the player can live no longer than the instant breath and motion that presents them, or at best can but faintly glimmer through the memory of a few surviving spectators."

[Sidenote: Henry Irving]

I will now write of the man who was for many years the chief of the English stage, Henry Irving. He was a born leader and had the magnetism which compels the affection of his comrades; he knew that to be well served meant first to be well beloved. Although denied the advantages of early education, Irving had the learning which colleges may fail to teach; and in his later years would have graced, in manner and in aspect, any position in life. This personal attribute came to him gradually, when, as it were, he had recreated himself. Truth to tell, in the early part of his career he had none of it. In those distant days there was a strong smack of the country actor in his appearance, and a suggestion of a {181} type immortalised by Dickens in Mr. Lenville and Mr. Folair.

We soon became friends and remained so throughout his remarkable career--the most remarkable in many respects that ever befell an actor. He told me an interesting incident of his early life. He was engaged, in the summer of 1867, to act in Paris. The enterprise proved a failure. The little troupe of players was disbanded and returned to London, with the exception of Irving, who, finding himself abroad for the first time, lingered in the bright city for a couple of months. He lived in a garret on a few francs a day, and paid nightly visits to the cheap parts of the theatre. Although he had no knowledge of the language, he was all the while studying the art of acting in its different grades and kinds.

When, in later years, he entertained in his princely fashion eminent foreign artists, in answer to compliments showered upon him in French, he would, without the slightest affectation--a failing from which he was free--answer simply: "I am sure all you are saying is very kind, but I don't understand a word of it."

Soon after his success as Digby Grant in James Albery's comedy, _Two Roses_, shortly before what proved to be the turning-point in his career--his becoming a member of the {182} Lyceum company, then under the Bateman management--I had occasion to see a well-known dramatic agent, who, as I was leaving his office, said: "Oh, by the way, would Henry Irving be of use to you next season? I have reason to believe he would welcome such a change." The question was startling. I replied that I should be delighted, but feared it would be difficult, as Hare, Coghlan and myself would be in his way. How possible it is that a different answer might have influenced future events in theatre-land! Then came his memorable performance in _The Bells_, which gave him fame in a single night, followed by other early triumphs, _Charles the First_ and _Hamlet_.

I once saw Irving on horseback, cantering in the Row on a Sunday afternoon: it was a singular experience. His companion was George Critchett, who gave up his practice one day in the week to hunt instead, and who was as much at home on a horse as Irving was plainly uncomfortable.

Later on, Irving was speaking to me of the success of one of our plays. I answered that in my belief the same could be achieved at the Lyceum (the theatre was not yet under his own management), if money were freely and wisely spent. But wide is the difference {183} between spending and wasting. While the disasters which darkened his brilliant reign were sometimes, it must be conceded, the result of errors of judgment in the choice of plays, had he been in partnership with a capable comrade, to whose guidance he would sometimes have submitted, he might have realised a fortune, instead of allowing several to pass like water through his hands. As an artistic asset, Irving was often wasted and thrown away.

Let me turn for a moment from the stage side of this extraordinary man.

[Sidenote: A toy theatre]

In the gloaming of a Christmas Day, full forty years ago, my wife and I were sitting alone, when, to our amazement, Irving was announced. It was a bolt from the blue. After a pleasant talk, we asked him who was to have the pleasure of giving him his pudding and mince-pie. He answered that he should be all alone in Grafton Street with his dog. We told him that ourselves and our son George, then a small boy, comprised our party, and begged him to join us. Irving gladly said he would. At the time he was acting in _The Corsican Brothers_, of which famous melodrama Master George had his own version in his little model theatre, with an elaborate scene of the duel in the snow, represented by masses of salt smuggled from the kitchen; and this, {184} with managerial pride, he told Irving he would act before him after dinner. To an audience of three the performance was solemnly gone through, being subjected to the criticisms, seriously pronounced and respectfully received, of the great man. I seem to hear his voice crying out: "Light not strong enough on the prompt side, my boy." For years a broken blade of one of the rapiers used in the duel at the Lyceum, given to him by Irving, was among the boy's proud possessions. I daresay he has it still. A memorable Christmas evening!

The idea occurred to me to give a supper to Irving before his first visit to America in 1883, and to let it have a distinctive character by inviting none but actors. Feeling that nowhere could be it so appropriately given as in the Garrick Club, I wrote to my fellow-members of the Committee to ask if, in the special circumstances, it might take place in the dining-room. Greatly to my delight, my request was granted, with the remark, that it was "an honour to the Club." The attractive room, so suitable for the purpose, its walls being lined with the portraits of those whose names recall all that is famous in the great past of our stage, was arranged to accommodate a party of a hundred, of whom there are but very few {185} survivors. A humorous drawing of a supposed wind-up to the supper--Irving, Toole and myself staggering home, arm-in-arm--was among the early successes of Phil May. He made two copies of it. One of the three belonged to King Edward, which I afterwards saw at Sandringham, the others are owned by Pinero and myself.

In acknowledgment of a little present I sent Irving at this time he wrote:

"I shall wear your gift--and a rare one it is--as I wear you, the giver, in my heart. My regard for you is not a fading one. In this world there is not too much fair friendship, is there? And I hope it is a gratification to you--it is to me, old friend--to know that we can count alike upon a friend in sorrow and in gladness."

[Sidenote: "The Dead Heart"]

When Irving contemplated a production of _The Dead Heart_, he flattered me by saying that unless I appeared with him as the Abbé Latour he would not carry out the idea. I was then free from management, and tried to persuade him to let me undertake the part as a labour of love, but he would not listen. After a long talk--neither of us, I remember it all so well, looking at the other, but each gazing separately at different angles into Bond Street {186} from the windows of the rooms he so long occupied at the corner of Grafton Street--he said that I must content him by being specially engaged, on terms which soon were settled.

It was a strange experience to re-enter a theatre to serve instead of to govern; and in one where the policy was so different. My wife and I had so often been content to choose plays without regard to ourselves: the policy of the Lyceum was upon another plane. _The Dead Heart_ is a story of the French Revolution, on the lines of _A Tale of Two Cities_. The best scene in the play was between Irving and myself, in which we fought a duel to the death. A clever drawing of the scene--I regret failing to secure it when it was sold at Christie's--was made by Bernard Partridge. From all I have heard said of it, the fight must have been well done--real, brief, and determined. It was a grim business, in the sombre moonlit room, and forcibly gave the impression that one of the two combatants would not leave it alive. I confess that I had not the courage of Terriss, who found himself in a similar position with Irving when they fought a duel in _The Corsican Brothers_, and boldly attacked his chief by suggesting that a little of the limelight might fall on his side of the stage, as Nature was impartial.

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[Sidenote: A tribute from Irving]