Part 13
"These, however, were, after all, the earlier {223} creations in comedy of an artist destined to do much finer work. Her full powers were proved later on, especially in Peg Woffington. The picture showed traces of the same handiwork; and indeed the audience would never have been satisfied if Marie Bancroft had not set her unmistakeable seal on this character as on others. There was something in the pathos of the main situation, however; something, too, in the exquisite sympathy between Peg and Triplet, which touched the very source of tears. What we saw here was the fulfilment of a promise discerned in her earlier creations, an admirable example of the many-sided presentment of a character, so that it becomes something of daily experience. The humorous eyes, the sensitive mouth, the face ever ready to suggest laughter and fun, the attractive little touches of temperament and feeling--those had come together to form a beautiful presentment of a gracious and affectionate being, who could help others in their distress, because she herself had come through deep waters.
"There is one point which it would be wrong to pass over without comment. There is sometimes talk of jealousy between artists. Of the spirit of emulation, the spirit of ambition, the desire to do the best possible under the given conditions--of these, which are part and parcel of a noble nature, Marie Bancroft had her full share. But it was always noticed that {224} she had no touch of professional jealousy. She often sank her own importance as an actress, cheerfully taking a small part. Both she and you had made up your minds not to allow consideration of your own parts to bias your judgment in the refusal or acceptance of plays. You judged the plays on their merits--not on the ground that parts in them would or would not suit either of you. With the utmost readiness Marie Bancroft played second parts to Madame Modjeska, to Mrs. John Wood, to Mrs. Patrick Campbell, as well as to Mrs. Kendal and to Ellen Terry. Self-abnegation of this kind is sufficiently rare to be worthy of comment. Its value, is, of course, obvious. Without it some of your most successful productions would never have been given.
"Many critics, especially young ones, are inclined to decry the value of Robertson's plays; but the fact remains that, with those comedies as your material, Marie Bancroft and you initiated a revolution in English drama. In those plays she rejoiced in characters exactly suited to her genius, characters to which she could give all her laughter and sense of fun, in creating personalities which will always live in the memories of those who saw them. She not only acted; she possessed that constructive instinct which enabled her to pass judgment on and vastly to improve the comedies submitted to her. Of this, there is no better example than what happened with {225} Charles Reade's play, _Masks and Faces_, when Reade, moved to tears by her performance of the ending which at one rehearsal she substituted for that which he had written, very wisely gave way to the superior imaginative perception of Marie Bancroft, the actress of Peg Woffington.
[Sidenote: Personality]
"In final retrospect, we come back to the 'curious eyes' and the laughter-provoking face which Macready discovered. In all arts we have to recognise the personal element, which makes the work of one man so different from that of another. We do not mistake the inimitable touch of a Millais or confuse it with that of a Sargent. We do not read a page of Henry James and imagine that it could have been written by George Meredith. In the same way an actor portraying a character puts into it so much of himself that we contrast his representation with that of another actor--quite as good, perhaps, but of a different quality. This element of personality is called 'style,' and it is by style that an artist lives and betrays his or her idiosyncrasy. And no one had a more appealing style than Marie Bancroft, who could do with our hearts what she pleased. The roguish eyes, the inimitable smile, the sense of humour, the joy of living--all those were hers; and it was by some wonderful combination of all dramatic gifts that she won her complete and perfect triumph. Those (alas! now how few) who in old days {226} sat spellbound, as they saw her winning the palms of victory in many a famous play, will confess with unbounded gratitude how much of happy memory they owe to the grace, the skill, the charm, the sympathy of Marie Bancroft.
"Yours sincerely, "W. L. COURTNEY."
The second tribute is from Arthur Pinero:
"MY DEAR B.,
"It is my firm belief that the most ardent and persistent lover of the drama, after a long life of playgoing, and when the footlights illuminating his own private and personal drama are beginning to burn low, can, if he be honest with himself, count his red-letter nights in the theatre, at a liberal estimate, on the fingers of both hands. Such is the case with me at any rate. Many distinguished and moving performances, memorable in their way, have I witnessed; but the real, unmistakeable red-letter nights--heart and brain clutching--how few! Some premieres at the old Lyceum, under the management of the Batemans and, subsequently, of Irving himself, two or three representations at the Théâtre Français--notably Mounet Sully's acting, as it was thirty years ago, in _Œdipe Roi_--Duse's earliest appearance in England in _La Dame aux {227} Camélias_; to recall these things gives one a catch in the breath--these and the first time I saw Marie Wilton as 'Polly Eccles.'
[Sidenote: A red-letter night]
"This particular red-letter night happened at the Standard Theatre in Shoreditch in, I think, August, 1873. (You, in whose honour a University should create the degree of Master of Dates, so curious, so infallible--occasionally, to the ladies, so disconcerting--is your memory, will correct me if I am wrong as to the month or year.) The company of the dainty little Prince of Wales's Theatre had carried their delicate art to that not too salubrious quarter of the town, and were delighting the East-enders in Robertson's _Caste_. Nowadays it is the critical habit to sniff at Robertson and his simple, humane comedies; but the work of a writer for the stage should be judged in relation to the period which produced it, and, so judged, Robertson was a man of vision and courage. There is no dramatist now writing, 'advanced' or otherwise, who is not in a measure indebted to Robertson. But how lucky he was in the people who interpreted him! Take _Caste_, for instance. Lydia Foote--her appealing 'Esther Eccles' was approached in later years only by Olga Brandon in a revival of the piece at the Criterion--the highly capable Mrs. Leigh Murray, the unctuous Honey, John Hare, most refined of miniaturists, the fascinating Coghlan--who had succeeded Frederick Younge, whom I never {228} saw, as 'George D'Alroy'---yourself as 'Hawtree'--a monumental picture of Swelldom, unequalled, in its combination of grotesqueness and good breeding, by any stage Swell of my time--even Sothern's 'Dundreary' couldn't touch your 'Hawtree'--and, above and beyond you all, the glorious actress who used to figure in the playbills as 'Miss Marie Wilton (Mrs. Bancroft),' and was to become Lady Bancroft; what a wonderful--what an unmatchable--troupe!
[Sidenote: "Enter Polly"]
"That red-letter night in unsavoury Shoreditch! Outside the theatre, the thick air of a warm evening, presently to be fouled by the fumes of the naphtha lamps of the gutter tradesmen; the incessant bawling of those gentry; the garish display of cheap wares in the shop-windows; the jostling and shoving of the loiterers on the pavement; and the sensation of complete happiness, almost choking in its intensity, because one was going to the play! And the fight for a front seat in the pit; the contentment, after a terrific struggle resulting in a torn jacket and the limpest of shirt-collars, at finding oneself in possession of about eight inches of bare board; and the settling down to enjoy the blended odours, peculiar to the popular theatre of that day, of gas and stale orange-peel, than which no more agreeable smell could greet the nostrils of a stage-struck youth! Then the tuning-up by the orchestra--joyful discord--and the unheeded playing of a {229} 'selection'; and then the rising of the curtain, the sudden hush of voices, and lo! there is the poor, shabby room on the ground-floor of the lodging-house in Stangate! George appears, followed by Hawtree; they talk, and I wonder that their talk should be so different from the talk I had heard in other plays; then comes 'Papa Eccles,' who 'can tell a real gentleman with half a sov'; then, when Papa, the half-sovereign in his dirty fist, has shuffled away to meet a friend round the corner, Esther steals in; and then--oh, then!--'Enter Polly, D.R.H.,' as the stage direction says, and in a moment the audience is enraptured by the brightest, freshest, sweetest little woman that ever gladdened ears and eyes in or out of a playhouse!
"Those, my dear B., who can remember Lady Bancroft in the plenitude of her powers, the fulness of her witchery, are--I speak feelingly--rapidly growing fewer and fewer; and it is with the aim, I suppose, of conveying an impression of what she was at the time I mention, and for at least a decade afterwards, to the theatre-lovers of to-day--who saw her, if they saw her at all, when age had begun to weigh upon her--and to the theatre-lovers of the future, that you are inviting two or three men, old enough so to remember her, and who yet linger more or less actively on the scene, to contribute to your forthcoming book. Phew! A pretty difficult task, unless one employs {230} language which in modern slang I understand is called 'mushy.' In the first place, of course, she knew her business to her finger-tips. That a practitioner of any of the arts should have known his or her business is frequently remarked in disparagement. Great artists, however, will take care to include a knowledge of their business--i.e. of the tricks of their trade--among other accomplishments, one of the latter being the faculty for hiding those tricks from the public. Lady Bancroft knew her business--and other people's; that is, though a born comedian, she could, if her physique had allowed of it, have 'gone on,' in theatrical phrase, for Lady Macbeth, or Juliet, or Ophelia, and have triumphed. (In fact, occasionally, she did 'go on' for parts for which she was hardly physically suited, and perhaps it was a pity she didn't do so oftener. She would have been forgiven.) And her experience, commencing in babyhood, and her innate cleverness, had taught her how, while keeping strictly within the picture-frame, to button-hole, as it were, each individual member of the audience. The man on the farthest bench of the topmost gallery, as well as the man in the stalls, was flattered by her skill into believing that she was acting specially for him. I myself have watched her act from the sixpenny gallery of a large theatre--that same Standard in Shoreditch, the pit being beyond my means for a second visit--and felt that she was so {231} near to me that by stretching out my hand I could have grasped hers. As for her laugh, I won't--I daren't--attempt to describe it, because I should have to say that at one moment it was like the trill of a singing-bird, at another that it seemed not to be the music of her throat, but to bubble up from her very soul; and that, though gospel-truth, would be too terribly mushy. Nor her speaking-voice, because, again, I should have to say that it had something of the quality of the note of the purest of silver bells; nor her eyes, because in mirth they twinkled--thrice-hackneyed simile!--like twin stars, and in expressing sorrow resembled the little rain-pools when the sun has come out after a summer shower; and to say anything of the sort, while it would be equally true, would also be mushy to an insupportable degree. But I will say, because it is just a trifle less trite and banal, and because to do her justice it ought to be said, that the secret and source of her genius lay not in her artistry--which was consummate--but in _herself_. She was a fine, warm-hearted creature, and her acting was a reflection of the glow of her innermost nature.
[Sidenote: The secret of genius]
"Patches of shadow becloud every career, however brilliant. The tragedy of Lady Bancroft's career was that after Robertson's death no dramatist arose who could, or would, provide her with material worthy of her talent. For years, therefore, she retained her hold {232} upon the public mainly by her 'Polly' in _Caste_, 'Naomi Tighe' in _School_, and 'Mary Netley' in _Ours_. From time to time she acted in new pieces by other authors, which lacked the attraction of Robertson at his best; and then, after giving us a captivating Lady Teazle, and delighting us in revivals of some other old comedies, in order to extend the repertory of the theatre she gallantly subordinated herself, when policy demanded it, to playing parts of minor importance. Towards the end, spurred by a surviving ambition into trying to make bricks without straw--and it must be confessed that she made sounder bricks without straw than did many an actress who was supplied with stacks of that commodity--she took to applying her ready wit to 'writing up' the tiny parts she was condemned to play, until at last her rare appearances became not so much those of an actress engaged in impersonating a character as of a charming lady determined at all costs to be amusing.
"But she had done enough long before then to win a place in stage history with the most illustrious of the comic actresses of the past. Margaret Woffington, Kitty Clive, Frances Abington and Dorothea Jordan had a legitimate successor in Marie Wilton.
"Thank you for letting me join in your tribute to her.
"Devotedly yours, till my chair is empty,
"ARTHUR PINERO."
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[Sidenote: Truth to nature]
The third tribute is from Johnston Forbes-Robertson:
"MY DEAR B,
"It is a great privilege to comply with your wish. It was in 1878 that I first met Lady Bancroft. She was then about to retire for a holiday from the part of Zicka in _Diplomacy_. A year later I had the good fortune to meet her on the stage when you engaged me to act in _Ours_. In the following year I moved with the celebrated company from the Prince of Wales's to the Haymarket Theatre, which had been transformed by you into the most beautiful theatre in London. Here I was cast for a part in _School_: hence it is my proud boast that I acted with Marie Bancroft in her prime, and was in personal touch with Mary Netley and Naomi Tighe!
"Alas! it is not in me to convey to the present generation the powers of this incomparable actress. The winsomeness, the cajolery, the sprightly vivacity, the joyousness, and the tenderness of it all! Every note could she play upon, and never was any note forced. The means by which she attained these varied and subtle emotions were not to be traced. All appeared so simple, so illusive, that it came home to one as being absolutely true to nature. She was complete mistress of all the resources of her art, and yet those resources were never laid bare, never discoverable {234} by the onlooker. Every movement was simple, direct and natural; every intonation and inflection true; every word that fell from her lips clean cut and distinct. No matter how rapidly a passage was delivered, she was heard even to the farthest seat of the largest theatre.
"Polly Eccles! Why, the very thought of the name makes my face pucker with smiles, and it must be bordering on fifty years ago when first she bewitched me in the part! Yes, 'bewitching Marie Wilton' was a phrase common amongst us in those days, and in truth the witchery was there in full measure, and to overflowing.
"Still in my mind is the beautiful farewell to her on the day when her mortal remains were laid to rest. I was very proud at finding myself one of the four intimate friends chosen to pay their last respects at her burial; and when, towards the close of the memorial service at St. Martin-in-the-Fields which immediately followed it, that inspired man delivered the farewell address (quite the most beautiful of the many I have heard), I was shaken with a deep emotion even to tears.
"Ever your affectionate friend, "J. FORBES-ROBERTSON."
I will restrict myself to writing of her in one play only, and will choose W. S. Gilbert's dramatic contrast _Sweethearts_--which, by the way, I had the good fortune to name.
{235}
[Sidenote: "Sweethearts"]
No play of its length has ever excited more attention than _Sweethearts_. Pages could be filled with the chorus of praise which swelled from the press. One leading critic wrote that Gilbert had determined to test talent by a most difficult stage exercise; and that my wife had been able to prove the studied grace and polished elegance of her dramatic scholarship. From the subject set to her, called _Sweethearts_, she produced the poem of "Jenny." The success of the creation was complete. No striking or unusually clever writing, no wit, or epigram, or quaint expression of words, no telling scene, or passionate speech, taken separately or in combination, could account for the impression made by the actress. The audience was fascinated by the detail of the portrait, as charming in youth as it was beautiful in age.
An accomplished judge of acting, well acquainted with the European stage, after our retirement from management, said of my wife: "In my humble opinion, the gem of her repertoire is _Sweethearts_, next to that, _Masks and Faces_ and _Caste_." Ellen Terry has written that her performance in _Sweethearts_ was unapproachable.
More perfect acting, I venture to say, has not been seen upon our stage. The _ars celare {236} artem_ was at its highest and best; there were tones and touches, hints and suggestions, which were marvellous in the wealth of meaning they conveyed. Of her acting, indeed, it might be said, as one of our old poets proclaimed of the face of his mistress:
"'Tis like the milky way i' the sky, A meeting of gentle lights without a name!"
I have seen all the finest acting available to me in the last seventy years--since my boyhood--and still delight in the enjoyment of the stage. I can summon noble phantoms from the past, and dwell gladly upon the experiences of more recent days. After searching thought, the most critical remembrance, I can recall no acting more perfect, in my judgment, than my wife's performances in _Sweethearts_. The creatures of the different acts were, from the first line to the last, absolutely distinct, but equally complete; the one, a portrait of impetuous girlhood, the other of calm maturity. There was not, throughout, one movement of the body, one tone of the voice, one look on the speaking face, to change or amend. There was nothing, it seemed to me, that could in any way be bettered. There shone throughout those gleams of genius which in all art are priceless.
{237}
[Sidenote: In peace and war]
The parts she played upon the stage were the sweet romance of life, but she was ever ready to face its stern realities; and I was proud of her record in the Great War. In spite of advanced years and broken health, she lived through it, with brief absences only, and without a murmur, on the shore of the sea, with all its alarms and risks; but, then, I have always known her to be brave, even when her life was in danger. She was unsparing in hospitality--I recall an occasion when she had the pleasant company of General Sir Arthur Sloggett and Edward Knoblock, who were hung up with their men for the night at Folkestone--and untiring in organising and leading in amusements, helped by her interest in those who were spared, and those who were maimed and wounded, and by the remembrance of those who rest in the grave-fields of Flanders and France, or lie deep down under the sea.
By her own written request, the hour and place of her funeral were kept secret, and were only known to immediate members of her family and four friends who were chosen to represent the calling she had loved and served. These four friends were Arthur Pinero, Johnston Forbes-Robertson, Arthur Chudleigh and Gerald du Maurier.
The funeral was conducted by her friend and {238} mine, the Reverend W. H. Elliott, the Vicar of Holy Trinity, Folkestone, who delivered the Address at the Memorial Service which, immediately afterwards, was held at the Church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields by Canon Edgar Sheppard.
[Sidenote: The spirit of the artist]
This was the address to which Forbes-Robertson refers in his tribute; and I ask the reader, as a favour to myself, not to pass it by.
"We have come together to remember before God one who, having played her part bravely and earnestly in this scene that men call life, is now hidden from us by the curtain that men call death. We do so in the sure and certain hope that what we know of life here is only the First Act in a great eternal drama, of the which the end is not yet. So often we feel, as one by one our friends depart in this mystery of death, that the curtain has fallen upon a tale that is only half told, its problems unsolved, its meaning undisclosed, its virtues unrewarded. But the play is not done. We wait as Christians for the hour when, at the sounding of celestial trumpets, this great curtain shall uproll once again and reveal to our amazed eyes that last tremendous scene, in which all things shall be made new. Such is death. It is a pause--that is all--and one that does but make more wonderful the music of an endless life.