The Pageantry of Great People! If I could only make that pageant live for you as it does for me! I know it is impossible; it needs greater skill than mine to make the men and women live on paper. It is only possible for me to recall some small incident which seems typical of the individual. In itself, that may be a poor way of drawing mental pictures; but it is the only way I can attempt with the smallest hope of success. Great people, whether great in art, wit, or greatness of heart, demand great skill to depict them, so, having excused myself for my inevitable shortcomings, I will set to work. If I fail utterly, I ask you to remember it is due to lack of skill, and not lack of appreciation. If I seem to recall these “big” people chiefly through incidents that seem humorous, it is because I like to remember the things which have made me, and others with me, laugh. If the stories do not appear very laughable, then you must make allowances again, and believe that they “were funny at the time”, perhaps because when they happened I was young. We all were young, and the world was a place where we laughed easily—because we were happy.

Sir Herbert Tree.—I begin my Pageant with Herbert Tree because he was a great figure; he stood for a very definite “something”. You might like or dislike him, but you had to admit he was a personality. He certainly posed, he undoubtedly postured; but how much was natural and how much assumed, I should not like to attempt to decide. There was something wonderfully childlike about him; he would suddenly propound most extraordinary ideas in the middle of a rehearsal—ideas which we knew, and for all I know Tree knew too, were utterly impossible. I remember during the rehearsals of Carnac Sahib, when we were rehearsing the scene in the Nabob’s palace, Tree suddenly struck an attitude in the middle of the stage and called for Wigley (who, by the way, he always addressed as “Wiggerley”), who was “on the list” as either stage manager or assistant stage manager, but whose real work was to listen to Tree and to prompt him when necessary—which was very often. Tree called “Wiggerley”, and “Wiggerley” duly came. “I’ve got an idea,” said Tree. “Wiggerley” expressed delight and pleasure, and waited expectant. “Those windows” (pointing to the open windows of the “palace”); “we’ll have a pair of large, flopping vultures fly in through those windows. Good, I think; very good.” The faithful “Wiggerley” agreed that the idea was brilliant, and stated that “it should be seen to at once”. Tree was perfectly satisfied. The vultures never appeared, and I have not the slightest belief that “Wiggerley” ever looked for any, or indeed ever had the smallest intention of doing so.

Tree was very fond of Harry, and used often to ask him to go back to supper, after the theatre, when Tree lived in Sloane Street. One evening he asked him to “come back to supper”, and Harry, for some reason, wanted to come straight home; probably he had a very nice supper of his own waiting. Tree persisted. “Oh, come back with me; there’s stewed mutton; you know you like stewed mutton”, and finally Harry gave way. They drove to Sloane Street, and walked into the dining-room. There was on the table a large lace cloth, and—a bunch of violets! That was all. Tree went up to the table, lifted the violets and smelt them, an expression of heavenly rapture, as of one who hears the songs of angels, on his face. He held them out to Harry (who smelt them), saying “Aren’t they wonderful?”, then, taking his hand and leading him to the door, he added “Good-night, good-night.” Harry found himself in the street, Tree presumably having gone back either to eat or smell the violets in lieu of supper.

When he produced Much Ado, playing “Benedick”, he introduced a scene between “Dogberry” and “Verges”, and also some extraordinary business when Sir Herbert sat under a tree and had oranges dropped on him from above. Harry and I went to the first night, and he resented each “introduction” more fiercely than the last. He sank lower and lower in his stall, plunged in gloom, and praying that Tree would not send for him at the end of the play and ask “what he thought of it all”. However, Tree did, and we found ourselves in the “Royal Room”, which was packed with people, Tree holding a reception. I begged Harry to be tactful, and Harry had made up his mind not to give Tree the opportunity of speaking to him at all, if it could be avoided. Tree saw him and came towards us; Harry backed away round the room, Tree following. Round they went, until Harry was caught in the corner by the stair. Tree put the fateful question, “What do you think of it?” By this time Harry’s “tact” had taken wings, and he answered frankly, if rather harshly, “Perfectly dreadful!” I fancy Tree must have thought the world had fallen round him; he couldn’t believe he was “hearing right”. He persisted, “But my scene under the tree?” Back came Harry’s answer, “Awful!” “And the scene between Dogberry and Verges?” Again, “Perfectly appalling!” Tree stared at him, then there was a long pause. At last Tree spoke: “Yes, perhaps you’re right.”

Here is a picture of Tree at a dress rehearsal of, I think, Nero. Tree, attired in a flowing gold robe, moving about the stage, with what was apparently a crown of dahlias on his head. The crown was rather too big, and, in the excitement of some discussion about a “lighting effect”, it had slipped down over one eye, giving Tree a dissipated appearance, not altogether in keeping with his regal character. Lady Tree (I don’t think she was “Lady” Tree then) called from the stall: “Herbert, may I say one word?” Tree turned and struck an “Aubrey Beardsley” attitude; with great dignity he replied, “No, you may not”, and turned again to his discussion.

A wonderful mixture of innocence and guile, of affectations and genuine kindness, of ignorance and knowledge, of limitations and possibilities, that was Herbert Tree as I read him. But a great artist, a great producer, and a very great figure.

William Terriss.—“Breezy Bill Terriss”, the hero of the Adelphi dramas. Handsome, lovable, with a tremendous breadth of style in his acting that we see too seldom in these days of “restraint”. His “Henry VIII.” to Irving’s “Wolsey” was a magnificent piece of acting. There is a story told of him, when Irving was rehearsing a play in which there was a duel—The Corsican Brothers, I think. At the dress rehearsal (“with lights” to represent the moon, which lit the fight), Irving called to “the man in the moon”: “Keep it on me, on me!” Terriss dropped his sword: “Let the moon shine on me a little,” he begged; “Nature is at least impartial.” Everyone knows of his tragic death, and his funeral was a proof of the affection in which he was held—it was practically a “Royal” funeral. When, a few months ago, Marie Lloyd was buried, the crowds, the marks of affection, the very real and very deep regret shown everywhere, reminded me of another funeral—that of “Breezy Bill Terriss”.

Marie Loftus.—One of the names which recall the time when there were still “giants” on the music hall stage. I don’t mean to imply that Variety does not still possess great artists, but there seems to be no longer that “personal” feeling, the affection, admiration—I might almost say adoration—which was given to the “giants”; and Marie Loftus was “of them”. I saw her years ago at the Tivoli, when she came on with a “baby” in her arms, playing a “comic-melodrama”. I remember she “threw snow over herself”, and finally committed suicide by allowing a small toy train to run over her. Perhaps it does not sound amusing, perhaps we have all grown too sophisticated; if so, we are losing something—and something very well worth keeping. The Second time I saw Marie Loftus was at the Chelsea Palace, about two years ago. I saw her do a “Man and Woman” act, one half of her dressed as a woman, the other half as a man. These “two” people fought together—it was a masterpiece. I shall never forget the unstinted praise which it called forth from Harry, who was with me. I saw her not long ago, not on the stage; she was then looking forward to an operation on her eyes, which she hoped would make it possible for her to “work” again. Whether she does so or not, I shall always look back on those two evenings—one at the Tivoli, the other many years later at Chelsea—as occasions when I saw a very brilliant artist at work.

Sir Henry Irving.—I saw him first when I stayed with Florrie Toole, when I first went on the stage, and Irving came to see her father. I do not remember anything he said or anything he did, but I do remember the impression which the appearance of the two men (and, after all, it was more truly an indication of their character than it is of most people) made upon me. Toole, short and eminently cheerful—you could not imagine him anything but what he was, a natural comedian, with all a comedian’s tricks of speech; and Irving, tall, thin, with something of the monastic appearance, which stood him in such good stead in “Becket”, dignified, and to all but his friends rather aloof. And the one attracted the other so that they were unchangeable friends. I have heard that Irving could be very bitter, very cruelly sarcastic: I know he could be the most truly courteous gentleman who ever stepped, and I will give an instance which was one of the finest illustrations of “fine manners” that I ever witnessed. A most wonderful luncheon was given at the Savoy to Mr. Joe Knight, a critic, on his retirement. The whole of the theatrical profession was there, and Irving was in the chair. Harry and I were present. He was rather unhappy at the time, because he had been “pilled” for the Garrick Club; he felt it very much—much more then than he would have done a few years later. He was quite young then, and took it rather to heart. After the lunch we went up to speak to Sir Henry, who, as he shook hands with Harry, said in a tone half humorous, half sardonic, and wholly kindly, “I understand you have been honoured by the Garrick Club as I have been”; adding, still more kindly, “only to me it happened twice.” If anything could have salved the smart in Harry’s mind it was to know he shared the treatment which had been given to Sir Henry Irving; that is why I cite this incident as an example of real courtesy.

H. B. Irving.—Often so detached that his very detachment was mistaken for rudeness or unkindness; with mannerisms which, to those who did not know him, almost blotted out the very genuine goodness of heart which lay underneath them. Yet again with a queer lack of knowledge of “who people were” and what went on around him, as the following story will show. This was told me by a man who knew him well and witnessed the incident. “Harry” Irving was playing Waterloo on the variety stage, and on the same “bill”, on this particular week, were George Chirgwin (the White-Eyed Kaffir) and Marie Lloyd. One evening there was a knock at the door of Irving’s dressing-room, and a dresser told him “Miss Lloyd would like to speak to you in her dressing-room, please, sir!” “H. B.” turned to James Lindsay, who was in the room, and asked blandly, “Who is Miss Lloyd, Jimmy? Ought I to answer the summons? I don’t know her, do I?” Jimmy explained that Miss Lloyd was certainly accustomed to people coming when she sent for them, and that “anyway she was distinctly a lady to meet, if the opportunity arose”. Irving went, and was away for over half an hour; when he returned he sat down and said earnestly, “You were quite right. She is distinctly a lady to know. Most amusing. I must meet her again. Her humour is worth hearing, perhaps a little—er—but still most amusing.” “But why did she want you at all?” Jimmy asked. “Ah!” said Irving, “that is the really amusing thing! She didn’t want me! She really wanted a man called George Chirgwin, who is apparently a friend of hers. The dresser mixed the names, poor fool.” The sequel is from Marie Lloyd herself. Someone asked her about the incident. “I remember,” she said, “I remember it quite well. I sent for Chirgwin, to have a chat, and in walks this other fellow. I didn’t know who he was, and he didn’t say who he was; and I’m certain he didn’t know me. He sat down and chatted; at least, I chatted; he seemed quite happy, so I went on, and presently he wandered out again. He seemed a nice, quiet fellow.” Try and read under all that the simplicity of two great artists, and you will realise that it is not only an amusing incident, but a light on the character of both.

Lawrence Irving.—I think—no, I am sure—that he would, had he lived, have been a very great actor; his performance in Typhoon was one of the finest things I have ever seen. He was a man full of enthusiasms. I can remember him talking to Harry of Tolstoi, for whom he had a great admiration, and being full of excitement about his work. Once he was at our house, and Harry and he were arguing about some writer as if the fate of the whole world depended upon the decision they came to. Harry offered Lawrence a cigar, and had at once poured upon his head a torrent of reasoned invective against “smoking” in general and cigars in particular. It was “a disgusting and filthy habit”, men who smoked were “turning themselves into chimneys”, and so on. The next morning Harry was going by the Underground to town, and on the opposite platform saw Lawrence Irving smoking a perfectly enormous cigar. Harry, delighted, called out, “What about ‘filthy habits’ and ‘chimney pots’ now!” in great glee. Lawrence took the cigar from his lips and looked at it seriously, as if he wondered how it got there at all. Then he climbed down from the platform, over the rails to the other side, where Harry stood, simply to give him an explanation, which, he said, he “felt was due”. He was smoking “to see how it tasted”!

W. S. Gilbert.—He was Jill’s God-father, and I have a photograph of him, which he signed “To Eva, the mother of my (God) child.” And that was typical of Gilbert; he could make jokes from early morning to set of sun—and did. Once, many years ago, when Decima was playing at the Savoy, I had hurt my knee, and for some reason she told Gilbert. I think it was because she wanted to be excused a rehearsal so that she might come back to be with me “when the doctor came”. Gilbert insisted that I should be taken to his own doctor, Walton Hood, and that at once. So, without waiting for my own doctor to arrive, off we went to Walton Hood. He looked at my knee, tugged at it, something clicked, and he said “Walk home”, which I did, putting my foot to the ground for the first time for a month. I am sure it is due to W. S. Gilbert that I am not now a cripple.

Sir Charles Hawtrey.—Once upon a time (which is the very best way of beginning a story) Charles Hawtrey owed Harry some money—a question of royalties, as far as I remember. Harry was “hard up”—in those days we were all often “hard up”, and didn’t mind owning it, though I don’t suppose we really liked it any better then than we do now—so away went “H. V.” to see Charles Hawtrey at the Haymarket. He was shown into his room, and the question was discussed. Mr. Hawtrey decided that “of course you must have it at once”. He took Harry into an adjoining office, where upon a table were numbers of piles of money, all with a small label on the top of the pile, each label bearing a name. Hawtrey’s hand hovered above the piles of money, and alighted on one. “You shall have this one,” he said, and prepared to hand it over to Harry, when a voice called from an inner office, “You can’t take that one, sir; that belongs to So-and-so.” Again the actor-manager’s hand went wandering over the table, and he had just announced “You shall have this one”, when the same voice called out the same warning. This went on for several minutes, until at last Hawtrey turned to Harry. “They all seem to belong to somebody,” he said; “but never mind, I’ll go out now and borrow it for you!” This story might be called “A New Way to Pay Old Debts.”

Anthony Hope.—I might call him Sir Anthony Hope Hawkins, but I knew him first (and shall always think of him) as Anthony Hope. I have met a good many brilliant authors, but very few who were as brilliant “out of their books” as in them. Anthony Hope is the exception. He used to give the most delightful supper parties at his flat in Savoy Mansions, supper parties where everyone seemed to shine with the brilliance inspired by their host. He—well, he talked as he wrote—polished, clever witticisms. Speaking of him reminds me of a holiday Harry and I spent at Hazleborough one summer, years ago. We were staying at a bungalow there, and soon after we arrived a note was delivered to Harry. It was from “The Mayor of Hazleborough”, and stated that he had heard of the arrival of the “well-known dramatist, Mr. H. V. Esmond”, and begged that the said “Mr. H. V. Esmond” would open the local bazaar, which was to be held in a few days’ time. I thought Harry ought to say “Yes”; Harry was equally certain that he should say “No”, and added that he had brought no suitable clothes with him. A note was finally dispatched to the Royal Castle Hotel, from which “the Mayor” had written, to say that “Mr. Esmond regretted, etc.” Later we were sitting in the garden. I was still maintaining that it had been a mistake to refuse, and Harry equally certain that he had done the best thing in refusing, when three heads appeared over the fence and three voices chanted in unison, “Ever been had?”—Anthony Hope, May and Ben Webster, who had sent the letter, and were indeed, combined, “The Mayor of Hazleborough”.

Mrs. Patrick Campbell.—Harry knew her much better than I did. They had been at the same theatre for a long time, in different plays, and he admired her tremendously. He used to say that one of the most beautiful pictures he had ever seen was one evening when he went home to her flat, somewhere in Victoria, with her husband, Patrick Campbell. It was very late, and she had gone to bed, but she got up and came into the dining-room in her nightdress. She curled herself up in a large armchair, wrapped a skin rug round her, and, with her hair falling loose on her shoulders, Harry said she was one of the most lovely things he had ever seen in his life. He even railed at Kipling, after this incident, for daring to describe any woman as “a rag, and a bone, and a hank of hair”. The meeting with Mrs. Campbell that I remember was this: A matinÉe was to be given, Royalty was to be present, and I was asked to approach Mrs. Campbell if she would consent to appear. She was then playing, I think, at the Haymarket. I went, and Harry went with me. We were shown into her dressing-room. For some reason, which neither he nor I could ever quite fathom, she did not wish to remember who he was. She repeated his name in a vague, rather bored voice: “Mr. Esmond? Esmond?”; then, as if struck with a sudden thought, “You write plays, don’t you?” Harry, entering into the spirit of it all, said very modestly that he “tried to do so”. More inspiration seemed to come to her: “Of course—yes! Sisters—you have had an enormous success with Sisters in America, haven’t you?” (I should say here that he never wrote a play called Sisters in his life.) He smiled and agreed: “Tremendous!” “It is so interesting to meet clever people—who write successful plays,” she added. The conversation went on along these lines for some time. When we left, she said “Good-bye” to me, and turned to Harry with “Good-night, Mr.—er—Esmond.” An extraordinary incident, possibly an extraordinary woman, but a very great actress.

Marie Lloyd.—I can give two “flashlights” of Marie Lloyd. One, when I saw her at the Tivoli, when she wore a striped satin bathing-costume, and carried a most diminutive towel; the other, when I saw her at the Palladium, and spent one of the most enjoyable thirty minutes of my life. Was she vulgar? I suppose so; but it was a “clean” vulgarity, which left no nasty taste behind it; it was a happy, healthy vulgarity, and when it was over you came home and remembered the artistry which was the essential quality of all she said and did. I met her at a charity concert I arranged at the Alhambra during the war; I know she came all the way from Sheffield to appear. We had an auction sale of butter, eggs, pheasants, and so forth. Poor Laurie de Freece was the auctioneer, and he was suffering from a very bad throat; his voice was dreadfully hoarse. He stuck bravely to his work, and when he got to the pheasants Marie Lloyd could bear it no longer. She put her head round the side of the “back cloth” and said, “Five pounds, me—Marie Lloyd. I can’t bear to hear you going on with that voice; it’s awful.” When Harry died, she said to a woman who knew both Marie Lloyd and me, “I did think of sending her a wire, and then I thought of writing a letter (Marie Lloyd, who never wrote letters if she could avoid doing so!), then somehow—I didn’t do either. Will you just say to Eva Moore that you’ve seen me, and say, ‘Marie’s very sorry’?” Already she is becoming almost a legendary figure; men and women will tell stories of Marie Lloyd long after the songs she sang are forgotten. Personally, to me she will always rank as one of the world’s great artists, and I like to remember that, when I was given the sympathy of so many loving men and women, Marie Lloyd too was “very sorry”.