When Anthony Hope’s play, Pilkerton’s Peerage, was produced, the scene was—or so we were told—an exact representation of the Prime Minister’s room at 10 Downing Street. One Saturday matinÉe the King and Queen, then Prince and Princess of Wales, came to see the play, and on that particular afternoon we, the company, had arranged to celebrate the birth of Arthur Bourchier’s daughter—in our own way.

He was playing the Prime Minister, and we had been at considerable pains to prepare the stage, so that at every turn he should be confronted with articles connected with very young children. For instance, he opened a drawer—to find a pair of socks; a dispatch box—to find a baby’s bottle; and so on. The King and Queen could see a great deal of the joke from the Royal box, and were most interested. In the second act, a tea-time scene, Bourchier, on having his cup handed to him, discovered seated in his cup a diminutive china doll, and the thing began to get on his nerves. He hardly dare touch anything on the stage, for fear of what might fall out. In the last act, a most important paper was handed to him in the action of the play. He eyed it distrustfully, and you could see him decide not to take it, if he could avoid doing so, for fear of what might happen. He did everything in his power not to take that paper; he avoided it with an ingenuity worthy of a better cause, but “the play” was too strong for him, and he finally had to “grasp the nettle”. He took it as if he feared it might explode—a pair of small pink woollen socks fell out! It was a disgraceful business, but oh! so amusing, and we all enjoyed it.

In 1903 Alexander put on that great success, Old Heidelberg, at the St. James’s. We were rehearsed by a German, who had one idea which he always kept well in the foreground of his mind—to make us all shout; and the louder we shouted, the better he was satisfied. He was blessed with an enormous voice himself—as all Germans, male and female, are—and saw no difficulty in “roaring” lines. The whole of the rehearsals were punctuated with shouts of “Louder-r-r-r!”

In this play Henry Ainley played one of the students—quite a small part. I have a picture of him, wearing a student’s cap, and looking so delightful! I remember nothing particular which happened during the run, except that one evening, when I was hoisted on to the shoulders of the “boys”, one of them nearly dropped me into the footlights; and another evening, when someone had recommended me to use some special new “make up” for my eyes, and I did so, the result being that the stuff ran into my eyes and hurt so badly that I had to play practically all the last act with my eyes shut! “Kattie”, in this play, has always been one of my favourite parts.

Then my husband’s play, Billy’s Little Love Affair, was produced, and proved very satisfactory from every point of view. Allen Aynesworth, Charles Groves, and Florence St. John were in the cast. She was a most delightful comedienne, of the “broad comedy school”. A most popular woman, always known to all her friends as “Jack”; she died a few years ago, very greatly regretted by everyone.

One evening during the run of this play, Allen Aynesworth made an entrance, and Charles Groves, who was on the stage, noticed that his face was decorated with a large black smudge. Funnily enough, Aynesworth noticed that the same “accident” had happened to Groves. Each kept saying to the other, “Rub that smudge off your face”, and each thought the other was repeating what he said. Thus, when Aynesworth whispered “Rub the smudge off your face”, Groves apparently repeated “Rub the smudge off your face”! Both became gradually annoyed with the other, and when they came off they faced each other, to ask indignantly, in one breath, “Why didn’t you do as I told you?”—then discovering the truth that they both had smudges.

When this play was to be produced in America, an amusing thing happened. The man who was playing the leading part (his Christian name was William, but he was usually known as “Billy” by most people), his wife was just at that time bringing a divorce suit against him. A wire arrived one day for Harry, saying “Title of Billy’s Little Love Affair must be altered; impossible to use under circumstances”. It was altered and called Imprudence instead, thanks to the courtesy of Sir Arthur Pinero, who had already used that title.

Then came Duke of Killiecrankie, with Grahame Browne, Weedon Grossmith, and Marie Illington. She was a dignified lady; a very excellent actress, as she is still. Grossmith, who loved to have “little jokes” on the stage (and, let me say, not the kind of jokes which reduce all the artistes on the stage to a state of helpless imbecility, and leave the audience wondering what “Mr. So-and-so has said now”), one evening at the supper scene held a plate in front of Marie Illington, whispering in ecstatic tones, “Pretty pattern, isn’t it? Lovely colouring”, and so on—not, perhaps, a very good joke, but quite funny at the time. She was furious, and on leaving the stage, said to him in freezing tones, “Kindly don’t cover up my face. You’re not the only ornament on the stage, you know!”

Then followed a Barrie play—or, rather, two Barrie plays—one, Josephine, a political satire; the other, Mrs. Punch. I recollect working like a Trojan to learn an Irish jig, and that is about the extent of my memories of the play.

It seems rather remarkable how easily one does forget plays. For the time being, they are a very actual part of one’s life; but, once over, they are very quickly forgotten, with all the hopes and fears, the worries and uncertainties, attached to them. For example, I once played the leading part in The Importance of Being Earnest, learnt the part in twelve hours, and played without a rehearsal. I only “dried up” once during the play; I worked at top pressure to learn the part, and now (though I will admit it is some years ago) not a single line of the play remains in my mind.

In Lights Out, one incident certainly does remain very vividly in my memory. Charles Fulton had to shoot me at the end of the play. I wasn’t too happy about the pistol, and Harry was frankly nervous. He besought Fulton to “shoot wide”, so that there might be no danger of the “wad” (which was, or should have been, made of tissue paper) hitting me. At the dress rehearsal, the wad (which was made of wash-leather), flew out and hit me on the arm. I had a bad bruise, but that was all; and I remember saying happily to Charles Fulton, “That’s all right; now it will never happen again!” However, on the second night, the property man, who loaded the pistol, put in, for some reason best known to himself, another wad made of wash-leather. The fatal shot was fired: I felt a stinging pain in my lip as I fell. When I got up, I found my mouth was pouring with blood; the wad had hit me on the mouth and split my lip. Fulton turned to me on the stage, preparing to “take his call”, saying brightly and happily, “All right to-night, eh, Eva?”

Then he saw what had happened. The curtain went up for the “call” with poor Fulton standing with his back to the audience, staring at me. My old dresser, Kate, had a cloth wrung out in warm water ready, and I sat on the stage mopping my lip. Everyone seemed to forget all about me, the entire company gathered round the pistol, and I sat watching H. B. Irving and Charles Fulton alternately squinting down the barrel, as if some dark secret was contained in it. They went so far as to stick a bit of white paper on the fireproof curtain and shoot at it, to see how far either way the pistol “threw”. It all struck me as so intensely funny that I roared with laughing, which recalled my existence to their memory. A doctor was sent for, and I was taken to my dressing-room. Meanwhile the car was sent to the Green Room Club to call for Harry, who finished early in the play. The chauffeur (who was a very fat youth) met Charles Hallard coming out of the club; very nervously he stopped him and said, “Oh, sir, will you tell the master the mistress has been shot!” Hallard, trying to be very tactful, went into the cardroom, where Harry was playing, leant over him, and said in a dignified whisper, “It’s all right, don’t worry, Eva’s not badly hurt.” Harry rushed round to the theatre, to find poor Fulton walking up and down in great distress. He tried to stop Harry to explain “how it happened”; all he got was a furious “Curse you, curse you!” from Harry, who was nearly beside himself; no doubt picturing me dead.

I asked the doctor to give me “the same thing as he gave the prize-fighters”, to stop my lip swelling; and he did; but when I played the following night, which I had to do, as my understudy did not know the part, I felt that I had enough superfluous face easily to “make another”.

I used to do a “fall” in Lights Out—which, by the way, I never rehearsed—which used to take the make-up off the end of my nose every night.

I have played in many costume parts—Powder-and-Patch—which I loved. There was “Lady Mary” (the “Lady of the Rose”, as she was called) in the famous play, Monsieur Beaucaire, when Lewis Waller revived that play. “Lady Mary” was not a very sympathetic part, but picturesque; and to play with Will (as he was lovingly called by all who knew him) was a joy. I had a lovely doll, dressed as “Lady Mary”, presented to me, and I have her still.

Sweet Kitty Bellaires, by Egerton Castle, was another Powder-and-Patch part; she was a delight to play, but, alas! that play was not one of those that ran as long as it deserved. In one scene, a large four-poster bed was required, in which Kitty in her huge crinoline and flowing train had to hide herself when she heard the arrival of unwelcome visitors; but it was not considered “nice” for a bed to be used, at anyrate in that theatre, so after the dress rehearsal the bed was removed, and Kitty had to hide behind window curtains.

Shortly after this play, Miss Jill Esmond made her first bow to the world; a wee but most amiable baby, all laughter and happiness; in fact, during one holiday at Puise, near Dieppe, where we spent a lovely family holiday, Jack used to make her laugh so much I quite feared for her.

When I played in Alfred Sutro’s play, John Glayde’s Honour, with George Alexander, Matheson Lang was playing, what I think I am right in saying was his first “lover” part in London, in the same play. My mother came to the first night, and watched me play the part of a wife who leaves her husband, going away with her lover. Her comment was: “I’m sure you were very clever, darling,” as she kissed me; “but I never want to see you play that part again.” “Muriel Glayde”, though not really a sympathetic character, was intensely interesting, and I loved playing her.

Which reminds me of another story of my mother, that I can tell here. After my father died, she came to live in London. She was then 73 years old. She had been up to town to see the flat which we had taken for her, and to make certain arrangements. She was going back to Brighton, and I was driving with her to the station, when she said, seriously: “Of course, darling, when I come to live in London, I shall not expect to go to a theatre every night.” To go to the theatre every night had been her custom during her brief visits to me when my father had been alive.

When I played in Mr. Somerset Maugham’s play, The Explorer, in 1908, I had a narrow escape from what might have been a nasty accident. Mr. A. E. George was playing my lover, and in the love scene he used to take from me the parasol which I carried and practise “golf strokes” with it to cover his (“stage”, not real, be it said) nervousness. One evening the parasol and its handle parted company; the handle remained in his hand, and the other half flew past my cheek, so near that I could hardly believe it had left me untouched, and buried itself in the scenery behind me. There was a gasp from the audience, then I laughed, and they laughed, and all was well.

That winter I played “Dearest” in Mrs. Hodgson Burnett’s Little Lord Fauntleroy. “Dearest” is a young widow, and I remember after Harry had seen the play his comment was: “Well, it is not given to every man to see his wife a widow!”

Earlier in that year I went to Drury Lane to play in The Marriages of Mayfair, one of those spectacular dramas for which the Lane was so famous. Lyn Harding and that delightful actor, Mr. Chevalier, who, alas! has lately died, were both in the play. There was one very dangerous—or, anyhow, very dangerous-looking—scene. Mr. Chevalier and I had to appear in a sledge which was supposed to be coming down the mountain-side. The platform—or, rather, the two platforms—on which Mr. Chevalier, myself, driver, horse, and sledge had to wait before appearing, was built up as high as the upper circle of the theatre. The horse, after a few performances, learned to know his cue for appearing, got very excited, and took to dancing, much to our alarm. The two platforms used slowly to divide, and we could see down to the depths of the theatre, right below the stage. Mr. Chevalier and I used to sit with one leg outside the sledge, in case it became necessary for us to make a hasty leap. Later, a horse that was a less vivid actor was given the rÔle, much to our comfort. I remember it was suggested that Miss Marie Lloyd should appear and play herself, but Miss Lloyd did not fall in with the idea.

I have heard that she did not care for either pantomime, revue, or the drama, and did not consider herself suited to it. Which reminds me of a story which was told to me about an occasion when Marie Lloyd appeared in pantomime. Her great friend, Mrs. Edie Karno, came round after the performance, and was asked by the comedienne: “Well, dear, what do you think of me in pantomime?”

Edie Karno, who was nothing if not truthful, and who had herself been one of the greatest “mime” actresses of the last generation, replied: “I don’t think it suits you like your own work.”

“You don’t think I’m very good?” pursued Marie Lloyd.

“Not very, dear,” admitted the other.

“Not very good?” repeated Marie Lloyd. “You’re wrong; as a matter of fact, I’m damned rotten in it!”

Speaking of criticism reminds me of a story of the French authoress who went to see Sir John Hare rehearse “Napoleon” in her play, La Belle Marseilles. He did not look as she had expected, and she said, in broken English, “Oh! he is too old, he is too little, he is too sick, and besides he cannot act.” She had not seen him play in A Pair of Spectacles.

And again, when I was playing in The Dangerous Age, at the beginning of the war, a woman sent round a note to me, saying: “I have enjoyed the play so much. I can’t see at all, I’ve cried so much.”

When Looking for Trouble was produced in 1910, at the Aldwych, there was some litigation over it, and the case came up for arbitration. The judge’s decision is (I think I am right in saying) in these cases placed in a sealed box. The contesting parties have to pay a fee of (again I can only say “I think”) of £100 for the box to be opened. In this case neither of them was willing to do this, so the box remained unopened; and, as far as I know, the decision remains unknown to this day.

It was while I was rehearsing in Looking for Trouble that the news of the loss of the “Titanic” came through. I shall always remember that afternoon. I came out, with no idea what had happened, to find the whole Strand hushed. There is no other word for it; people quite unknown to each other stood talking quietly, and everyone seemed stunned by the news of the frightful disaster, which seemed an impossibility.

Then came our first short American tour, and the War. I did a short tour, and then “War Work” kept me busy until 1918, when, under the management of Mr. J. E. Vedrenne, I went to the Royalty to play in Arnold Bennett’s delightful play, The Title, with Aubrey Smith. The whole ten months I was at the Royalty in this play were sheer happiness. I had a management who were considerate in every way; I liked the whole company enormously; I had a wonderfully charming part—what could anyone want more? CÆsar’s Wife followed at the Royalty, and I stayed there to play in it. I remember I had to knit on the stage, and the work I managed to get through, in the way of silk sports stockings, etc., was very considerable.

Again under Mr. Vedrenne’s management, I played “Mumsie” in Mr. Knoblauch’s play of the same name. Mumsie was a great play. Some day it will be revived; some day, when the scars left by the war are somewhat healed, we shall be able to watch it without pain; but then the war was too near, we still felt it too acutely, the whole play was too real, too vivid for the audience to be able to watch it with any degree of comfort. Mumsie was short-lived, but I look back on the play with great affection. My part was wonderful, and I say, without any undue conceit or pride in my own powers, it was my tour de force. I worked at the part very hard, for I had to acquire a French accent, and, as I do not speak French, it was difficult. I had my reward for all my work in the satisfaction of knowing that the author liked my work. Perhaps the greatest compliment that was paid to my accent was one evening when the Baron Emile d’Erlanger came to see me. He poured out what was, I am told, a stream of praise in French; and when I explained, as best I could, that I had not understood one word, he refused to believe me.

Then came The Ruined Lady; again Aubrey Smith and I were together. It was during the run of this play that I first met Sir Ernest Shackleton. I found him, as I think I have said elsewhere, delightfully unaffected and modest. He had a plan that Harry should turn his book, South, into a film, but the scheme never materialised. Our Canadian tour followed, and when I came back I found Mr. Norman McKinnel waiting for me to play in Sir Ernest Cochran’s play, A Matter of Fact, at the Comedy Theatre, a strong part of emotion which I thoroughly enjoyed. This was followed by my first white-haired part at the St. James’s, in The Bat, the play that made everybody who saw it thrill with excitement. This play had a long run, and during that time I played in a film, Flames of Passion, which led to my recent visit to Berlin to play in Chu Chin Chow for the same firm.

There, then, is the account of my life, as truthfully as I can record it. For I have never kept diaries, and have had to rely on what, I find, is not always as reliable as I could wish—my memory. And yet sometimes it is too fertile, too ready to remind me, to prompt me to remember fresh stories. Now, when I feel that I have finished and made an end, other recollections come to me, and I am tempted to begin all over again.

I have at least two in my mind now, which I must give you, though they have no bearing on what I have been writing. Still, after all, I am not attempting to give an accredited autobiography; I am only trying to tell things that happened. So here are the stories which refuse to be left out, or be put in their proper place in another chapter:

Sir Herbert Tree.—One night, during a performance at His Majesty’s, he walked on to the stage just as the curtain was going up. Suddenly he saw, standing at the far side of the stage, a new member of his company; he crossed over to him and asked, “Is it true that you were once with Granville Barker?” “Yes,” replied the man, nervously, “it is true.” “Oh, my God!” said Tree; then, turning to the stage manager, said, “Ring up.”

Again: The day he was to receive his knighthood, a rehearsal was called in the afternoon. Everyone knew that Tree was being knighted on that day, and much astonishment was expressed. The company assembled on the stage, and after a short time Tree appeared in the full glory of his ceremonial dress. He looked round at the company, slowly, then said: “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen; I don’t think I need detain you any longer. Good-bye,” and left the theatre.