MARION AND FLORENCE TERRY

While Ellen Terry was firmly cementing her popularity and ever adding to her fame, two of the younger members of her gifted family had come to the front to add to the honour of the name they bore. These were her sisters, Marion and Florence. It is generally understood that the dÉbut of Florence Terry was made in 1870, while the first appearance of Marion Terry was delayed until 1873, but I think there may have been a good many previous tentative performances. The Terrys always believed in groundwork, and we may be sure that these young ladies were carefully taught the art of acting.

My old friend, W. H. Vernon, has told me how, when he was fulfilling his long engagement under Henry Neville's management at the Olympic Theatre, the two young sisters played with him in an old-fashioned one-act drama by John Howard Payne, entitled "Love in Humble Life." Their mother was constantly with them, and Kate Terry used to "coach" her sisters at rehearsal. They were quite unaccustomed to the stage, but, says my friend, "the Terry charm was there, crude, and unformed as it all was."

"Love in Humble Life" does not offer much scope for acting, and the girls had to content themselves with playing on alternate nights the one feminine character of Christine.

In 1870 Florence Terry was certainly ripe for a public appearance in a piece of importance. On June 15th, at the Adelphi—the theatre in which, it will be remembered, her sister Kate had said her farewell—she went through the ordeal and acquitted herself right worthily. The piece was an English version of MoliÈre's "Le Malade Imaginaire," entitled "The Robust Invalid," and her part was that of Louison. Although his name did not appear in the bills, it was generally understood that the adaptation was from the pen of the Terrys' old and well-tried friend, Charles Reade, and the chance was a good one for the young artiste. Vining and Mrs. Seymour were in the cast and all went well.

In connection with "Le Malade Imaginaire," it can never be forgotten that MoliÈre was playing his own creation in it when he broke a blood-vessel. Gallantly he struggled on to the hour of curtain fall, and then, in a dying state, was taken to his home.

In the November of 1870 Florence Terry was engaged to play Little Nell at the Olympic Theatre in Andrew Halliday's stage version of "The Old Curiosity Shop"; probably one of the best adaptations from Dickens (how unsatisfactory they all are!) that has been seen in the theatre.

No one who saw it will forget the exquisite pathos and tenderness with which she endowed the character of the sorely tried, yet always gentle-souled and trusting child. She made us think, as Bret Harte has sweetly put it, that we

and she took us by the hand until, "on English meadows," her audiences

No doubt she was greatly helped by the deeply impressive and affecting portrayal by George Belmore of the weak-minded but affectionate old grandfather. The two made a perfect picture. The Quilp of the cast, in the person of clever John Clarke, is a thing that, in its effective, savage, grotesque, and always true realism, haunts the memory.

Marion Terry made her first bold, histrionic plunge in 1873. This was at the Crystal Palace, when she played Ophelia to the Hamlet of Steele Mackaye. Mackaye was the protÉgÉ of Tom Taylor, and the then leading English dramatist made a new acting version of Shakespeare's masterpiece for his behoof. Great things were expected of it, but the production merely excited passing curiosity, and though it was taken to the Shakespeare-loving provinces it soon flickered out. Thus did Marion and Florence Terry—"twin roses on one stalk," as Davenport Adams called them—take the rank of Princesses in Stage Land.

The career of Florence Terry was destined to be a brief one, but, happily, Marion Terry is still with us, still charming us; and every one will agree with Clement Scott's words—"She is one of the very few actresses I have known who has never gone back from her gentle career of continued success. On and on she has wended her way, improving and improving. With her gifted sisters, some characters have suited her better than others; but from the old Olympic days down to the present time I never remember to have been disappointed with Marion Terry, or wished she had not appeared in such and such a character."

In 1874 she became a prominent member of Henry Neville's company at the Olympic, appearing (inter alia) in an English version of "Le Mariage de Figaro," by James Mortimer, entitled "A School for Intrigue." Henry Neville was the Almaviva, Edward Righton the Figaro, and Emily Fowler the Suzanne. Later, in a revival of "Much Ado about Nothing," she made a very winsome Hero to the Beatrice of Emily Fowler, the Benedick of Henry Neville (this was a delightful reproduction of Shakespeare's spirited picture), the Don Pedro of W. H. Vernon, the Dogberry of Edward Righton, and the Verges of G. W. Anson. Then she migrated to the Strand Theatre, to play in some of H. J. Byron's pleasant comedies, such as "Old Sailors" and "Weak Woman." Of the last-named play, Edward Leman Blanchard (never inclined to be enthusiastic) said that it was "a brightly written and most ingeniously constructed piece; excellently acted, and having a well-deserved success." As its heroine, Marion Terry became very popular, and successes were also made by Ada Swanborough, W. H. Vernon, J. G. Grahame, Harry Cox, and Edward Terry. In the hands of the last-named admirable comedian—and thanks to the excellence of his acting in the eccentric character of Captain Ginger—"Weak Woman" still holds the stage. On September 11th, 1876, came the young actress's first great chance, and right worthily she availed herself of it. On that evening W. S. Gilbert's three-act drama, "Dan'l Druce, Blacksmith," was produced at the Haymarket Theatre, and to her was allotted the one feminine, but all-important, part of Dorothy. The dramatist had avowedly taken the episode of the first act—the finding by the saturnine blacksmith of a wee but winning girl-baby in his lonely hermitage—a mere hut by the sea-shore—from George Eliot's beautiful story, "Silas Marner," but that was all the better, for it formed the prelude to a most interesting play. In it Marion Terry made an instantaneous success by the absolute simplicity of her acting. With a grip rare in so young an artiste, she had realised her author's meaning; her love-scenes (with Forbes Robertson) were finely presented, and, throughout the two acts in which she appeared, her quietly won victory was from the first apparent, and ultimately complete. With such actors as Hermann Vezin, Henry Howe, Odell, and Forbes Robertson, she easily held her own, and shared in the honours of a notable artistic success.

In the October of 1877 there was a greater and even a unique triumph. This was in W. S. Gilbert's whimsically conceived and wittily written farcical comedy "Engaged,"—in its way a gem of the first water, with its every facet cut and polished to the point of resplendency. Good as was the acting of George Honey as Cheviot Hill, Fred Dewar as Angus Macalister, Harold Kyrle (Kyrle Bellew) as Belvawney, Henry Howe as Mr. Symperson, Lucy Buckstone as Miss Symperson, Emily Thorne as Mrs. Macfarlane, and Julia Stewart as the "Lowland Lassie," Maggie Macfarlane, the Belinda Treherne of Marion Terry capped them one and all. It was, indeed, an impersonation as humorous as it was original. If it had not been interpreted as she interpreted it, the very fabric of the work might have fallen; but the extreme cleverness of her acting in a most difficult part held it up, and she became a joy to all endowed with a true sense of fun. It will be remembered that the character is that of a young lady who, apparently steeped in romantic notions, possesses a remarkably matter-of-fact mind. She manifestly believes in herself, but, under the surface of her honeyed rhodomontade, she has to let the audience see the under-current of her secret and worldly aspirations. Badly done, the character would have been impossible. Handled as it was by Marion Terry it became not only delicious in its humour, but strangely convincing. Let us listen to the ring of one or two of the sentences with which she was called upon to deal.

In the first act she meets the susceptible Cheviot Hill; he immediately falls in love with her, and in reply to his words of gushing admiration she says—

"I cannot deny that there is much truth in the sentiments you so beautifully express, but I am, unhappily, too well aware that, whatever advantages I may possess, personal beauty is not among the number."

And when he has replied—

"How exquisitely modest is this chaste insensibility to your own singular loveliness! How infinitely more winning than the bold-faced self-appreciation of underbred country girls!"

She answers—

"I am glad, sir, that you are pleased with my modesty. It has often been admired." The whole house rocked with laughter, and there, on the stage, stood the graceful, pretty, and impassive girl, who, in a very remarkable way, had given meaning to the writer's every word. Her lines were so ridiculous, yet so telling, that we all felt it a wonder that she did not laugh with us. No! Like the perfect, well-graced actress she has ever been, she lived in her part, and seemed absolutely to forget that she was playing to a crowded audience.

One more instance.

In the third act the amorous Cheviot returns from his mission to Scotland to find that during his absence his two English lady-loves, Belinda Treherne and Minnie Symperson, have (at least) been amusing themselves with the dangerous Belvawney. Prompted by absurd jealousy, the ridiculous man expostulates; he cannot bear to hear that the girls, who ought to have been pining for him, have been amused by the impostor's conjuring tricks, that they have, in short, to use his own words, been "Belvawneying." The following conversation ensues:—

Minnie. Have you seen him (Belvawney) bring a live hen, two hair-brushes, and a pound and a half of fresh butter out of his pocket-handkerchief?

Cheviot. No, I have not had that advantage.

Belinda. It is a thrilling sight.

Cheviot. So I should be disposed to imagine. Pretty goings on in my absence. You seem to forget that you two girls are engaged to be married to me!

Belinda. Ah, Cheviot, do not judge us harshly. We love you with a reckless fervour that thrills us to the very marrow—(to Minnie) don't we, darling? But the hours crept heavily without you, and when, to lighten the gloom in which we were plunged, the kindly creature swallowed a live rabbit, and brought it out, smothered with onions, from his left boot, we could not choose but smile. The good soul has promised to teach me the trick.

Could anything be more superlatively or irresistibly ludicrous than this? And yet Marion Terry, with an unmoved and quietly angelic face, spoke the words as if she absolutely believed in them, and scored a success for the author that he could hardly have anticipated.

Again, when with all her own carefully planned motives in full play, Belinda comes dressed in funereal and stately black to the home of her rival, Minnie Symperson, on the day of that outwardly artless young lady's strictly "quiet" wedding with the fickle and faithless Cheviot Hill, she serenely says: "At last I am in my darling's home, the home of the bright, blythe, carolling thing that lit, as with a ray of heaven's sunlight, the murky gloom of my miserable schooldays. But what do I see? Tarts? Ginger wine? There are rejoicings of some kind afoot. Alas! I am out of place here. What have I in common with tarts? Oh, I am ill attuned to scenes of revelry," and then takes a tart, and, with calm appreciation, eats it. Once more the house shook with merriment, but she remained as composed as if she were taking part in some solemn and sacred rite.

Many very clever actresses have since played the part, but they have perforce acted on the lines originally laid down by its creatress. They have all been popular, but there has been only one and incomparable Belinda Treherne, and she was Marion Terry. To those who could appreciate its extreme cleverness, "Engaged" made a delightful and even fascinating entertainment, though it has truly been said that the play afforded a picture of humanity more cynical than had been painted since the days of Swift.

In March 1879, Marion Terry earned another debt of gratitude from W. S. Gilbert. This was at the Olympic Theatre in "Gretchen," a play in four acts. The author stated that the leading idea of this work was suggested by Goethe's "Faust," but that, with the exception of a scene between Mephisto and Martha, the dialogue was original. It was not only original but brilliant, and if the piece failed to draw the multitude it was through no fault of its author.

Joseph Knight said of it:—

"Never, perhaps, in the history of letters has an experiment been tried bolder or more startling than that of Mr. Gilbert in the production of 'Gretchen.' When Dryden and Davenant and their successors undertook to remove the crude work of Shakespeare to suit their own more cultivated tastes, there was nothing especially courageous in the action. The fame of Shakespeare did not then stand on the pinnacle in the sight of all men it has subsequently occupied. From its first appearance, however, the 'Faust' of Goethe took intellectual Europe by storm. So sensible is Mr. Gilbert of the worth of the work with which he deals, he justifies his own effort on the one ground that the play he alters is not suited to dramatic exposition, and he fortifies his opinion on this point by quoting the assertion of Schlegel, in his lecture on German drama, that 'Faust' runs out in all directions beyond the limits of the theatre." To the thoughtful, "Gretchen" was a most interesting production, and no doubt much of its charm was due to the gentle and maidenly style, and quiet earnestness of Marion Terry as its deeply sinned against heroine.

We have only to take these three important and original characters—Dorothy, Belinda Treherne, and Gretchen—to prove that she is not only a consummate, but a curiously versatile actress.

But the three striking triumphs did not follow each other in succession. In 1877 she had, at the Haymarket, followed Mrs. Kendal (this, seeing what a matchless performance that had been was a formidable ordeal) as Galatea, and won much and well-merited praise—and in the following year she supported Sothern as the heroine of that ill-fated production, "The Crushed Tragedian," by H. J. Byron.

That was poor Sothern's last bid for popularity in an original character, and its failure in London (it had been a great success in America) was a disappointment from which he never quite recovered.

Concerning it he had written:—

"It appeared to me that if I could good-naturedly satirise the old school of acting, contrasting it through the several characters with the present school, I should arrive at the same effects in another manner which were produced in Dundreary; that is to say, that though stigmatised by everybody as a very bad tragedian, I should gain the sympathy of the audience in the satire, however much they might laugh at my peculiarities. The character is not an imitation of any one actor I have ever seen. I have simply boiled down all the old school tragedians as I boiled down all the fops I had met before I played Dundreary. I tested the piece in Philadelphia, and its success was immediate. In my judgment, 'The Crushed Tragedian,' if not the best part in my repertory, is likely to command popular favour at once wherever it is performed, and to retain its hold upon the stage for many years."

Before producing the piece in London he had, according to his custom, "tried" it in the provinces, and in Birmingham it was most enthusiastically received. Sothern was in high spirits that night. "I have got my second Dundreary success," he declared to me; "I didn't know how my 'Fitz' would go in England, but I see it's all right, and, mark me, this means five hundred nights at the Haymarket!" Full of assurance he left the next day for London. In the evening "The Crushed Tragedian" was produced at the Haymarket, and—well, the sad fate of that version of Byron's play is a matter of theatrical history. The next day he wrote: "An organised system to d—n the piece. Rows of hissers. We'll see who'll win!" We know now who won—and I fear that the loss of that game told heavily on Sothern's heart. It is not for me to defend, in the face of abler critics, "The Crushed Tragedian," but I think that all who saw the impersonation will allow that it contained many touches by no means unworthy of the creator of Dundreary. It was, however, caviare to the general, and in London failed to attract.

In the midst of his disappointment Sothern told me how delighted he was with the acting of Marion Terry in the character of Florence Bristowe. As the old prompter Henry Howe was excellent.

Her next engagement was with the Bancrofts at the old Prince of Wales' Theatre, and her first important part there was that of Mabel Holne in James Albery's adaptation of Victorien Sardou's "Les Bourgeois de Pont-Arcy," entitled "Duty." In all these impersonations it was aptly said (in the words of Ruskin)—she possessed "a serenity of effortless grace."

Of course within the limits of these pages it is impossible to follow her throughout her distinguished career. On several occasions she has followed her sister Ellen in some of her most famous parts, playing Olivia, Clara Douglas, and Margaret in the famous Lyceum version of "Faust." Her blind girl in "The Two Orphans," and her sweetly tender Mrs. Errol in "Little Lord Fauntleroy," will never be forgotten.

Her successes with George Alexander at the St. James's Theatre in "Sunlight and Shadow," "The Idler," "Lady Windermere's Fan," "Liberty Hall," and other plays, are fresh in the memory; and so is her appearance at the Criterion Theatre with Charles Wyndham in "The Physician." Her acting as Lady Valerie in this play by Henry Arthur Jones was indeed charming.

In the same author's "Michael and his Lost Angel," produced by Forbes Robertson at the Lyceum, her acting of a most difficult character was summed up by that sternest of critics, William Archer, as "perfect." And so, indeed, it was. She also did good work with the Bancrofts in some of their revivals of the Robertson comedies, especially distinguishing herself as Blanche Haye in "Ours," and Bella in "School."

The comparatively brief stage career of Florence Terry is necessarily less noteworthy, but she is gratefully remembered in the provinces as Olivia, as Lady Betty Noel in Tom Taylor's stirring historical play "Lady Clancarty," as Dorothy in W. S. Gilbert's "Dan'l Druce," and as Jenny Northcote in the same brilliant author's evergreen "Sweethearts." She also figured in some of the great Lyceum productions. In "The Merchant of Venice" she was a very pretty and engaging Nerissa, and she was entrusted with the character of the unfortunate Lady Ellen in the revival of the younger Colman's drama "The Iron Chest," in which Henry Irving took John Philip Kemble's original character of Sir Edward Mortimer. In all these parts she evinced the almost unique persuasive charm possessed by her sisters.

On June 21, 1882, in view of her forthcoming marriage and retirement from the stage, a singularly interesting event took place at the Savoy Theatre. In W. S. Gilbert's dainty fairy play "Broken Hearts," Marion Terry appeared as the Lady Hilda and Florence Terry as the Lady Vavir, parts originally taken at the Court Theatre by Mrs. Kendal and Miss Hollingshead. This was followed by the trial scene from "The Merchant of Venice," in which Henry Irving was the Shylock, Ellen Terry the Portia, Marion Terry the Clerk, and Florence Terry the Nerissa.

Thus, and for the first and last time, the three gifted sisters appeared on the stage together.

Florence Terry (Mrs. William Morris) died in 1896.

It is surely good for the old playgoer to conjure up such recollections as these. Some of us already live more in the past than in the present, and one's pleasure is the sum of happy memories of other times and faces gone.