To explain why I include this chapter at all, I want to give you the scene as it happened in my study in Whiteheads Grove. I think that will be a better explanation than if I were to tell you my ideas on letters and letter-writing, however fully and completely I might do so.

It was one of those days when the desire to explore drawers and boxes, the top shelves of cupboards, and brown paper parcels, comes over one; that desire came over me, and I began. I did not get on very fast—one never does—and the first obstacle was a parcel marked “Letters, Private”. I untied the string, and began to read them; that was the end of my exploring for the day, for as I read I went back to the times when those letters were written and turned over in my mind the happenings which had caused them ever to be written. I saw the writers, and heard their voices. So the afternoon went past very quickly, for when ghosts come to visit you they demand your whole attention, and will not be dismissed quickly, will not be told, as one can tell ordinary people, “I am so busy to-day, will you come and see me some other time?”; they demand attention, and you find most of them too dear to deny it to them.

Besides, does anyone ever really lose their fondness for letters? I write, I think, more than most people; sometimes I seem to spend my life writing letters, but—I still look forward to “to-morrow morning’s post”, and I think I always shall.

As I read these old letters, written to me and to Harry during the past twenty years, I found myself laying aside first this one, and then that one, because they seemed amusing, or very kind, or especially indicative of the character of the writer. When the afternoon was over, my heap of letters had grown, and I had determined to make them into a parcel again and give them to whoever cared to read them as “A Bundle of Old Letters”.

Listen to this one: I do not know why it was written, or when, except that it is headed “February 1st”—but it takes me back to the days of “The Gent., the Genius, and the Young Greek God”—the days when Harry Esmond, Charles Hallard, and Gerald du Maurier went holiday-making together:

My Dear Harry,

Expressing one’s thoughts in any way is a form of conceit, surely, isn’t it? If you speak them, or write them, you expect others to listen—therefore you must consider what you think of importance. Authors must all be of a conceit that is abnormal, and preachers, and—Good God—Poets!

Some people would rather not listen to the commonplace thoughts of others—for these there should just be a “news sheet”, giving generally what is taking place, with no garnishings and comments and “what we think”, etc.—for silent men like “Tug” Wilson, engineers, scientists, and equilibrists. Nowadays (do you agree with me?) too much expression is given to “feelings”, and little feeble feelings at that. There is no loud roar of a lion, no sweet song of a nightingale, and no great hush either—it is all sparrows, and a banging door. Everything is “tuppence”. You never read: “Death of A——”; it is always “Tragic Death”, “Splendid Death”, “Comic Death”; why not “Death”?

Love to you all.

Here is a letter dated “June 30th, 1898”; it is headed New York, and begins:

I accept your play. I suppose even a manager may give way to his feelings sometimes, and I am going to do it now. I cannot express to you sufficiently how much I like the play. If it meets with the same impressions on an audience as it has with me, we will both have a fine thing. However, independent of all that, in these times when a manager is compelled, regretfully, to refuse so many plays, it is a gratification to be able to say “I will accept and am glad of it”.

That was a glimpse of the Charles Frohman (“C.F.”, as he was always called), whom Harry knew and loved.

This is a letter that Harry must have written out as a rough draft, for there are alterations and “cuts” in it. I cannot remember why or to whom it was written, but I am sure he wrote it very seriously, and chuckled over it after it was finished:

“If authors in engaging artists for plays allowed themselves to be biassed by the private life of each artist, I fear many theatres would close and many deserving people would starve. If Miss Smith, Jones, or Robinson suits the requirements of a play, it is not my business, or the manager’s, to enquire whether or no she murdered her mother. Is she the right person for the play?—that’s all one can consider.” There the letter—or, rather, the draft—ends; I do not know who the lady was—but I hope she made a great success.

I wonder why I have this next letter? Someone sent it to me, I suppose, with that great kindness some people show in “passing on” the really nice things that are sometimes said of one. And why not? If only everyone would forget the unkind things they hear, and only treasure and repeat the kind ones—well, the world would be a happier place for everyone. This letter is dated “May 19th, 1901”, so I feel I may be allowed to quote from it without being accused of undue conceit, because it is “so many years ago”:

“You are right, and I think it is only fair to the ‘new lead’ to say so—Eva Moore is a revelation—and that delicious natural laugh, which is of all Nature’s inventions about the hardest to reproduce at will. I suspect that Alexander has discovered what we all want so much—the new ‘Madge Kendal’.” If there is one thing for which I have always striven, it is a natural laugh, and I like to think that I had attained it twenty-two years ago; I like to think I still retain it!

Here is a letter, in large, black writing, but such charming writing it is! Full of vigour, full of humour too. I do not know when it was written; the only date is “June 22”. It runs:

That letter brings another memory with it. Perhaps it was the time when she stayed “until she went away”, but I remember Ellen Terry in my garden, going up to my mother, who was seated there, and saying, “How are you, Mrs. Moore? My name is Ellen Terry.” The simplicity and beauty of that Great Lady is something to remember always.

The next letter in my packet is very short, and its brevity and the fact that it is “very much to the point” appeals to me. It was written after seeing The Law Divine:

My Dear Harry Esmond,

Do you mind my saying your Play will live long after you—or I? That is the one thought I brought away with me.

Here is another, and again undated, except for “Feb. 19th”:

Dear Mr. Esmond,

Only a line to say how tremendously I enjoyed the play this afternoon. Why won’t you write me a play like that? I want to play “a mother”!!

What a contrast to another letter, from one of the worst actors I have ever seen, who begins by telling “My Dear Esmond” that he wants a play written for him, and proceeds to describe for six sheets of notepaper how the play is to be written and how the climax is to be reached; he ends with the words, “remember I want at least one great moment of passion”. I cannot remember that Harry ever embarked on this play, which, with its one “great moment” only insisted on, might not have held an audience for two and a half hours! Harry’s answer was, “My Dear X., God is in His Heaven.”

This letter interests me for many reasons; the writer herself had an arresting personality, and this letter, with its clarity of style, its beautifully clear and artistic writing, writing which never ceases for a single word to depict character and sensitive feeling, the sentiment bravely speaking what the writer felt, and yet never deteriorating into nothing but carping criticism; all these things go to give a very true idea of the writer:

Dear Mr. Esmond,

I followed every word and scene of your play with the deepest interest. I found it quite terrible. It would be absurd to say that such stories ought not to receive illustration on the stage. But I do say that, when they are presented, they should be told in the Shakespearean and not in the Ibsen manner. One requires poetry and music and every softening aid for tragedies so dismal, otherwise the whole thing is a nightmare. I am not older than you are, but I have had a great deal of sorrow, and I have been forced to see the squalid side of every ideal. Yet I thought you were unjust even to the worst in human nature. I know you won’t mind my saying this, because I have such an admiration for your great talents. There are so few dramatists in Europe that, where one recognises unusual ability, one may be pardoned for wishing to see it displayed to the highest advantage. Life, as it is, is quite “strong” enough; if you show it as it is not, it becomes inartistically weak from excess of horrors.—Then follows some criticism of the acting, ending with the words, “Its (the play’s) balance was so good, and it never halted or drooped. You have got the real gift.” The letter is signed “Yours sincerely, Pearl Mary-Teresa Craigie” (whom the world knew better as “John Oliver Hobbes”).

On a large sheet of very excellent paper, and somewhere near the bottom of the sheet, is written:

Dear Esmond,

Thanks very much for Grierson. I am devouring him—gloom and all—with great gusto.

This next letter must have been written concerning Grierson’s Way, and is in the queer irregular handwriting of William Archer, the great critic. He says: “Of course Messieurs of the Old Guard in criticism die, but never surrender. Never mind! You have scored a big victory, and I congratulate you with all my heart. The mantle of ‘Clemmy’ (Clement Scott) has certainly descended upon the Telegraph gentleman.”

The next item in my bundle is a photograph of the “Weekly Box Office Statement” of the Knickerbocker Theatre, New York, and at the bottom is printed “This theatre’s largest week’s business at regular prices”. The “attraction” was “Mr. N. C. Goodwin and Miss Maxine Elliott”, and the play was When We Were Twenty-One.

Letters here from Maxine Elliott! Black, rather wild writing, straggling over the pages, written with a soft, thick pen, and very “decided” ink. This one was written soon after Jill was born. Maxine Elliott is her godmother, hence the enquiries:

Dear Harry Esmond,

What is Miss Esmond’s Christian name? You didn’t tell me, and I have a little souvenir for her that I want to get marked. How proud you and Eva must be, and how secret you were! I almost believe you bought her at the Lowther Arcade! (once the Home of dolls).

Another letter from her begins: “Dear Harry Esmond,—Philadelphia the frigid, Philadelphia the unappreciative, has received us well, even at this inauspicious time to open, and I am full of hope and confidence in New York.”

Here is a third from the same source; this, I think, was written when Harry first agreed to write a play for her, which when completed was called Under the Greenwood Tree:

I am longing to hear the new play, and full of excitement over it, and what an angel you are to write it for me! I sail April 4th, and that means London—Blessed London—about the 11th.... I am doing the biggest business of my life this year, which is the only satisfaction to be derived from this laborious, monotonous, treadmill sort of grind that it is in this country of vast distances (America). I shall retire (ha! ha!) after we finish with the big play you are writing for me, you nice Harry Esmond!

My best love to you all.

Letters from busy men and women, how much they mean! Not the formal typewritten affair, but written with their own hands, and meaning moments snatched from the rush of work that they always have before them. This one from Mr. Robert Courtneidge, for instance, written from his office to Harry after The Law Divine was produced. And the sidelight that it gives to the character of the man who wrote it! Listen:

My Dear Esmond,

I saw The Law Divine yesterday, and enjoyed it more than I can express. It is a delightful play—admirably acted. It was quite a treat to me, who am not given to the theatre spirit nowadays. I didn’t go round to see you, for I’m as backward as a novice, and I tremble at “going behind” where I have no business.

Kindest regards,

P.S.—And I remember Miss Illington playing juvenile parts in Edinburgh—dear, dear! She was a braw young lassie then, but a delightful actress.

That is the Robert Courtneidge I have met; with a twinkle in his shrewd, kindly eyes, and that more than a touch of his country’s humour always ready to appear—when rehearsals are over. He is one of the people who remain young, despite the fact that at a rehearsal he has been known to put on his hat and, shaking his head, say sadly, “I’m an old man, I can’t stand it”, and so walk away. Underneath it all, though actors may turn pale and actresses may shed tears in the dark recesses of the prompt corner, there is always the twinkle in Robert Courtneidge’s eye—if you look for it!

I should not wish to praise myself; I should never wish to be an egotist, even though this is an account of “My Life”; and that is why I have included in my bundle of letters only a few that have been written to me, but mostly those which were written to Harry. Here is one, however, which appealed to me then, and does still, as “high praise”. It is from a Frenchwoman—and is, therefore, “praise from Sir Hubert Stanley”—for it refers to the performance of Mumsie, by Edward Knoblauch—that dear, human, though unsuccessful play for which I had so much love:

I could see working in you all the feelings of a Frenchwoman. You are a great artist. You give me intense pleasure. I wish to thank you very much.

This letter was written after Harry played “Touchstone”, when he was so severely criticised by some for his conception of the part:

My Dear Esmond,

Touchstone, Touchstone, Touchstone at last! A creation, a triumph, a delight; wit, fantasy, irony—that hint of the Great God Pan behind the motley—all unite to make the Touchstone I have always longed for but have only now seen for the first time.

Here is a letter which Harry wrote to me. He was arranging for a theatre at the time, though what theatre I cannot remember. He evidently feels that he has been successful in an absolutely business-like way—probably because he never was, and if he had made a fair “deal” over anything it was due entirely to the honesty of his associates and not to his own capacity, for, as I have said elsewhere, he was never “one of the children of this world”:

“Your poor husband,” he writes, “has been having a devil of a time. The evolving, the planning, the diplomacy, the craft!—but we rehearse Monday, and open in ten days. Jill had a lovely time in the garden to-day, as happy as a bumble bee. I think I’ve had the dreariest week I’ve ever had in my life, but all’s well that ends well.” Evidently all the “craft” had been taking all the colour out of life for him!

When he died, I had so many wonderful letters from all our friends, and not only friends who were personally known to me, but dear people who wrote to me from all over the world, offering their sympathy and love; offerings of sympathy from their Majesties the King and Queen—one of those signal proofs of their kindly thought in and for their subjects which have helped to make them so dearly loved by the Empire; from men and women who had worked with us, who had known Harry as an actor, as a man, or as both; from people who had never known him, but loved him for his written and spoken word; from people who had known me, and wished to send me their loving help at such a time. Among these many letters there is one from Sir Johnston Forbes Robertson, a letter full of regret at Harry’s death, and of kind and cheering thoughts for me; it gives a picture of Harry, riding a bicycle past Buckingham Palace one morning. The night before Forbes Robertson had played in a new production, and the critics in some of the papers had not been too kind. The letter recalls how Harry, riding past Forbes Robertson that morning, called out cheerily, “Never mind what they say, you were fine.” The writer adds, “Wasn’t it just like him?” One of those happy pictures of Harry which did so much to bring rays of happiness to me at that time.

Not the least beautiful was one which consisted only of a single line, the letter of the best type of Englishman, the man who “cannot talk”, but whose very affection renders him dumb. It was just this: “Eva, dear, I am so sorry for you”—and so said everything that a kind heart could say.

The pleasant memories that many of those letters recalled! As Charles Hawtrey wrote, “I look back on One Summer’s Day as nearly the happiest, if not quite the happiest, of my stage life, and it is one of the ‘memories’ that seem to dwell in the minds of many of my audiences.”

The gift that some people have of putting so much into a few lines, all the tragedy of a lifetime in a few words! One dear woman wrote to me, she having lost her much-loved husband about a year previously: “I have such pleasant memories of him (Harry); always so kind and charming to me in the early days; and, since then, both of us with both of you—and now only you and me.”

And they gave me a great deal, those letters; and here is one which expresses all I want to say—a letter from Miss Sybil Thorndike—and so I give you her words, as an expression of what I feel and what I felt then: “Doesn’t it seem strange that out of a big personal grief comes sometimes a wonderful recognition of warmth that’s in the hearts of outsiders?”

So I finish my “Bundle of Letters”, tie up the parcel, and put them away—for I cannot bring myself to destroy them. They are part of one’s life; they came as an unexpected joy, or as something looked for anxiously; they came, bringing praise, good news, sympathy, and kindly thoughts. Letter-writing as an art may be lost; but I still say, with a feeling which has always something of a child’s expectancy and hope: “There is always to-morrow morning’s post.”