Chapter 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.

{187}

[Sidenote: A tribute from Irving]

One night during the hundred and sixty on which _The Dead Heart_ was acted, when we had acknowledged the applause which followed the duel, Irving put his arm round me as we walked up the stage together, and said: "What a big name you might have made for yourself had you never come across those Robertson plays! What a pity, for your own sake; for no actor can be remembered long who does not appear in the classical drama."

I fear egotism is getting the better of me. Irving once said:

"One point must strike all in connection with Bancroft's career--before he left the Haymarket, at the age of forty-four, he was the senior theatrical manager of London. In conjunction with that gifted lady who was the genius of English comedy, he popularised a system of management which has dominated our stage ever since, and the principle of which may be described as the harmony of realism and art."

It is to be much regretted that no really satisfactory portrait of Irving exists. The one painted by Millais, and given by him to the Garrick Club in 1884, is a beautiful work of art, but, to my mind, somewhat effeminate in its {188} beauty. A portrait by Sargent, painted when Irving was fifty, and exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1888, was amazingly clever, but a somewhat painful likeness. The great painter showed something in the great actor--as he so often does in his sitters--which his gifted and searching eyes could not help seeing, and which, once having been shown, you cannot afterwards help seeing always. Irving hated the portrait, and when it was taken from the walls of the Academy it was never seen again. I heard Irving, at my table, tell Sir Edward Poynter that he hid it away in a garret, and when he left the old Grafton Street chambers, his solitary home for many years, he hacked the canvas to shreds with a knife. What a treasure lost!

Irving's hospitality was unbounded. At one of his many parties I recollect his saying to Frank Lockwood, when he was Solicitor-General: "The fortunate actor is the actor who works hard." He then pointed across the table to me, and added: "Look at that fellow, and remember what hard work meant in his case. 'B' is the only actor since Garrick who made a fortune purely by management of his own theatre--I mean without the aid of provincial tours and visits to America." After a pause he continued: "But he has paid the {189} penalty of leaving his best work as an actor undone."

[Sidenote: Knighthood]

It will ever be remembered that Henry Irving was the first actor to receive from his Sovereign the honour of State recognition: so placing his calling on a level with the rest, no more to be looked at askance, but recognised as leading to a share of the distinctions enjoyed by his fellow-men.

For a year or more before the end it was manifest to those who loved him that the sword had worn out the scabbard--it hung so listlessly by his side. This I strongly realised the last time he sat at our table, and was struck by his plaintive manner to my wife and to me. He then had a flat in Stratton Street, and left us at midnight, saying that he must be home before the lift ceased running or he would have to be carried upstairs.

In affectionate remembrance I close my tribute to Henry Irving. His remarkable career has taken its place in the history of his country, for he was one of the leaders of men who earned the privilege, given to but few, to become the property of the world.

It may also be truly said of Irving, as of one of the most distinguished of his predecessors: "He who has done a single thing that others never forget, and feel ennobled whenever they {190} think of, need not regret his having been, and may throw aside this fleshly coil like any other worn-out part, grateful and contented."

Although I knew and loved them from their boyhood, I find it difficult to write of Irving's sons, being, as they were, so overpowered by the dominant personality of the father.

[Sidenote: "H.B." and Laurence]

They both went to Marlborough. "H.B." afterwards to New College, Oxford. Laurence left school for Paris, to perfect his knowledge of French, his ambition and inclination being the diplomatic service. He then passed some three years in Russia, acquiring mastery of the difficult language. Unhappily, his wished-for career had to be abandoned for want of the imperative funds. "H.B." was called to the Bar, but lacked the necessary patience, and so abandoned a profession, as was thought by many competent judges, in which he was eminently qualified to take a high position; while his "hobby" until the end was criminology, and he wrote remarkable books on that fascinating subject.

Both sons drifted on to the stage. Before that step was taken I had seen "H.B." at Oxford give a striking performance, for one so young, of _King John_.

Later on, I had no wish to see him act a long round of his father's old parts.

{191}

Towards the end of the War he left his work at the Savoy Theatre and devoted himself to hard work in the Intelligence Department at the Admiralty, which proved to be a great strain upon him. We met frequently at that time, by appointment, at the Athenæum, hard by, and had luncheon together, as he did with his close friend, E. V. Lucas. It was manifest then that his fatal illness had begun.

Laurence was a more frequent guest of ours than Harry, especially at Christmas time, having no children to command his presence at home; he was not so trammelled on the stage as his brother; it was easier for him to escape from perpetual reminders. The performances I remember best on his part are his high-class acting in _Typhoon_ and the admirable drawing of a character he played in _The Incubus_, who is, in point of fact, his mistress and has become sadly in the way. My wife and I saw the play together from a stage box, and were much amused at the end of it by a conversation between what we took to be a young married couple in the stalls, just beneath us.

The girl said: "Good play, isn't it?" The man answered: "Capital. I've only one fault to find with it." "What's that?" "Title." "Title, why it's a perfect title." The man: "Rotten title--it's nothing about an incubus." {192} The girl: "It's all about an incubus." The man: "The thing was never once mentioned." The girl, in amazement: "What is an incubus?" The man: "Why, one of those things in which they hatch chickens."

The sons died at an age that is not closed to hope and promise, which now must be handed on to another generation--Laurence and Elizabeth, the children of Harry Irving, both gifted with good looks and charm. The boy distinguished himself during the War in the Air Force and now shows promise as a painter. My love descends to them.

[Sidenote: J. L. Toole]

Extremes meet; they always do and always will. The closest friend Henry Irving had was J. L. Toole. The strong affection between the two men, which lasted until the end, began when Toole was making a name on the stage in Edinburgh and Irving only a beginner. The famous comedian belonged, as it were, to "the City," and was educated at the City of London School. He was a close second to Sothern in inventing practical jokes, generally harmless, and would take as infinite pains to carry them through. I remember a silly story he loved to tell, how, after a bad baccarat night at Aix-les-Bains, he went to the bank to draw money on his letter of credit. Tapping at the _guichet_, he inquired of the clerk in feeble, {193} broken English how much the bank would advance upon a gold-headed cane which he carried. As might be expected, the little window was slammed in his face. Nothing daunted, Toole made his way to the market-place hard by, and bought from various stalls some small fish, a bunch of carrots, and a child's toy; he then returned to the bank and arranged his purchases on the counter, with the addition of his watch, a half-franc piece and a penknife. When all was ready he again tapped at the window, and, in a tremulous voice, implored the clerk to accept these offerings in pledge for the small sum needed to save him from starvation. The clerk indignantly requested Toole to leave the establishment, explaining, in the best English at his command, that the bank only made advances upon letters of credit. At the last-named word Toole broke into smiles, and, producing his letter of credit, handed it to the astonished clerk, with the explanation that he would have offered it at first had he thought the bank cared about it, but the porter at his hotel had emphatically told him the bankers of Aix preferred fish.

Toole was never the same after the painful death of his son: he became more and more a slave to "late hours," but was still a delightful, {194} buoyant companion, beloved by his comrades and friends.

Wilson Barrett was a good actor of the robust type. He had an adventurous career: sometimes high on the wave of success, at others deep down in the trough of the sea of failure, but always strictly honourable. At the old Princess's Theatre, in Oxford Street, he made large sums by good dramas like _The Silver King_ and _The Lights of London_, and lost them through the failures of ambitious efforts, which included a youthful _Hamlet_, to be wiped out in turn by the enormous success of _The Sign of the Cross_, a religious drama that appealed to a large public which rarely entered theatres. The play provoked Bernard Shaw to say that Wilson Barrett could always bring down the house with a hymn, and had so evident a desire to personate the Messiah that we might depend upon seeing him crucified yet.

[Sidenote: William Terriss]

A restless, untamable spirit was born in William Terriss. He tried various callings before settling down to the one for which he was so eminently fitted. He embarked in the mercantile marine, but the craze only lasted a fortnight. Then came tea-planting in China. The next experiment was made in medicine, to be followed by an attack upon engineering. {195} He then positively bluffed me into giving him an engagement, and made his appearance on the stage. Suddenly he decided to go sheep farming in the Falkland Islands. He made an early marriage, and his beloved Ellaline was born there. Of course he soon came back; returned to and left the stage again; next to Kentucky to try horse-breeding. Another failure brought him to his senses. Five years after he had first adopted the stage he was an actor in earnest and became one of its greatest favourites.

His career was chiefly identified with the Lyceum and the Adelphi; but he first became prominent by his acting as Thornhill in _Olivia_, under Hare's management at the Court Theatre. His bright, breezy nature was a tonic, and, like his daughter and her husband, Seymour Hicks, he carried sunshine about with him and shed it on all he met. He was as brave as a lion and as graceful as a panther.

Alas! one Saturday evening the town was horrified as the tragic news quickly spread that Terriss had been fatally stabbed by a malignant madman as he was entering the Adelphi Theatre to prepare for his evening's work. At his funeral there was an extraordinary manifestation of public sympathy.

Lionel Monckton told me a curious story of {196} how when he reached home he found that a clock which Terriss gave him had stopped at the hour of the murder.

However briefly, I must record grateful thanks for past enjoyment given us by Corney Grain, as great a master in his branch of art as that friend of my youth, John Parry. His odd name was often wrongly thought to be assumed, as was that of a dramatist of those days, Stirling Coyne, who rejoiced in the nickname of "Filthy Lucre."

I always remember the stifled laughter of my wife and Corney Grain, who was present with ourselves at a dinner party, when a distinguished foreigner, accredited by Spain to the Court of St. James, was announced by a nervous manservant as the "Spanish Ham..."--a long pause being followed by a trembling sotto voce--"bassador."

[Sidenote: "Gee Gee" and "Wee Gee"]

George Grossmith, the elder--"Gee Gee"--is of course best remembered by his long connection with the Gilbert and Sullivan operas. To their great success he contributed a share of which he was justly proud. After he left the Savoy Theatre he toured as an entertainer, with excellent financial results, both here and from two visits to the United States. When he returned for the second time, I remember his saying to me, in his funny, {197} plaintive way: "Do you know, my dear 'B,' things are really very sad. The first time I came back from America I found myself spoken of as 'Weedon Grossmith's brother,' and now, after my second visit, I am only 'George Grossmith's father.'"

I have always looked upon Weedon Grossmith--"Wee Gee"--as an admirable actor, and his death as bringing a personal loss, having valued his friendship and his company. On the stage I best remember him in Pinero's comedies, _The Cabinet Minister_ and _The Amazons_, in _A Pantomime Rehearsal_, and, towards the end of his career, in a remarkable performance of a demented odd creature, who believed himself to be the great Napoleon. My wife was so impressed by the acting that she wrote to our little friend about it in a way which delighted him beyond words. Weedon was educated as a painter, and became an exhibitor at the Academy and other galleries. I have two charming examples from his brush, which I bought at Christie's.

The Great War dealt severe blows to the stage, many a young life of promise being taken. The toll was heavy; but they are honoured always by their comrades and remembered for their valour, as are those who served so bravely and survived. During those {198} terrible years the stage also lost E. S. Willard, Lewis Waller, Herbert Tree, William Kendal and George Alexander--all men in the front rank; every one hard to replace.

I associate Willard with his success in _The Silver King_, and afterwards in Henry Arthur Jones's plays, _The Middleman_ and _Judah_. In these he had a prosperous career through the United States--as in the part in which I best remember him--the old man in Barrie's comedy, _The Professor's Love Story_, a charming piece of artistic work. He owed a modest fortune to the appreciation he met with in America.

Willard had an ambition to build a theatre at the top of Lower Regent Street, where the County Fire Office, so long a London landmark, stood; but, granting the site to have been available, it had no depth: the theatre could only have been erected on a part of the Regent Palace Hotel, and reached by burrowing under the road--so far as my architectural knowledge serves me. With the demolition of the County Fire Office the last fragment of the old colonnade disappeared, which, I remember, in my boyhood extended on both sides of the Quadrant from the Circus to Vigo Street.

Early retirement from management prevented intimacy with several prominent actors, who otherwise might have been associated {199} with our work. For instance, Lewis Waller was only once our guest, as things happened. Of his acting, my wife and I were among the warm admirers. The first play in which he commanded our attention was _The Profligate_, which Pinero wrote for Hare when his management of the Garrick Theatre began. One recalls with admiration his acting as Hotspur, Brutus, Faulconbridge, and King Henry V.

I am sorry I did not know him better, or see more of him. He was a great loss to the stage he loved.

[Sidenote: Too many windows]

It was, naturally, a satisfaction to my wife, as to me, when Herbert Tree became our successor at the Haymarket. We felt the future of the theatre to be secure for a while, and that its traditions would be worthily maintained. He did all sorts of good work there, ranging from _Hamlet_ and _Henry V_ to _The Dancing Girl_ and _Trilby_, until he was responsible for building its beautiful opposite neighbour, the present His Majesty's Theatre, where he migrated. During its erection I was walking one day on the opposite side with Comyns Carr, who asked me what I thought of it. He seemed to be greatly amused by my answer: "Too many windows to clean."

Good fortune continued to smile upon the smaller house under the joint management of {200} Frederick Harrison and Cyril Maude. Much of its deserved success was due, in those days, to the art of Winifred Emery, which was then approaching its best, before cruel disease came in the plenitude of her powers and robbed her of that very front position which is reached by so few, and which I think she would surely have attained in her maturity.

Herbert Tree was for many years a power and an authority upon our stage: he rendered its alluring profession great service. I still trust in the hope that successors may be found with something of his splendid courage, his boundless imagination, to follow in his firmest footsteps and leave as memorable marks.

In private life he was an amusing creature, a delightful companion, a perfect host. It was once said of him, not altogether without truth, that he walked in a dream, talked in a dream, ate in a dream, drank in a dream, smoked in a dream, and acted in a dream.

He had enormous energy in starting things, but less strength in carrying his ideas through: he grew tired quickly through his love of change.

I will end with a comic note, for which I am indebted to Pinero. It so happened that the names of Arthur Pinero and Herbert Tree were announced for knighthood in the same Honours {201} List. A man who was an old friend of both wrote a letter of felicitation to each of them; but unfortunately he put his letters into the wrong envelopes. The one Pinero received was as follows: "My dear Tree. Hearty congratulations. You ought to have had it long ago. But why Pinero?" The distinguished dramatist sent this letter to the distinguished actor with the necessary explanation, and in return had from him the note intended for himself. This was it: "My dear Pinero. Hearty congratulations. You ought to have had it long ago. But why Tree?"

[Sidenote: The Kendals]

"Will" Kendal, until he "passed into the night," chanced to be my oldest theatrical friend. We first met at Birmingham, in our early struggling days, and not again until he had planted his feet firmly at the Haymarket. Mrs. Kendal I knew in the following year, when we acted together in the country. She was Madge Robertson then, and a "flapper" of fifteen, already foreshadowing her brilliant future. After the Kendals married, my wife and I had the great advantage of their services in our company for two seasons. When, later on, their successful partnership with Hare came to an end, they travelled much in America, where they became special favourites and amassed a large fortune.

{202}

Kendal was an actor in the foremost rank, being trained by some years of hard work in the provincial "stock companies," as we of the "old brigade" all were. There were certain parts he played to perfection. I never saw his equal as Captain Absolute in _The Rivals_, young Marlow in _She Stoops to Conquer_, and Charles Courtly in _London Assurance_.

It must be full five and forty years since George Alexander called upon my wife one Sunday afternoon with a letter of introduction from our dear friend, Sir Morell Mackenzie. We were sorry, for all our sakes, that we could only offer him encouragement. He had much in his favour; was acting with a travelling company in the Robertson comedies, and warmly recommended for a London engagement, which he soon received from Irving at the Lyceum. Many pleasant tributes from Ellen Terry were paid to him during his stay there, and he rendered yeoman service to his chief. Alexander's long and successful management of the St. James's Theatre was beyond reproach, and for years gave stability to the stage and good repute to those who worked with him. He was a staunch friend to English dramatists and produced plays written by Arthur Pinero, Henry Arthur Jones, Alfred Sutro, Anthony Hope, Claude Carton, Haddon Chambers, Louis {203} Parker, Stephen Phillips, Oscar Wilde, and Henry James: a worthy record.

[Sidenote: "Mrs. Tanqueray"]

The finest feather in Alexander's managerial cap--his _panache_--was the production of Pinero's great play, _The Second Mrs. Tanqueray_. He alone had the courage--a quality most essential in theatrical enterprise--to risk what thirty years ago was a dangerous undertaking, the truth and humanity of the play, which has kept it vigorously alive, being at the time of its production lost sight of in the sensation caused by the selection of such a daring scheme and subject for the stage. That fears existed for the success of the play on that score may now excite wonder in the minds of the present advanced generation.

The part of Paula has been a vehicle for the widely differing genius and conceptions of so many eminent actresses--Mrs. Patrick Campbell, Duse, Jane Hading, Mrs. Kendal, Miss Gladys Cooper, and numerous other distinguished foreigners--that special interest attaches to the curious incidents surrounding the first production of the play and the original casting of the heroine.

The play was in the first instance offered to Hare, who very decidedly refused it. On Hare's rejection, it was offered to Alexander, who, though greatly impressed by its strength, {204} also, but reluctantly, declined it. Pinero then proposed to Alexander that he should do the play at a _matinée_, without being asked for any author's fee. This proposal was agreed to; and the play was announced for a series of morning performances. It happened, however, that Alexander's forthcoming production was _Liberty Hall_, a comedy written by Claude Carton, who, not unnaturally, represented to Alexander that the performances of _The Second Mrs. Tanqueray_ in the afternoons might militate against the success of the regular evening bill. (An odd little coincidence is that one of the characters in _Liberty Hall_ was originally named Tanqueray--a name which Carton, out of consideration for Pinero, changed to Harringay.) Alexander thereupon undertook that, if Pinero would release him from his agreement to give morning performances of _The Second Mrs. Tanqueray_, he would at the earliest opportunity put the play into the evening bill. In these circumstances the play was produced towards the end of the season of 1893.

[Sidenote: The first Paula]

In the ordinary course the original Paula would have been Winifred Emery, but the expected arrival of one of her daughters robbed her of the chance. The choice at the time was very limited, actresses of prominence all being engaged. It happened, however, {205} that at the Adelphi a young and handsome lady of no long stage experience, named Mrs. Patrick Campbell, was acting in a drama by G. R. Sims. There were doubts whether the methods of an actress who had graduated at the Adelphi were suitable to the St. James's, but Pinero suggested to Alexander that they should see what impression she produced upon them in a talk with her in a room. The interview took place, and after it Pinero told Alexander that, if she would act on the stage as she talked in his office, he felt pretty sure that she was the woman for the part. But her engagement was dependent on her release by the management of the Adelphi. Word promptly came that this was refused, and once more the author of the play and the manager of the St. James's were up to their necks in difficulties. Pinero then proposed to Alexander that he should wind up the matter by engaging Miss Elizabeth Robins, who had lately made a striking success in Ibsen's _Hedda Gabler_, and he proceeded to do so.

As was the custom then, the date and hour were fixed for the author to read his play to the actors and actresses who were to represent it. Alexander was engaged to have luncheon that day in Portland Place, and Pinero arranged to call for him on his way to the theatre. As {206} he drove up in a hansom, Alexander came out of the house in a state of great excitement, crying out: "We can get Mrs. Campbell!"

It appeared that he had only just heard from her that, thanks to pressure put upon them by G. R. Sims, the managers of the Adelphi had consented to release her. On reaching the St. James's Theatre, Pinero said to Alexander: "Look here; this is your job. I will go for a walk in St. James's Park and come back in half an hour to read my play either to Miss Robins or Mrs. Campbell, as it may turn out."

Alexander went to his room, rang the bell, asked if Miss Robins had arrived, and on learning that she was in the theatre requested her to come and see him. She soon entered, holding the book of the play. Alexander told her that an unexpected condition of things had arisen. He would put his cards on the table. Did Miss Robins know that the part of Paula had been first offered to Mrs. Campbell, who, in fact, had been engaged to play it? He was answered: "Yes." Alexander then said: "She has been set free, and is in the theatre. What am I to do?"

Pointing to the book in her hand, Miss Robins replied: "Mr. Alexander, this is the chance of my life. It is also the chance of {207} Mrs. Campbell's life. She is a friend of mine, and I will not take the chance from her."

It was, in my opinion, a great mistake on Alexander's part to add the cares of the London County Council to the management of an important theatre. The strain, I have no doubt, shortened his life, which was of great service to his calling.

[Sidenote: Sir Frank Benson]

"Alec" was always my good friend; and when he summoned a meeting of the leading actors and managers in 1916, the year the Shakespearean Tercentenary was to be celebrated at Drury Lane Theatre, he put the matter so strongly to those assembled that there was no gainsaying his suggestion that I should there and then be invited to speak the address on the occasion if, as he hoped, I would undertake the task. It was no mean effort, and I am afraid that egotism is again fast getting the better of me and urging me to print the result of my labour. My excuse is that the event had national importance: a dramatic episode being the knighthood conferred by the King on Frank Benson, who had given the best years of his life to spreading the love of Shakespeare throughout the land.

Here is the address:

"I am proud, indeed, that it was thought {208} fitting by my comrades to give me the unsought honour, on this great day, of addressing you on their behalf. I thank them for the privilege with all my heart, and promise to bear in mind the wise counsel of Polonius, 'brevity is the soul of wit!' I can only speak from my point of view. There are debts which can never be paid in full; there is homage which never can be amply rendered; there is love no tongue can truly tell. All these are Shakespeare's. As every tribute must fall short of what is really due, I resolved to speak my own words--the best in my power to frame--rather than be but the echo of an abler brain.

"In my early days in theatreland, with the audacity of youth, I acted many characters in Shakespeare's plays and then laid some budding leaves of a modest chaplet at the shrine of the master whose works have made the stage eternal. Now, in my old age, I rejoice in the remembrance that I have been what William Shakespeare was--an actor. With a boundless prodigality he has enriched this England which claims his birth--the dear land he loved so deeply and called:

'This fortress built by Nature for herself,
This precious stone set in the silver sea.'

"We owe to Shakespeare the most alluring, the most entrancing creations in our mother-tongue. How much poorer should we be if we lacked the imperishable charm of those {209} Princesses of the drama--Juliet, Rosalind, Ophelia, Beatrice, Viola, Miranda, Portia, Imogen, Desdemona, and Cordelia. They are not withered by age, nor stricken by decay. The Angel of Death passes them by. They are celestial and immortal. What joy that mighty pen must have given for three hundred years to the gifted women who have portrayed those matchless heroines.

"As Shakespeare is 'for all time,' so is he for all men the 'guide, philosopher, and friend.' From whom can even monarchs surer look for majesty? Who so inspires the statesman with true patriotism? Who so teaches the gentleman his conduct; the preacher simple piety; the soldier chivalry and courage? Who gives the poet nobler themes; the painter loftier models; the lover sweeter idols; a son such sound advice? Who so plainly tells the player of his faults? and by whom is youth so upheld by hope, or declining years so soothed with consolation?

"I remember well a visit I paid upon a dusky evening to Westminster Abbey. As I walked beneath its stately roof, to the sounds of the organ, twilight shadows were cast down the sacred aisles. It seemed easy under such influence to believe the legend that, while writing the awful scene between Hamlet and his father's ghost, Shakespeare passed a long night alone within those hallowed walls. In the fading light I looked upon the monument {210} in Poets' Corner and read the lines from _The Tempest_ as they are inscribed there:

'The cloudcapt towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And like the baseless Fabric of a Vision
Leave not a wrack behind.'

What grandeur, what pathos, are in the words; but we will not believe them--at least not of him. The lustre--the undying lustre--Shakespeare's transcendent genius has shed upon the world marches down the ages undimmed by time."

I lately came across a tribute to Shakespeare which provoked alike my admiration and surprise: the author being that brilliant wit and humorist, Douglas Jerrold. These are his words:

"The great magician who has left immortal company for the spirit of man in his weary journey through this briary world--has bequeathed scenes of immortal loveliness for the human fancy to delight in--founts of eternal truth for the lip of man to drink, and drink--and for all time to be renovated with every draught."

[Sidenote: Charles Wyndham]

Of that accomplished and delightful comedian, Charles Wyndham, there are bright thoughts of the happiness he gave to playgoers {211} during an exceptionally prolonged career. Its only blemish, indeed, was its length, when the inevitable decay, which at last declines to be warded off, became manifest towards the end.

His early successes were made at the Criterion Theatre, in plays of an amusing and frivolous kind, such as _The Great Divorce Case_, _Pink Dominoes_ and _Betsy_. These were followed by far better work, of a higher kind, and the production of those admirable comedies by Henry Arthur Jones, _The Case of Rebellious Susan_ and _The Liars_.

I confess to having thought, had I remained longer on the stage, how happy I should have been to have played some types of those delightful, helpful, elderly men, who often make life pleasanter to the young, and were so perfectly acted by Wyndham.

He retained his youthful appearance until late in life: the preservation of his "figure" was amazing, and he remained a good walker to the end, but never carried a cane.

To recall a peculiarity of his hard working days, I have frequently known him stop at a post office and scrawl a hurried letter or send a telegram to himself, as a reminder of something important that he had to remember or to do.

The memory of Charles Wyndham should {212} always be held in high regard for his unbounded generosity and devoted service to the Actors' Benevolent Fund. It was a pleasure and a privilege to me to propose that Lady Wyndham should be chosen to follow in his footsteps as its president.

Charles Hawtrey was a very old friend. We knew him first at his father's well-known preparatory school for Eton, where I sent my son. The next phase came soon afterwards, when he confided to us his wish to go upon the stage; a wish my wife and I at once encouraged. This appeared a little before we commenced our Haymarket career with a revival of Lord Lytton's comedy, _Money_. We said he could appear as a young member in the club scene, with a few lines to speak. Hawtrey enthusiastically accepted the offer. Unfortunately, an illness prevented its fulfilment, or he would have been the companion of Fred Terry in making his first appearance on that eventful evening.

Our paths in life, both on and off the stage, were much asunder, but we were always the best of friends, and I remember with pleasure a strong wish he expressed, during one of our meetings at Marienbad, when a scheme was on foot to build a theatre for him in the Haymarket, that he might christen it "The Bancroft." {213} My wife and I were sorry when the scheme fell through.

He leaves the happiest memories to his shoals of friends--from the early days, of _The Private Secretary_; the middle stage, of _Lord and Lady Algy_ and _The Man from Blankley's_; to end, with the gay maturity of _Ambrose Applejohn's Adventure_,--and laughter all the way.

Charles Hawtrey was the actor I have alluded to who had the widest knowledge of the Bible of any layman I have known.

[Sidenote: John Hare]

My intimate and affectionate relations, both private and professional, with John Hare make me a little shy of writing about him with the warmth his long and brilliant career upon the stage deserves. I was his oldest professional friend, having been a member of the company he first joined. In the following year my wife offered him an engagement, and for ten years he was prominent among the attractive company of the old Prince of Wales's Theatre. No young actor was, perhaps, so fortunate as himself, appearing as he did in three such successive and distinctive character parts as Lord Ptarmigant, the sleepy old Peer in _Society_, Prince Perovsky, the courtly Russian diplomat in _Ours_, and Sam Gerridge, the humble gasfitter in _Caste_. The delicacy and finish of Hare's {214} acting was of great service to the Robertson comedies, in all of which he appeared.

When he left us it was to enter into friendly managerial rivalry. I applauded the step as a wise one on his part; but, after so many years of close intimacy, I felt the wrench. From that moment the dressing-room he and I had shared knew me no more, and I found a lonely corner on another floor.

And a friendly rivalry it was. If we had our _Diplomacy_, he had his _Olivia_, a delightful play, in which Ellen Terry made so conspicuous a success and Terriss laid the firm foundation of his fine career. My sole disappointment in connection with this beautiful production was that Hare had not plucked up the courage to attack the part of the dear old Vicar himself.

It is not for me to dwell upon his career, which was always to the credit of his calling, or enumerate his successes, only naming Pinero's brilliant works, _The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith_ and _The Gay Lord Quex_. In the first of them Mrs. Patrick Campbell clinched her previous triumph; in the second Irene Vanbrugh seized the opportunity of rushing to the front, where she has remained ever since.

On an occasion when Hare proposed my health in distinguished company, it was pleasant {215} to listen to words which were too flattering to allow of their repetition.

[Sidenote: Meissonier of our stage]

I am inclined to say that Hare's best and most complete individual work was his delightful portrait of old Benjamin Goldfinch in _A Pair of Spectacles_, a performance which gave us something of the simplicity and benevolence of the immortal Samuel Pickwick. I think of Hare, in all he did, as the Meissonier of our stage.

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