SOME SPLENDID STROLLING

In the early autumn of 1878, before entering upon her all-important Lyceum engagement, Ellen Terry, accompanied by her husband, appeared in some of our leading provincial cities. Everywhere they were most warmly welcomed, and the experiment proved so successful that, even after her Lyceum duties seemed sufficient to engross all her time and attention, it was, during a period extending over two years, repeated.

That was a splendid time for the so-called "country" playgoer. I well recall how within one week at the Theatre Royal, Birmingham (this was in 1879), I saw Ellen Terry in her matchless rendering of Portia in "The Merchant of Venice," as Ophelia in "Hamlet," as Lady Teazle in the "School for Scandal," and as Lilian in "New Men and Old Acres." I would gladly live that week over again. In Shakespearean characters Charles Kelly was not, I think, seen at his best, but in his comedy parts he was admirable, and there is always an interest in seeing husband and wife act together. Actors and actresses love playing to ardent and sympathetic provincial audiences. Their absolutely unrestrained appreciation and applause delight them. The intent faces and eager ears, bent on losing neither a movement of the expression nor an inflection of the voice, act as a tonic to them; there is magnetism between the stage and the house, and under such conditions acting is sure to be at its best. There is nothing blasÉ about the provincial playgoer. He pays for a play that he wants to see, and if he is pleased he expresses his gratitude in no uncertain terms. If he is disappointed he goes sadly and quietly away, but he is never rude to those who have done their best to entertain him. "Boos" and author-baiting are happily unknown in the provinces, and no doubt this is why actors of eminence are fond of exploiting new plays in the country before exposing them to the exasperating risks of a London first night. It seems astounding that people should exist who can wantonly deride the failure of anxious authors and actors, who, having honestly sought to conquer, are miserably conscious of their own defeat. No play can be depended upon until it has gone through the ordeal of a public performance. If the piece that has read well and rehearsed well fails to grip the public, the sensitive actors and author are the first to feel it, and surely in their keen disappointment they should be spared the humiliation of rowdyism.

Not long ago there was a discussion as to the "rights" of first-night audiences to "boo" a new play and the performers in it. The views of leading actors and dramatists were sought, and Ellen Terry replied as follows:—

"I so entirely believe in the verdict of the great public that I long to have the first night of a new play over and done with, for it is, to my mind, the second night which tells me of the future good or bad fortune of the play and of our efforts. On the first night there are one's friends, so many so prejudiced; and one's enemies—not so many, but equally prejudiced, and so it seems to me that the first night scarcely counts. Then comes the second night, and all the nights. I can't tell how much it affects me—moves me—the enthusiasm, the attention, the encouragement. I just adore the public, and the public loves me back again. I know it, feel it, and am grateful for it. It refreshes my heart."

"Ellen Terry."

This is very prettily put, and it is all very true, but such a universal favourite is hardly a judge with regard to the feelings of her less loved sisters who are subject to the baseness and vulgarity of a detestable faction of first-nighters.

I may be told that provincial audiences can be very noisy, and even unruly, and it must be admitted that the gallery "gods," when packed together like dried figs in a wooden drum, are apt to be unpleasantly emphatic concerning their discomfort; but their objections are raised against each other, and rarely refer to the stage. Moreover, when anything really good or impressive is offered to them they will at once forget their grievances and become as quiet as mice.

As an instance of this, I recall an evening at the Prince of Wales' Theatre, Birmingham, when Henry Irving was announced to appear as Shylock. It had been raining hard all day, and the streets were filthy with hopeless slush. As the evening drew in the torrents descended pitilessly, but in spite of them great crowds of the faithful had assembled before the doors of the pit and gallery hours earlier than they would be opened to them. Long before curtain-rise the house was uncomfortably crowded. Outside it was wet and muggy. Inside it was oppressively close, and the hot atmosphere was redolent with the odour of saturated clothing and sodden shoe leather. Ill-temper was in the air, and at the commencement of the play the actors were greatly troubled by the noisy quarrels that arose among playgoers ill bestowed. Then Henry Irving made his striking entrance, and, instantaneously, all was silent. As if by magic, he, aided by Ellen Terry as Portia, held his audience as in a vice, and continued to do so until the end of the performance. The only sounds heard in the theatre were those of boisterous applause and ejaculations of half suppressed gratification and emotion. It was a great tribute to the power exercised by the true acting of a masterpiece.

Ellen Terry must ever bear in fond memory those splendid strolling days when the hearts of her sturdy audiences went out to her, and she, bewitchingly, responded to them. On the 1878 tour she relied chiefly on her former success as Lilian in "New Men and Old Acres," and her appearance in her sister Kate's original character of Dora, in the Tennyson-Reade play of that name. This not only conjured up happy reminiscences, but was in itself a sweetly tender and sympathetic impersonation. Charles Kelly, too, was very well placed in Henry Neville's old part of Farmer Allan, and in his make-up looked a perfect picture.

I often maintain that, if they only knew it, provincial theatre lovers have certain advantages over Londoners. Here is a case in point. They saw Ellen Terry as Dora.

In 1878 they also had the opportunity of seeing her as Iris, in an adaptation by Alfred Thompson of "La Revanche d'Iris," called "All is Vanity." In it were the elements of popularity, but it was short-lived. She and her husband subsequently appeared in it at a benefit performance given at the Lyceum on behalf of that sound actor of the old school, Henry Marston, and then it was forgotten.

In 1879 the Terry-Kelly programme was augmented by the production of an ephemeral version by Mrs. Comyns Carr of the everlasting "Frou Frou," entitled "Butterfly." Guided as it has been, and happily still is, by that great authority on dramatic art, Sir Edward Russell, the Liverpool Daily Post has always been famous for its theatrical criticisms, and in dealing with these days it is interesting to cull the following lines from its columns:—

"We cannot find words to express the charm with which Miss Terry, than whom there is no more tender and graceful actress on the British stage, invests the character of Butterfly, but those who can appreciate versatility of acting should see her play the part, and then ask themselves the question—'Could any one do it better?' She was most ably supported by Mr. Charles Kelly and Miss Fanny Pitt, whose acting greatly contributed to the success of the piece."

Of "New Men and Old Acres" the same authority rightly said:—

"It is seldom that such a piece is rendered with such perfection as that which the leading members of the cast succeeded in achieving. There is only one word which can adequately describe Miss Terry's personation of Lilian Vavasour, and that word is perfection. Natural and graceful in expression, with an inexhaustible vivacity, she maintains an unbroken spell, which is only deepened by each fresh stroke of humour and girlish outburst of sentiment, accompanied by a bewitching artillery of attitude and expression. The acting of Mr. Charles Kelly as Mr. Brown, the quiet, self-possessed man of business, was excellent in the extreme."

Of her reading of Lady Teazle in the screen scene of "The School for Scandal," it was recorded that her tenderly, tremulous, and broken accents touchingly conveyed the womanly contrition which so pathetically points the moral of a dramatic incident in which human infirmity, passion, perfidy, generosity of sentiment, and youthful gaiety and frivolity are so wonderfully and skilfully blended. And of her Dora, it was "something more than a mere stage-picture—a living, breathing reality, a perfect embodiment of Tennyson's conception."

In the September of 1880 a very interesting event took place, and as it foreshadowed one of my heroine's greatest subsequent triumphs I shall speak of it at length—or rather, I shall take the liberty of letting that eminent critic, Mr. Davenport Adams, speak for me.

"On Friday, September 3rd, Miss Ellen Terry will play Beatrice for the first time on any stage at the Grand Theatre, Leeds."

That was his text for an article from his pen that appeared in that unhappily defunct periodical, The Theatre magazine.

"I forget," he continues, "when and where I first cast eyes on this delectable announcement. It may have been here, it may have been there. I only know that when I saw it I came to an immediate and irrevocable resolution. Miss Terry as Beatrice! Why, it was one of the dreams of my existence! I say 'one of the dreams,' because I had hoped, and still hope, to see Miss Terry not only as Beatrice, but as Viola, and Imogen, and Rosalind, and perchance as Juliet, if the gods but prove propitious. But Miss Terry as Beatrice! To me it was an 'opening paradise.' My dreams were coming true. Here was the first instalment, and who should say when the remainder might not be realised? Assuredly there might be some who would resist such an attraction as the above; but I was not among them. Friday, September 3rd, saw me duly speeding northwards as fast as the Midland Railway Company could be induced to carry me. I had never been in Leeds before, and I do not hesitate to say that, save under similar provocation, I have no anxiety to go there again. Yet what cannot the imagination do for one? For me, on this occasion, Leeds was 'apparelled in celestial light.' Boar Lane and Briggate became for the nonce the primrose path which led me to the halcyon doors of the Grand Theatre. And fine doors they are! Everything is a little new, perhaps; there is nothing of the venerable temple of the drama about this brand-new building, with its imposing frontage and evident commodiousness. Clearly, you say to yourself, this is a specimen of recent handiwork, and requires time in which to mellow; but once get through the delightfully cool passages, which lead from the vestibule to the stalls—once put your foot within the auditorium—and you are charmed with everything you see. It may be all very fresh, but it is all very magnificent and impressive. O si sic omnes! If every theatre roof were but so high—if every pit were but so spacious and well-lighted—if every circle, upper circle, and gallery were but so gracefully superimposed one above the other—and, especially, if everywhere there were such a rich profusion of decoration as one sees around one! Evidently there could be no more gorgeous frame for the picture which Miss Terry was about to paint for us.

"It was Miss Terry's benefit night, and every stall was taken. This seemed to be the case, too, with the circle, and may have been so with other portions of the house. It seemed as if the pit were crammed, and in the stalls standing room was diligently sought for. It was obvious that Leeds playgoers had understood the nature of the treat that was before them. Whether it was that Miss Terry was personally the attraction of the evening, or whether Miss Terry as Beatrice had drawn the crowd, I cannot say. Suffice it that the crowd was, and that the crowd soon showed itself to be delighted."

I cannot refrain from quoting this at length, because it supports my contention as to the privileges and appreciation of provincial audiences.

"In the meantime," my authority goes on to say, "one did not occupy much time in looking round. It was not a London premiÈre, and certainly I did not hope to see a single face I knew. Yet, what was this? I could not be mistaken. There at any rate were two faces which I could not fail to recognise. At least, if that winsome countenance were not that of Miss Marion Terry, and if that not less winsome countenance beyond were not that of Miss Florence Terry—twin roses on one stalk—then did mine eyes deceive me. For myself, I opine that I was not deceived, and that Miss Terry's first appearance as Beatrice was witnessed not only by the art-lovers of the wood and iron metropolis, but by two of her sisters, both in art and by blood.

"It was not long before the curtain rose, and disclosed to us the entrance of 'Leonato, Hero, Beatrice, and others.' The Beatrice was immediately singled out, and loud and long was the applause with which she was received—applause which she insisted, first, upon sharing with the Hero (not the heroine) of the evening (Miss Ruth Francis),[2] but which she was compelled afterwards to acknowledge for herself. The opening scene, as everybody knows, plunges us at once in medias res. Beatrice shows by her first utterance what way her thoughts are tending, and this strikes the key-note of the comedy. Her first expression is a gibe at Benedick, and when, shortly afterwards, the 'Signior Montano' himself appears upon the scene, the war of wits immediately begins. Let it be said in limine that Miss Terry at once asserted herself as the very Beatrice that Shakespeare drew. That she would do so as far as personal presence was concerned was to be expected. Never was any one so well fitted to represent the 'pleasant spirited' lady, whose charms of face and figure are as irresistible as her verbal daggers. Somehow or other Miss Terry always is a perfect vision of the picturesque. Others may surpass her in special and particular marks of beauty or of manner, but no lady on the modern stage is so much of a picture in herself, or falls so readily into the composition of the larger picture formed by the combinations of a drama.

"In this case Beatrice seemed to be bodily before us. Ere she had opened her mouth she had already begun to fill the imagination. We do not have many opportunities nowadays of seeing the heroine of 'Much Ado,' but here was the only Beatrice who had hitherto completely fulfilled the requirements of the part, so far as the outward and visible person is concerned. I cannot describe the vision. I admit my incompetency so to do without a blush. A pen is useless. It is the brush of a Millais that is wanted. The picture is in my mind, but not even a Ruskin could put it on paper. For, to the mere details of face and figure and attire, have to be added all the indescribable charm of facial expression and of bodily movement—of tone, of laugh, of gesture, and of bearing—which neither the penman nor the painter can successfully reproduce.

"For such a character as that of Beatrice Miss Terry is, in fact, by nature indicated. Characteristics, which elsewhere might be out of place, are here in keeping. Miss Terry is tall, and Beatrice should be tall; a little woman could hardly have said and done such things as she says and does. Miss Terry has high spirits, and so has Beatrice; they are of the essence of her character, and without them she cannot be reproduced. Miss Terry has charm of manner as well as incisiveness of speech, and so has Beatrice, with whom the 'poniards' of her tongue are half blunted by the fascination of her smile. You would think that her eyes pierced as keenly as her words, but it is not so; the words may wound, but the eyes mitigate or charm away pain. So with Miss Terry. Speeches which in any other mouth would grate upon us are in hers but so many incitements to admiration and regard.

"And if Miss Terry is thus personally fitted for the character, it need hardly be said that it is quite within the range of her artistic capability. Indeed, it is well within the range of many less admirable artists. It is a straightforward character. There is no mystery about it. Two different notions of Beatrice are, I should say, scarcely possible—her nature is so entirely on the surface. She tells us herself that she was 'born to speak all mirth and no matter.' 'She was born,' says Don Pedro, 'in a merry hour.' Benedick calls her 'My Lady Disdain' and 'Lady Tongue.' 'Shrewd of tongue,' according to her uncle, she also 'apprehends passing shrewdly.' In a word, she is clever, she is high-spirited, she is witty; but she is more. She can feel keen indignation, and for all her 'mocking at her suitors,' she can look tenderly upon one at least. For obviously she loves Benedick, more or less, from the beginning. Her first inquiry is for him, and she thinks him worthy of her most unsparing raillery. She sneers at him so pointedly that all the world marks the fact and smiles at it. Nothing seems more natural to the bystanders than that they should make a match.

"And so, it seems to me, Miss Terry sees the character. In the very first scene she pursues Benedick with her flouts and quips, and evidently takes pleasure in the encounter. Though she hits so hard there is evidently an arriÈre pensÉe of respect for the gallant cavalier whose 'approved valour' cannot but impress her, whilst his 'quick wit' not unmingled with self-satisfaction spurs her on to action. One can see that when she scoffs at marriage it is with no more real sincerity than Benedick displays on the same subject. Her wit must have its way; conscious of possessing it, she is fain to exercise it. She revels in the contempt she pours upon the 'sons of Adam.' And so in the scene in which she taunts the masked Benedick to desperation. It is all done in pure diablerie. It is simple mischief, inspired by keen delight at finding her butt so agreeably vulnerable. That she is no mere shrill-tongued termagant is shown in the passage where she so gracefully turns off the Don's gallant offer of his heart and hand. And as for her deeper nature—the real Beatrice, hidden underneath the everyday veneer of wit and raillery—what could be more truly descriptive of it than the scene in which, led into the belief that Benedick is really fond of her, she says farewell to maiden pride and to contempt, and prepares to 'tame' her 'wild heart' to his 'loving hand'? The accusation brought against her cousin is not less effective in arousing the latent forces of her character; and the church scene, in its combination of passionate anger against Hero's slanderers, and charming half-confession of affection felt, is conclusive in its testimony to the open naturalness of the character which Miss Terry has so aptly and admirably conceived. As for the technique of the performance, it must be remembered that it was a first assumption. Miss Terry may have played the part somewhere before September 3rd, but the fact is not recorded, and there is no reason to believe that the announcement of 'first time' was anything but literally true. And that being the case, it would be unfair to expect the impersonation to be totus teres atque rotundus. Miss Terry has all the ultra-sensitiveness of the true artist, and it is not improper to suggest that, on the occasion in question, she was not entirely mistress of her powerful resources. The most experienced players are the most nervous on first nights. And assuredly there are points in which Miss Terry will improve upon her first assumption of this latest part of hers. Some artists grow into their rÔles, and Miss Terry is one of them. Her Portia nowadays is very much superior to what it was when played originally at the Prince of Wales'. And no doubt Miss Terry, who has since played Beatrice at Manchester and elsewhere, during her provincial tour, has already added the touches necessary to make the representation as near perfection as art and aptitude can make it. No doubt every word, every phrase, every sentence now has its due weight and effect communicated to it; no doubt details of 'business' have been arranged until there is now no room for further elaboration; no doubt the character, thoroughly grasped in the study, has by this time been thoroughly grasped upon the stage. On the first night it was hardly possible not to notice the nervousness indicated in the opening scene, and throughout there were slight slips in the words, and occasional misplacements of due emphasis, together with a lack of perfect roundness in the general form of the assumption. The artist was obviously to a great extent feeling her way.

"And yet how enjoyable and admirable was the assumption! In spite of these minor blemishes of execution, it was yet Shakespeare's Beatrice, I repeat, who stood and moved and spoke before us. The impression made at the beginning was continued to the close, gathering in force and effectiveness as it went. The raillery against marriage, and the wit combats with Benedick, were carried off with exhilarating vivacity, so that applause and laughter followed inevitably upon both. The former was accompanied by a running fire of cachinnation from the delighted audience. The next point was made when Benedick was charmingly chaffed as the 'Prince's jester,' and the short but exquisite rencontre with Don Pedro was evidently very much relished. The first 'call' was made when Beatrice came to summon her knight to dinner. The curtain fell on this, and Miss Terry and Mr. Kelly had both to bow their acknowledgments. Then came the scene in which Beatrice listens in the arbour to the delusive tale of Ursula and Hero. The short speech which follows was very agreeably declaimed; and when, declaring her belief in Benedick's deserts, Beatrice sank upon the seat in one of those attitudes possible only to Miss Terry, the impression made was naturally very great indeed. The chief scene for Beatrice is, however, in the church after the bridal party has dispersed, all save herself and Benedick. Up to that point she has little to do but contribute her share of byplay to the situation (always appropriately done by Miss Terry), to comfort her cousin with all sorts of feminine attention, and incidentally to make that vehement declaration—

'Oh, on my soul, my cousin is belied!'

which gives the earliest indication of the characteristic outburst that is to follow. In that outburst itself, Miss Terry was hardly sufficiently varied in her representation of the feeling which is supposed to consume her. It was very impressive, especially in the sudden violence of her 'Kill Claudio!' but it wanted that absolute adaptability of means to end which has no doubt been communicated to it since. Best of all, perhaps, was the brief exchange of love vows with Benedick; a very brief but charming and beautifully-indicated episode in a scene which, as a whole, pleased the audience mightily, and secured for both the artists a persistent 'call.' After this, as we all know, Beatrice has but two short appearances on the stage, which serve chiefly to complete the picture, but, on this occasion, served further to consummate the triumph which, anything or everything notwithstanding, was unquestionably and deservedly accorded to Miss Terry. The curtain fell, in fact, upon an unmistakable popular success which it wanted only practice and experience to convert into a permanent artistic victory.

"It should be recorded that Miss Terry was effectively seconded throughout by Mr. Kelly. That able and accomplished actor was the Benedick of the occasion, and a very acceptable performance did he give. I confess I was not altogether prepared for the excellence of the effect created by Mr. Kelly in this rÔle. His very make-up was a surprise. Could this gallant cavalier—bearded, whiskered, and moustached, with the bronze of battle on his cheeks, and just the faintest soupÇon of the dandy and the lady-killer in his manner—be the quiet, serious-minded Brown of 'New Men and Old Acres' in another guise? It was a revelation. And if the appearance of Mr. Kelly was a revelation, so, to some extent, was his enjoyable and largely satisfying rendering of the rÔle itself. Mr. Kelly's conception of Benedick is that of a man who has passed the first flush of youth, has seen many men and cities, has had his experience of 'the fair,' and is inclined to think somewhat lightly of them, save, indeed, of this 'Lady Disdain,' who so stabs him with her words. It is easy to see that he is not indifferent to her charms, else why is he so affected by her quips and cranks? else why is he so readily converted from his vaunted woman-hatred? It is easy, too, to see that this stalwart knight, of 'noble strain' and of 'quick wit,' is the very man on whom such a woman as Beatrice would naturally bestow her thoughts. He, too, has his deeper nature as well as she. And Mr. Kelly brought out the various differentia of the character very artistically. The woman-hatred was soon seen to be skin deep. The irritation at the 'chaff' of Beatrice was skilfully indicated without being over-done. The soliloquy in reference to his 'not impossible she' was spoken with excellent abandon, whilst the speech after his supposed discovery of Beatrice's love for him was admirable in its delineation of delighted surprise. Equally successful was Mr. Kelly in the scene where Benedick is badgered by Claudio and Don Pedro, and that other passage in which he conveys his challenge to the former. The unconscious comedy of the one was as well considered as the serious dignity of the other.... For the rest, I have but one regret in reference to this performance, and that is, that the exigencies of the play do not permit Beatrice to be upon the stage throughout the whole of the comedy. Dogberry and Verges are inimitable, and Benedick is everywhere acceptable; but still if Shakespeare had only given us a little more of this not least charming of his charming heroines! Could he have foreseen the Beatrice of Miss Ellen Terry, he would, perhaps, have done so. And yet, I do not know. Too much exhilaration is not good for us, and it is perhaps the truest mercy that Beatrice should not be for ever scattering about her verbal diamonds, and that Miss Ellen Terry should not for ever make the stage brilliant and enchanting by her delightful presence."

The cast of this memorable Leeds production was in many ways an interesting one. Mr. Philip Beck was Don Pedro; Mr. C. Brookfield, Don John; Mr. Norman Forbes, Claudio; Mr. Arthur Mood, Dogberry; Mr. Lin Rayne, Verges; and Miss Elinor Aickin, Ursula.

How, in accordance with Davenport Adams' prediction, Ellen Terry's Beatrice developed into a "permanent artistic victory" we all know to-day. Undoubtedly, and as we shall presently see, it was one of the finest, and in some respects (for her comedy is so winsome) one of the most attractive of her long series of Shakespearean triumphs at the Lyceum.

What a series it has been! It is not surprising that she should say—"I seem to have made the acquaintance and to know quite intimately some noble people—Hamlet and Ophelia, Portia, Benedick, and Beatrice, Romeo and Juliet, Viola, the Macbeths. All this makes me rejoice and wonder how it is that I'm not a superior person! I have dwelt with such very good company. It has been all sunshine, with a wee cloud here and there to give zest to life; and my lines have been laid in pleasant places. How terrible it must be to have to do the work one abhors!"

It is because she has done the work that she loves, and has made the sweet tenderness of her love for it so manifest, that she has continually stirred the imagination, and lastingly won the hearts of her audiences.