ONE of the most delightful9 theatrical entertainments I ever remember was held by Mr. George Alexander on the stage of the St. James’s Theatre. It was in honour of the Coronation of Edward VII., and given to the Indian Princes and Colonial visitors.
The play preceding the reception was that charming piece Paolo and Francesca. I sat in the stalls, and on my right hand was a richly attired10 Indian, who wore a turban lavishly11 ornamented12 with jewels. I had seen him a short while previously13 at a Court at Buckingham Palace, one of those magnificent royal evening receptions Queen Alexandra has instituted instead of those dreary14 afternoon Drawing-rooms. This gentleman[Pg 126] had been there when the Royalties15 received the Indian Princes in June, 1902, the occasion when the royal cortége promenaded16 through those spacious17 rooms with such magnificent effect. It was the Court held a few days prior to the date first fixed18 for the Coronation—a ceremony postponed19, as all the world knows, till some weeks later in consequence of the King’s sudden illness.
My princely neighbour was very grand. He wore that same huge ruby20 at the side of his head, set in diamonds and ornamented with an osprey, which had excited so much admiration21 at Buckingham Palace. Although small he was a fine-looking man and had charming manners. He read his programme carefully and seemed much interested in the performance, then he looked through his opera-glasses and appeared puzzled; suddenly I realised he wanted to know something.
“You follow the play?” I asked; “or can I explain anything to you?”
“Thank you so much,” he replied in charming English. “I can follow it pretty well, but I cannot quite make out whether the lovely young lady is really going to marry that hump-backed man. Surely she ought to marry the handsome young fellow. She is so lily-lovely.”
“No, Francesca marries Giovanni.”
“Ah, it is too sad, poor thing,” answered the Indian gentleman, apparently22 much grieved. He turned to his neighbour, who did not speak English, and retailed23 the information. Their distress24 was really amusing. Evidently the lovely white lady (Miss Millard) deserved[Pg 127] a better fate according to their ideas, for he repeatedly expressed his distress as the play proceeded. Before he left the theatre that night he crossed the stage, and making a profound bow, thanked me for helping25 him to understand the play. His gratitude26 and Oriental politeness were charming.
The St. James’s presented a gay scene. The Indian dresses, the diamonds, and extra floral decorations rendered it a regular gala performance. At the usual hour the curtain descended27. The general public left; but invited guests remained. We rose from our seats and conversed28 with friends, while a perfect army of stage carpenters and strange women, after moving out the front row of stalls, brought flights of steps and made delightfully29 carpeted staircases lead up to either side of the stage. Huge palms and lovely flowers banked the banisters and hid the orchestra. Within a few moments the whole place resembled a conservatory30 fitted up as for a rout31. It was all done as if by magic. Methinks Mr. Alexander must have had several “stage rehearsals32” to accomplish results so admirable with such rapidity.
The curtain rose, the stage had been cleared, and there at the head of the staircase stood the handsome actor-manager in plain dress clothes, washed and cleaned from his heavy make-up, and with his smiling wife ready to receive their guests.
At the back of the stage the scenery had been arranged to form a second room, wherein supper was served at a buffet33.
It was all admirably done. Most of the Colonial[Pg 128] Premiers34 were there, many of the Indian Princes, and a plentiful35 sprinkling of the leading lights of London. Of course a stage is not very big and the numbers had to be limited; but about a couple of hundred persons thoroughly36 enjoyed that supper behind the footlights at the St. James’s Theatre. Many of the people had never been on a stage before, and it was rather amusing to see them peeping behind the flies, and asking weird37 questions from the scene-shifters. Some were surprised to find the floor was not level, but a gentle incline, for all audiences do not know the necessity of raising the back figures, so that those in front of the house may see all the performers.
A party on the stage is always interesting, and generally of rare occurrence, although Sir Henry Irving and Mr. Beerbohm Tree both gave suppers in honour of the Coronation, so England’s distinguished38 visitors had several opportunities of enjoying these unique receptions. At the supper at His Majesty’s Theatre a few nights later the chief attractions besides the Beerbohm Trees were Mrs. Kendal and Miss Ellen Terry, the latter still wearing her dress as Mistress Page. Every one wanted to shake hands with her, and not a few were saddened to see her using those grey smoked glasses she always dons when not actually before the footlights.
Photo by Langfier, 23a, Old Bond Street, London, W.
MR. GEORGE ALEXANDER.
George Alexander has had a most successful career, but he was not cradled on the stage. His father was an Ayrshire man and the boy was brought up for business. Not liking39 that he turned to [Pg 129]medicine, and still being dissatisfied he abandoned the doctor’s art at an early stage and took a post in a silk merchant’s office. This brought him to London. From that moment he was a constant theatre-goer, and in September, 1879, made his first bow behind the footlights. He owes much of his success to the training he received in Sir Henry Irving’s Company at the Lyceum. There is no doubt much of the business learned in early youth has stood him in good stead in his theatrical ventures, and much of the artistic40 taste and desire for perfection in stage-mounting so noticeable at the St. James’s was imbibed41 in the early days at the Lyceum. It takes a great deal to make a successful actor-manager; he must have literary and artistic taste, business capacity, and withal knowledge of his craft.
In 1891 he took the St. James’s Theatre and began a long series of successes. He has gone through the mill, worked his way from the bottom to the top, and being possessed42 of an exceptionally clear business head, has made fewer mistakes than many others in his profession.
Mr. Alexander tells a good story about himself:
“For many months I continually received very long letters from a lady giving me her opinion not only on current stage matters, but on the topics of the hour, with graphic43 descriptions of herself—her doings—her likes and dislikes. She gave no address, but her letters usually bore the postmark of a country town not a hundred miles from London. She confided44 in me that she was a spinster, and that she did not[Pg 130] consider her relations sympathetic. She was obviously well-to-do—I gathered this from her account of her home and her daily life as she described them. Suddenly her letters ceased, and I wondered what had happened. Almost two months after I received her last letter, I had a communication from a firm of lawyers asking for an appointment. I met them—two very serious-looking gentlemen they were too! After a good deal of preliminary talk they came to their point.
“‘You know Miss ——’ said the elder of the men.
“‘No,’ I replied.
“‘But you do,’ he said. ‘She has written to you continually.’
“This was very puzzling, but following up the slight clue, I asked:
“‘Is her Christian45 name Mary?’
“‘Yes,’ he replied.
“‘And she lives at——?’
“Then I knew whom they meant. Their mission, it seemed, was to tell me that the lady had been very ill, and fearing she was going to die, had expressed a wish to alter her will in my favour. As the lawyers had acted for her family for many years, and were friends of her relations, they had taken her instructions quietly, but after much discussion in private had decided46 to call on me and inform me of the facts, and they asked me to write a letter to them stating that such a course would be distasteful to me and unfair to her relations. I did so in strong terms, and so I lost a little fortune[Pg 131].”
When Mr. Alexander learns a new part he and his wife retire to their cottage at Chorley Wood to study. I bicycled thither47 one day from Chalfont St. Peter’s, when to my disappointment the servant informed me they were “out.”
“Oh dear, how sad!” I said, “for it is so hot, and I’m tired and wanted some tea.”
Evidently this wrung48 her heart, for she said she would “go and see.” She went, and immediately Mr. Alexander appeared to bid me welcome.
“I’m working,” he said, “and the maid has orders not to admit any one without special permission.”
What a pretty scene. Lying in a hammock in the orchard49 on that hot summer’s day was the actor-manager of the St. James’s Theatre. Seated on a garden chair was his wife, simply dressed in white serge and straw hat. On her lap lay the new typewritten play in its brown paper covers, and at her feet was Boris, the famous hound. The Alexanders had been a fortnight at the cottage working hard at the play, and at the moment of my arrival Mrs. Alexander was hearing her husband his part. Not only does she do this, but she makes excellent suggestions. She studies the plays, too, and her taste is of the greatest value as regards dresses, stage decorations, or the arrangement of crowds. Although she has never played professionally, Mrs. Alexander knows all the ins and outs of theatrical life, and is of the greatest help to her husband in the productions.
Had a stranger entered a compartment50 of a train between Chorley Wood and London a few days later,[Pg 132] he might have thought George Alexander and I were about to commit murder, suicide, or both.
“What have you got there?” asked the actor when we met on the platform.
“A gun,” was my reply.
“A gun?”
“Yes, a gun. I’m taking it to London to be mended.”
“Ha ha! I can beat that,” he laughed. “See what I have here,” and opening a little box he disclosed half a dozen razors.
“Razors!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, razors; so be wary51 with your sanguinary weapon, for mine mean worse mischief52.”
He was taking the razors to London to be sharpened.
It was fortunate no accident happened to that train, or a gun and six razors might have formed food for “public inquiry53.”
It is a curious thing how many actors and actresses like to shake the dust of the stage from their feet on leaving the theatre. They seem to become satiated with publicity54, to long for the country and an outdoor, freer life, and in many instances they not only long for it, but actually succeed in obtaining it, and the last trains on Saturday night are often full of theatrical folk seeking repose55 far from theatres till Monday afternoon.
Recreation and entire change of occupation are absolutely necessary to the brain-worker, and the man is wise who realises this. If he does, and seeks complete[Pg 133] rest from mental strain, he will probably have a long and successful career; otherwise the breakdown56 is sure to come, and may come with such force as to leave the victim afflicted57 for life, so it is far wiser for the brain-worker of whatever profession or business to realise this at an early stage. In this respect actors are as a rule wiser than their fellow-workers, and seek and enjoy recreation on Sunday and Monday, which is more than can be said of many lawyers, doctors, painters, or literary men.
The strain of theatrical life is great. No one should attempt to go upon the stage who is not strong. If there be any constitutional weakness, theatrical life will find it out. Extremes of heat and cold have to be borne. Low dresses or thick furs have to be worn in succeeding acts. The atmosphere of gas and sulphur is often bad, but must be endured.
A heavy part exhausts an actor in a few minutes as much as carrying a hod of bricks all day does a labourer. He may have to change his underclothing two or three times in an evening, in spite of all his dresser’s rubbing down. The mental and physical strain affects the pores of the skin and exhausts the body, that is why one hardly ever finds an actor fat. He takes too much physical exercise, takes too much out of himself, ever to let superfluous58 flesh accumulate upon his bones.
Yes, the actor’s life is often a mental strain, of which the following is a striking instance. A very devoted59 couple were once caused much anxiety by[Pg 134] the wife’s serious and protracted60 illness. Months wore on, and every night the husband played his part, wondering what news would greet him when he returned home. At last it was decided that an operation was necessary. It was a grave operation, one of life and death, but it had to be faced.
One morning the wife bade her bairns and her home good-bye, and drove off with her spouse61 to a famous surgical62 home. That night the poor actor had to play his comic part, with sad and anxious heart he had to smile and caper63 and be amusing. Think of the mockery of it all. Next morning he was up early, toying with his breakfast, in order to be at the home before nine o’clock, when that serious operation was to be performed. He did not see his wife—that would have upset them both—but like a caged lion he walked up and down, up and down in an adjoining room. At last came the glad tidings that it was over, and all had so far gone satisfactorily.
Back to the theatre he went that night, having heard the latest bulletin, and played his part with smiling face, knowing his wife was hovering64 between life and death. Next morning she was not so well. It was a matinée day, and in an agony of anxiety and excitement that poor man played two performances, receiving wires about her condition between the acts. Think of it! We often laugh at men and women, who may be for all we know, acting65 with aching hearts. Comedy and tragedy are closely interwoven in life, perhaps especially so in theatrical life.
By way of recreation from work George Alexander[Pg 135] rushes off to his cottage at Chorley Wood to play golf. Sir Charles Wyndham and Sir Squire66 and Lady Bancroft for many years enjoyed rambles67 in Switzerland. Sir Henry Irving is a tremendous smoker68 and never happy without a cigar. Ellen Terry is so devoted to her son and daughter, she finds recreation in their society. Cyril Maude loves shooting and all country pursuits. Winifred Emery never mentions the theatre after she leaves the stage door, and finds relaxation69 in domesticity. Mrs. Kendal knits. Lewis Waller motors. Dan Leno retires to the suburbs to look after his ducks. Arthur Bourchier is fond of golfing whenever he gets a chance. Miss Marie Tempest lives in a musical set, and is as devoted to her friends as they are to her.
The world is governed by fads. Fads are an antidote70 to boredom—a tonic71 to the overworked, and actors enjoy fads like the rest of us; for instance:
Eugene Oudin, that most delightful operatic singer, who was cut off just as he stepped on the top rung of Fame’s ladder, was a splendid photographer. In 1890 photography was not so much the fashion as it is nowadays, but even then his pictures were works of art. He portrayed72 his contemporaries—the De Reskes, Van Dyck, Calvé, Hans Richter, Mascagni, Joachim, Tosti, Alma-Tadema, John Drew, Melba, and dozens more at their work, or in some way that would make a picture as well as a photograph. Then these worthies73 signed the copies, which were subsequently hung round the walls of Oudin’s private study.
[Pg 136]
Miss Julia Neilson has a passion for collecting fans. Herbert Waring is a brilliant whist-player. Mrs. Patrick Campbell adores small dogs, and nearly always has one tucked under her arm. Many actresses have particular mascots74. Miss Ellen Terry, Miss Lily Hanbury, and a host more have their lucky ornaments75 which they wear on first nights. Miss Irene Vanbrugh is devoted to turquoises76, and has a necklace composed of curious specimens77 of these stones, presents from her many friends.
Miss Violet Vanbrugh declares she is “one of those people who somehow never contrive78 actively79 or passively to be the heroine of any little stage joke.” This is rather an amusing assertion for a lady who is continually playing stage heroines. Her husband, Mr. Arthur Bourchier, however, tells a good story against himself.
“My present servant, or ‘dresser,’ as they are called at the theatre, was one of the original Gallery First Nighters and a member of the celebrated80 Gaiety Gallery Boys. Of course when he joined me I imagined he had forsaken81 the auditorium82 for the stage. One night, however, a play was produced by me, the dress rehearsal of which he had seen, and I noticed that he seemed particularly gloomy and morose83 at its conclusion. On the first night, when I came back to my dressing-room from the stage, I found the door locked. Here was a pretty predicament. It was clear that he had got the key and had mysteriously disappeared. I had the door broken open, for dress I must as time was pressing, and sent[Pg 137] another man to search for my missing servant. The sequel is as follows. He was caught red-handed in the gallery among his old associates loudly ‘booing’ his master. Arraigned84 before me, he maintained the firmest attitude possible, and asserted boldly:
“‘No, sir, I am your faithful servant behind the scenes, but as an independent man and honest gallery boy I am bound to express my unbiased opinion either for or against any play which I may happen to see at a first night!’”
Mr. Hare, like most men, has his hobby, and it is racing85: he loves a horse, and he loves a race meeting. In fact, on one occasion report says he nearly missed appearing at the theatre in consequence.
John Hare is one of the greatest character-actors of our day. He is a dapper little gentleman, and lives in Upper Berkeley Street, near Portman Square. His house is most tasteful, and while his handsome wife has had much to say to the decoration, the actor-manager has decided views of his own in these matters. He has a delightful study at the back of the house, round the sides of which low book-cases run, while the walls reflect copper86 and brass87 pots, and old blue china. It is here he is at his best, as he sits smoking a cigarette, perched on the high seat in front of the fire.
What an expressive88 face his is. The fine-chiselled features, the long thin lips are like a Catholic priest of ?sthetic tendency; but as the expression changes with lightning speed, and the dark deep-set eyes sparkle or sadden, one realises the actor-spirit.
[Pg 138]
Evidence of fads may often be seen in an actor’s dressing-room, where the walls are decorated according to the particular taste of its occupant.
Cyril Maude has a particularly interesting dressing-room at the Haymarket Theatre. It is veritably a studio, for he has persuaded his artistic friends to do sketches for him on the distempered walls, and a unique little collection they make. Phil May, Harry89 Furniss, Dudley Hardy90, Holman Clarke, Bernard Partridge, Raven91 Hill, Tom Brown, are among the contributors, and Leslie Ward’s portrait of Lord Salisbury is one of the finest ever sketched92 of the late Prime Minister. It is a quaint93 and original idea of Mr. Maude’s, but unfortunately those walls are so precious he will never dare to disturb the grime of ages and have them cleaned.
The St. James’s Theatre, as it stands, is very modern, and therefore Mr. Alexander is the proud possessor of a charming sitting-room94 with a little dressing-room attached. It is quite near the stage, and has first-floor windows which look out on King Street, next door to Willis’s Rooms, once so famous for their dinners, and still more famous at an earlier date as Almack’s, where the beaux and belles95 of former days disported96 themselves.
Both Mr. Alexander and his wife are fond of artistic surroundings, and his little room at the theatre is therefore charming. Here on matinée days the actor-manager dines, an arrangement which saves him much time and trouble, and his huge dog Boris—the famous boarhound which appeared in Rupert[Pg 139] of Hentzau—is his companion, unless Mrs. Alexander pops in with some little delicacy97 to cheer him over his solitary meal.
That is one of the drawbacks of the stage, the poor actor generally has to eat alone. He cannot expect ordinary mortals to dine at his hours, and he cannot accommodate himself to theirs. The artist who appears much in public is forced to live much by himself, and his meals are consequently as lonely as those of a great Indian potentate98.
If we are to follow Mr. Pinero’s advice we shall all have to eschew99 dinner and adopt a “high-tea” principle before the play; but as all the audience are not agreed upon the subject there seems to be some difficulty about it.
Why not have the evening performance as late as usual on matinée days, to allow the players time to take food and rest, and early on other days to suit those folk who prefer the drama from seven to ten instead of nine to twelve? By this means early comers and late diners would both be satisfied. Instead of which, as matters stand in London, the late diners arrive gorged100 and grumbling101 half through the first act to disturb every one, and the ’bus and train folk struggle out halfway102 through the last act, sad and annoyed at having to leave.
Most theatrical folk dine at five o’clock. Allowing an hour for this meal, they are able to get a little rest before starting for the theatre, which generally has to be reached by seven.
Preparing for the stage is a serious matter. All that can be put on beforehand is of course donned.[Pg 140] Ladies have been known to wear three pairs of stockings, so that a pair might be taken off quickly between each act. Then a long time is required to “make up.” For instance in such a part as Giovanni Malatesta (Paolo and Francesca), Mr. Alexander spent an hour each day painting his face and arranging his wig103. He did not look pretty from the front, but the saffron of his complexion104 and the blue of his eyes became absolutely hideous105 when beheld106 close at hand. That make-up, however, was really a work of art.
An actor’s day, even in London, is often a heavy one. Breakfast between nine and ten is the rule, then a ride or some form of exercise, and the theatre at eleven or twelve for a “call,” namely, a rehearsal. This “call” may go on till two o’clock or later, at which hour light luncheon107 is allowed; but if the rehearsal be late, and the meal consequently delayed, it is impossible to eat again between five and six, consequently the two meals get merged108 into one. Rehearsals for a new play frequently last a whole month, and during that month the players perform eight times a week in the old piece, and rehearse, or have to attend the theatre nearly all day as well. Three months is considered a good run for a play—so, as will be seen, the company scarcely recover from the exertions109 of one play before they have to commence rehearsing for another, to say nothing of the everlasting110 rehearsals for charity performances. The actor’s life is necessarily one of routine, and routine tends to become monotonous111.
[Pg 141]
A well-known actor was a very absent-minded man except about his profession, where habit had drilled him to punctuality. One Sunday he was sitting in the Garrick Club when a friend remarked he was dining at A——.
“God bless me, so am I.”
He rushed home, dressed, and went off to the dinner, during the course of which his neighbour asked him if he were going to the B.’s.
“I’d really forgotten it—but if you are going I’ll go too.”
So he went.
About midnight he got home. His wife was sitting in full evening dress with her gloves and cloak on.
“You are very late,” she said.
“Late? I thought it was early. It is only a quarter past twelve.”
“I’ve been waiting for nearly two hours.”
“Waiting—what for?”
“Why, you arranged to fetch me a little after ten o’clock to go to the B’s.”
“God bless me—I forgot I had a dinner-party, forgot there was a soirée, and forgot I had a wife.”
“And where’s your white tie?” asked his wife stiffly.
“Oh dear, I must have forgotten that too! Dear, dear, what a man I am away from the stage and my dresser!”
There is a wonderful bonne camaraderie among all people engaged in the theatrical profession.
[Pg 142]
Theatrical people are as generous to one another in misfortune as the poor. In times of success they are apt to be jealous; but let a comrade fall on evil days, let him be forced to “rest” when he wants to work, and his old colleagues will try and procure112 him employment, and when work and health fail utterly113, they get up a benefit for him. These benefits take much organising; they often entail114 endless rehearsals and some expense, and yet the profession is ever ready to come forward and help those in need.
People on the stage have warm hearts and generous purses, but to give gracefully115 requires as much tact116 as to receive graciously.
It is a curious thing how few actors have died rich men. Many have made fortunes, but they have generally contrived117 to lose them again. Money easily made is readily lost. He who buys what he does not want ends in wanting what he cannot buy. Style and show begun in flourishing times are hard to relinquish118. Capital soon runs away when drawn119 upon because salary has ceased, even temporarily. Many an actor, once a rich man, has died poor. Kate Vaughan, once a wealthy woman, died in penury120, and so on ad infinitum.
Actors, like other people, have to learn there is no disgrace in being poor—it is merely inconvenient121.
Theatrical salaries are sometimes enormous, although George Edwardes has informed the public that ￡100 a week is the highest he ever gives, because he finds to go beyond that sum does not pay him.
It seems a great deal for a pretty woman, not highly[Pg 143] born, nor highly educated, nor highly gifted—merely a pretty woman who has been well drilled by author, stage manager, and conductor, to be able to command ￡100 a week in a comic opera, but after all it is not for long. It is never for fifty-two weeks in the year, and only for a few years at most. Beauty fades, flesh increases, the attraction goes, and she is relegated122 to the shelf, a poorer, wiser woman than before. But meanwhile her scintillating123 success, the glamour124 around her, have acted as a bait to induce others to rush upon the stage.
The largest salary ever earned by a man was probably that paid to Charles Kean, who once had a short engagement at Drury Lane for ￡50 a night, and on one occasion he made ￡2,000 by a benefit. Madame Vestris, however, beat him, for she had a long engagement at the Haymarket at ￡40 a night, or ￡240 a week, a sum unheard of to-day.
It may be here mentioned that salaries are doled125 out according to an old and curious custom.
“Treasury day” is a great event; theatrical folk never speak of “pay”: it is always “salaries” and “treasury day.” Each “house” has its own methods of procedure, but at a great national theatre like Drury Lane the “chiefs” are paid by cheque, while every Friday night the treasurer126 and his assistants with trays full of “salary” go round the theatre and distribute packets in batches127 to the endless persons who combine to make a successful performance. The money is sealed up in an envelope which bears the name of the receiver, so no one knows what his[Pg 144] neighbour gets. It takes five or six hours for the treasurer and his two assistants to pay off a thousand people at a pantomime, and check each salary paid.
There is no field where that little colt imagination scampers128 more wildly than in the matter of salaries. For instance, a girl started as “leading lady” in a well-known play on a provincial129 tour. Her name, in letters nearly as big as herself, met her on the hoardings of every town the company visited. She was given the star dressing-room, and a dresser to herself. This all meant extra tips and extra expenses everywhere, for she was the “leading lady”! Wonderful notices appeared in all the provincial papers and this girl was the draw. The manager knew that, and advertised her and pushed her forward in every way. All the company thought she began at a salary of ￡10 a week, and rumour130 said this sum had been doubled after her success. Such was the story. Now for the truth. She was engaged for the tour at ￡3 a week, and ￡3 a week she received without an additional penny, although the tour of weeks extended into months. She was poor, others were dependent on her, and she dared not throw up that weekly sixty shillings for fear she might lose everything in her endeavour to get more.
This is only one instance: there are many such upon the stage.
“I suppose A—— has given more time to rehearsals this year,” said the wife of a well-known actor, “than any man in London, and yet he has only drawn ten weeks’ salary. Everything has turned out badly;[Pg 145] so we have had to live for fifty-two weeks on ten weeks’ pay and thirty-four weeks’ work.”
Large sums and well-earned salaries have, of course, been made—in fact, Sir Henry Irving was earning about ￡30,000 a year at the beginning of the century, an income very few actor-managers could boast.
Among thrifty131 theatrical folk the Bancrofts probably take front rank. Marie Wilton and her husband amused England for thirty years, and had the good sense always to spend less than they made. The result was that, while still young enough to enjoy their savings132 they bought a house in Berkeley Square, retired133, and have enjoyed a well-earned rest. More than that, Sir Squire Bancroft stands unique as regards charities. Although not wishing to be tied any more to the stage, he does not mind giving an occasional “Reading” of Dickens’s Christmas Carol, and he has elected to give his earnings134 to hospitals and other charities, which are over ￡15,000 the richer for his generosity135. Could anything be more delightful than for a retired actor to give his talent for the public good?
I was brought up on Mrs. Bancroft and Shakespeare, so to speak. The Bancrofts at that time had the Haymarket Theatre, and their Robertson pieces were considered suitable to my early teens by way of amusement, while I was taken to Shakespeare’s plays by way of instruction. I remember I thought the Robertson comedies far preferable, and should love to see them again.
It is always averred136 by old playgoers that Marie[Pg 146] Wilton (Lady Bancroft) was the originator of modern comedy. She and her husband at one time had a little play-house in an unfashionable part of London, to which they attracted society people of that day. The theatre was not then what it is now, the “upper ten” seldom visited the play at that time, and yet the Prince of Wales’ Theatre known as “The Dust-hole” drew all fashionable London to the Tottenham Court Road to laugh with Marie Wilton over Robertson’s comedies.
Her company consisted of men and women who are actor-managers to-day: people went forth137 well drilled in their profession, accustomed to expending138 minute care over details, each in their turn to inculcate the same thoroughness in the next generation. These people numbered John Hare, Mr. and Mrs. Kendal (Madge Robertson was the younger sister of the dramatist), H. J. Montague, and Arthur Cecil. Again one finds the best succeeds, and there is always room at the top, hence the Bancroft triumph.
One of their innovations was to rope off the front rows of the pit, which then occupied the entire floor of the house, and call them “stalls,” for which they dared ask 6/-apiece. They got it—more were wanted. Others were added, and gradually the price rose to 10/6, which is now the charge: but half-guinea stalls, though now universal, are a modern institution.
At a dinner given by the Anderson Critchetts in 1891 I sat between Squire Bancroft and G. Boughton, R.A. Mr. Bancroft remarked in the course of conversation that he was just fifty, though he looked[Pg 147] much younger. His tall figure was perfectly139 erect140, and his white hair showed up the freshness of his complexion. I asked him if he did not miss acting, the applause, and the excitement of the theatre.
“No,” he replied. “It will be thirty years this September since I first went on the stage, and it is now nearly six since I gave it up. No, I don’t think I should mind much if I never entered a theatre again, either as spectator or actor—and my wife feels the same. My only regret about our theatrical career is that we never visited America, but no dollars would induce Mrs. Bancroft to cross the sea, so we never went.”
He surprised me by saying that during the latter years of their theatrical life they never took supper, but dined at 6.0 or 6.30 as occasion required, and afterwards usually walked to the theatre. During the performance they had coffee and biscuits, or sometimes, on cold nights, a little soup, and the moment the curtain was down they jumped into their carriage, and were in their own house in Cavendish Square, where they then lived, by 11.30, and in bed a few minutes later. They were always down to breakfast at 9 o’clock year in year out; an early hour for theatrical folk.
I spoke141 of the autograph photographs which I had seen in the Haymarket green-room.
“How curious,” he said, “that you should mention them to-night. We have always intended to take them away, and only yesterday, after an interval142 of six years, I gave the order for their removal. This[Pg 148] evening as we started for dinner they arrived in Berkeley Square. A strange coincidence.”
Lady Bancroft has the merriest laugh imaginable. I used to love to see her act when I was quite a girl, and somehow Miss Marie Tempest reminds me strongly of her to-day. She has the same lively manner.
Lady Bancroft’s eyes are her great feature—they are deeply set, with long dark lashes143, and their merry twinkle is infectious. When she laughs her eyes seem to disappear in one glorious smile, and every one near her joins in her mirth. Mrs. Bancroft was comparatively a young woman when she retired from the stage, and one of her greatest joys at the time was to feel she was no longer obliged to don the same gown at the same moment every day.
At some theatres a dress rehearsal is a great affair. The term properly speaking means the whole performance given privately144 right through, without even a repeated scene. The final dress rehearsal, as a rule, is played before a small critical audience, and the piece is expected to run as smoothly145 as on the first night itself—to be, in fact, a sort of prologue146 to the first night. This is a dress rehearsal proper, such as is given by Sir Henry Irving, Messrs. Beerbohm Tree, Cyril Maude, George Alexander, or the old Savoy Company.
Before this, however, there are endless “lighting rehearsals,” “scenic rehearsals,” or “costume parades,” all of which are done separately, and with the greatest care. As we saw before, Mrs. Kendal disapproves147 of a dress rehearsal, but she is almost alone in her opinion.[Pg 149] It is really, therefore, a matter of taste whether the whole performance be gone through in separate portions or whether one final effort be made before the actual first night. As a rule Sir Henry Irving has three dress rehearsals, but the principals only appear in costume at one of them. They took nine weeks to rehearse the operetta The Medal and the Maid, yet Irving put The Merchant of Venice with all its details on the Lyceum stage in twenty-three days.
Sir Henry strongly objects to the public being present at any rehearsal. “The impression given of an incomplete effort cannot be a fair one,” he says. “It is not fair to the artistes. A play to be complete must pass through one imagination, one intellect must organise148 and control. In order to attain149 this end it is necessary to experiment: no one likes to be corrected before strangers, therefore rehearsals—or in other words ‘experiments’—should be made in private. Even trained intellect in an outsider should not be admitted, as great work may be temporarily spoiled by some slight mechanical defect.”
In Paris rehearsals used to be great institutions. They were opportunities for meeting friends. In the foyers and green-rooms of the theatres, at répètitions générales, every one talked and chatted over the play, the actors, and the probable success or failure. This, however, gradually became a nuisance, and early in this twentieth century both actors and authors struck. They decided that even privileged persons should be excluded from final rehearsals, which are always in[Pg 150] costume in Paris. As a sort of salve to the offended public, it was agreed that twenty-four strangers should be admitted to the last great dress rehearsal before the actual production of a new piece, hence everybody who is anybody clamours to be there.
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1
scenic
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| adj.自然景色的，景色优美的 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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fads
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| n.一时的流行，一时的风尚( fad的名词复数 ) | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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camaraderie
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| n.同志之爱，友情 | |
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7
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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8
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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9
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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10
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lavishly
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| adv.慷慨地，大方地 | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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14
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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15
royalties
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| 特许权使用费 | |
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promenaded
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| v.兜风( promenade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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17
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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18
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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19
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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20
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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21
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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22
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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retailed
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| vt.零售（retail的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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24
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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25
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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26
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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27
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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28
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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29
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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30
conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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31
rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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32
rehearsals
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| n.练习( rehearsal的名词复数 )；排练；复述；重复 | |
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33
buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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34
premiers
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| n.总理，首相( premier的名词复数 )；首席官员， | |
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35
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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36
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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37
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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38
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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39
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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40
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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41
imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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42
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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43
graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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44
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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45
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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46
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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47
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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48
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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49
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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50
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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51
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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52
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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53
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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54
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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55
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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56
breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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57
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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59
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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60
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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61
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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62
surgical
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| adj.外科的，外科医生的，手术上的 | |
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63
caper
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| v.雀跃，欢蹦；n.雀跃，跳跃；续随子，刺山柑花蕾；嬉戏 | |
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64
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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65
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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66
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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67
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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68
smoker
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| n.吸烟者，吸烟车厢，吸烟室 | |
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69
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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70
antidote
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| n.解毒药，解毒剂 | |
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71
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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portrayed
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| v.画像( portray的过去式和过去分词 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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73
worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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74
mascots
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| n.吉祥物( mascot的名词复数 ) | |
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75
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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76
turquoises
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| n.绿松石( turquoise的名词复数 )；青绿色 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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80
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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81
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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82
auditorium
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| n.观众席，听众席；会堂，礼堂 | |
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83
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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84
arraigned
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| v.告发( arraign的过去式和过去分词 )；控告；传讯；指责 | |
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85
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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86
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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87
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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88
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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89
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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92
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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94
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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95
belles
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| n.美女( belle的名词复数 )；最美的美女 | |
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disported
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| v.嬉戏，玩乐，自娱( disport的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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98
potentate
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| n.统治者；君主 | |
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99
eschew
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| v.避开，戒绝 | |
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100
gorged
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的过去式和过去分词 )；作呕 | |
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101
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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102
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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103
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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104
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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105
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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106
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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107
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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108
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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109
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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110
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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111
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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112
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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113
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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114
entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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115
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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116
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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117
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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118
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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119
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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120
penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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relegated
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| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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123
scintillating
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| adj．才气横溢的,闪闪发光的; 闪烁的 | |
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124
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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125
doled
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| 救济物( dole的过去式和过去分词 )； 失业救济金 | |
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treasurer
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| n.司库，财务主管 | |
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127
batches
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| 一批( batch的名词复数 )； 一炉； （食物、药物等的）一批生产的量； 成批作业 | |
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128
scampers
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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129
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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131
thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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132
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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135
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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136
averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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expending
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| v.花费( expend的现在分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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139
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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140
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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143
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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144
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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prologue
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| n.开场白，序言；开端，序幕 | |
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disapproves
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的第三人称单数 ) | |
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148
organise
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| vt.组织，安排，筹办 | |
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149
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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