AT THE LYCEUM THEATRE—1884-1901

In 1884, flushed with their triumphant American victories, Henry Irving, Ellen Terry, and their faithful followers returned to the Lyceum. They commenced operations with a reproduction of "Much Ado about Nothing," but this soon gave way to a long promised revival of "Twelfth Night." This had given rise to many pleasant expectations. It was confidently thought that the character of Malvolio would fit Irving like a glove, and it was certain that in Ellen Terry we should find the sweetest of Violas.

In the usual beautiful, tasteful, and costly style attendant upon a Lyceum production, the piece was staged on July 8, and why it failed to please the audience is a mystery that remains unsolved. It is ridiculous to plead that it was a very hot night, and that the packed house, through being uncomfortably warm, became unruly and offensive. We expect hot weather in July, and those who object to the interior of a theatre under such conditions generally stay away. Probably, if there is any explanation of the matter beyond the blatant vulgarity of a disreputable gang of foul first-nighters, it is that "Twelfth Night," not having been played for a long time in London, was as Greek to the ignorant in the house, and was not understood. Be all this as it may, so much low behaviour greeted the actor-manager on the fall of the curtain that he sharply rebuked the coarse-minded malcontents, saying, "I can't understand how a company of earnest comedians and admirable actors, having these three cardinal virtues of actors—being sober, clean, and perfect—and having exercised their abilities on one of the most difficult of plays, can have given any cause for dissatisfaction."

Opinions differ as to these after-curtain-fall demonstrations on the part of disappointed actors. Probably they had better be omitted, but we all understand that human nature has its limits of endurance. The annoyed actor is provoked in the heat of a miserable moment to reprove insulting audiences, and one cannot wholly wonder at it. A writer who, in cold blood, challenges his adverse critics is very foolish indeed, for he not only advertises the fact that he has had a whipping, but has smarted under it. Those who in any way choose to come before the public challenge criticism. It cannot be all honey, and if an occasional dose of vinegar is unpalatable to them they had better retire into their shells. But there was little or no excuse for the rowdies who ridiculed the Lyceum production of "Twelfth Night."

No doubt the play was in some respects unfortunately cast. The Sir Toby Belch, the Sir Andrew Aguecheek, the Clown, and the Maria, missed the humour of their practical joking, and this greatly handicapped Henry Irving, who had elected to play Malvolio from a somewhat serious point of view.

After putting the question "Is it a good part?" Mr. Punch said of his performance: "Good enough in its proper place in the piece, no doubt, but when emphasised, developed, and elevated by an eminent tragedian holding such a position as does the manager of the Lyceum, to a height of tragic melodrama, then Malvolio is no longer the middle-aged, conceited, puritanical donkey who is a fair butt for the malicious waiting-maid, two stupid sots, and a professional fool, but he becomes at once a grave and reverend signior, a Grand Duchess's trusted major-domo, faithfully discharging the duties of which he has an exaggerated opinion, and the very last person to be the subject of an idiotic practical joke, the stupidity of which is intensified by its wanton cruelty. And in the end he gains the public sympathy for his sufferings, just as Shylock does."

Whether Henry Irving meant his audiences to sympathise with Malvolio is more than I can say. It was certainly very instructive, as well as very enjoyable, to see the part played from that point of view.

But however critics might differ with regard to individual performances in this unappreciated production, concerning Ellen Terry's Viola there was but one opinion. It was simply charming, being at once full of fun and vivacity, and clothed with modesty. The performance ranked with her best Shakespearean impersonations, and it is a thousand pities that it was not seen oftener. It is interesting to note that the part of Viola's brother and counterpart, Sebastian, was played by Ellen Terry's brother, Fred Terry, who was then in the early days of his successful career. The likeness, both in face, expression, and manner between the two was remarkable, and the episode of their thus acting together was very pleasing.

In 1885, after another prosperous tour in America, W. G. Wills' stage version of "The Vicar of Wakefield" was revived, Ellen Terry now playing her famous character of Olivia to the Dr. Primrose of Henry Irving. She repeated her former triumph, and, as the dear old country parson, he was most happily placed. Since then, the delightful play has taken a permanent and honoured place in the Lyceum repertory.

In the December of this year, W. G. Wills' adaptation of "Faust" was staged. Of course I cannot dwell on the splendours of this production. At the time some of the professed students of Goethe were prone to run it down, declaring (generally without seeing a representation of it) that the poem had been turned into a pantomime. These quidnuncs did not know the necessities of the three hours' traffic of the stage. In spite of them the striking and artistic acting version of a Titanic work drew the public, and, as a matter of fact, Henry Irving's enterprise induced more people to read Goethe than had ever been known. To thousands a closed book had been opened.

"Faust" had a prolonged run, and how much this was due to the captivating Margaret of Ellen Terry, Henry Irving (who seemed to revel in the part of Mephistopheles) would be the first to admit. It was indeed a performance replete with pathos and poetry, and she alone gave the indispensable feminine interest to a great work destined to hold its place upon the stage, and in the minds of all earnest playgoers and students of the drama.

It was in 1885 that Charles Kelly died, leaving his widow with her two children, who, under the names of Ailsa Craig and Gordon Craig, have already done excellent work upon the stage and in other branches of art.

With such a lasting success as this on hand, with a rich repertory to fall back upon, and American tours to interfere with London work, new productions at the Lyceum now become few and far between.

In 1886, Irving revived one of his favourite old farces, "Raising the Wind." It was a treat to see him once more enjoying his ingeniously and comically conceived interpretation of Jeremy Diddler, but the character of Peggy offered no real opportunity to Ellen Terry. She made a sweet picture, and it was good-natured of her to act in such a piece, and that is all that can be said. But it gives an opportunity of noting how truly great artists are always willing to play small parts. It is only the self-sufficient semi-amateur who must be Hamlet or nothing. "I love to be a useful actress," is Ellen Terry's constant cry.

On July I, 1887, at a benefit performance generously given on behalf of Dr. Westland Marston, Byron's "Werner" was performed, Henry Irving playing the gloomy hero to the Josephine of Ellen Terry. It was an interesting experiment, but, although immense pains were taken over the production, it was not repeated.

Werner had been a favourite part with Macready, and I can never think of the piece without recalling an anecdote that was told me by another veteran actor of the old school—Henry Loraine. Loraine and a brother tragedian had had a difference of opinion concerning the "gouts" of blood mentioned in "Macbeth"—in the famous dagger soliloquy—

Was the correct pronunciation of "gout" as here used the same as the dread malady "gout" from which so many of us suffer? That was the dispute—concerning it a small wager was made—and it was determined that the great Macready should be the referee. In his declining days, and a ripe old age, Macready was then living in peaceful retirement at Cheltenham, and Loraine, who had been an old comrade of his, called upon him. He was admitted, but he found the once vigorous man sadly ill and weak. He was lying back in an arm-chair wistfully gazing at the virile portrait of himself as Werner that has been made familiar to the public by the print-sellers. On hearing this friend's name, the old actor endeavoured to rouse himself, and, being asked the momentous question as to the "gouts," said with animation: "Of course it is as I always pronounced it,'goots'—it rhymes with 'roots,'—it rhymes with 'roots.'" And then he seemed to forget his friend's presence, and, as it were, fading away, fell back in his chair, and, with a deep sigh, resumed his contemplation of the once active Werner.

In 1887 the opportunity for a new "creation" occurred, and it is interesting to see how Ellen Terry availed herself of it. To my friend Alfred C. Calmour I am indebted for the history of his graceful poetical play "The Amber Heart."

In common with all plays "The Amber Heart" had its vicissitudes. Indeed, it would be an interesting thing to write a history of successful plays, and the anxieties of their authors before they were safely landed for gratifying production. How many pieces have lain neglected for years until some chance coming in their way disclosed their merit!

But the troubles of "The Amber Heart" were neither many nor keen. Written in 1886, the piece was read first of all to Mary Anderson, who, then in the zenith of her invincible popularity, was playing at the Lyceum. It was at the suggestion of the ill-fated William Terriss that the author submitted it to this charming and accomplished lady. Having heard the play, she was most enthusiastic about it. "Lovely! lovely!" she repeated after the author had read it; "if it can only be produced I am sure we shall have a success." But that season's arrangements having already been fixed gave no chance for it. It was then suggested to Ellen Terry, for whom, indeed, it had originally been written, but who so far had been unable to consider it because of her existing engagements. However, in reply to the author's final question as to whether she could seriously entertain it, she telegraphed, "Yes, with pleasure, to-day at twelve." This was January 6, 1887. The author read the play to her, and she, too, was most enthusiastic. "I'll do it, I'll do it!" she exclaimed; "I've longed for such a part." The difficulty, of course, was how to get it done. Ellen Terry was then playing Margaret in "Faust," and rehearsing other plays besides, and, of course, she was pledged to the arrangements of Henry Irving. At length it was decided that it should be produced at the Haymarket Theatre on May 7th for a matinee. The theatre was arranged for, and the date advertised, when the already too busy actress found that she could not fulfil her promise until a month later. This, of course (and naturally to the intense disappointment of the author), unsettled everything. The following month the Haymarket passed into new managerial hands, and so the piece could not be done there. Then, following his invariable custom, Henry Irving generously stepped into the breach, and offered his friend, the dramatist, the free use of the Lyceum for the production. That difficulty was, at length, satisfactorily settled, but the casting of the piece was not easily effected. The casting of plays for tentative performances seldom is. Ultimately, and after an infinity of trouble, he had good cause to congratulate himself. Ellen Terry, E. S. Willard, and Beerbohm Tree! Never before, and never since, have this talented trio appeared together, and the minor parts were played by excellent actors and actresses. "If I were to write volumes," says my friend, "I could not say how hard Miss Terry worked to make the piece a success. Her whole soul was thrown into it." At the rehearsals her enthusiasm fired her companions. Everything was done most lovingly, and on the eventful afternoon, June 7, 1887, an audience assembled at the Lyceum which was almost as unique as the cast of the play. Mrs. Keeley represented the older generation of actresses, and Miss Mary Moore the younger, and many, like Ada Cavendish, David James, and William Terriss, who have since passed away, were present.

Before the curtain went up his heroine wrote to the dramatist:—

"You will have a great success, I hope and pray. I believe in this, and nobody will be so glad then as your sincere friend, Ellen Terry."

After the first act (which had gone splendidly) he went behind the scenes. "Oh, dear, dear! how bad I am!" she said, suffering (quite unnecessarily) from her usual "first performance" misgivings. "My tongue is parched, and I can't get a smile out of the part." She was terribly anxious to make a great success for her author.

At the end of the second act, which was received with rare enthusiasm, he again saw her. She was crying, for she was still "Ellaline"—the heart-broken maiden, whose lover had tired of her. After a while she smiled through her tears, and said, "I think I was a little better in that act." Her modest appreciation of what was acknowledged to be a noble dramatic achievement showed the true nature of the woman. The effect on the audience in the parting scene at the end of this act was greater than written description can convey. Mrs. Keeley declared that, with all her experience, she had never witnessed anything so fine, and she afterwards wrote to the author: "I am glad to have lived to see such grand acting as Miss Terry's was yesterday afternoon."

Then Ellen Terry wrote to him: "I hope you are pleased. I am so sorry about one thing yesterday. From nervousness my acting of the first act was strained and artificial, and I confess that I entirely ruined and missed your first beautiful soliloquy in the second act! I am truly sorry! I know that you are a good creature, and view all my efforts from the point of view of my intentions since I succeeded better in some bits. Although I may never play the part again, I never will cease to love the play for its own sake, and to regard and esteem my friend who wrote it—for me—I do believe."

Poor self-tormenting lady! From first to last she had played the part to perfection—and every one but herself knew it. However, in that charming letter, so characteristic of her modesty, she unwittingly endowed the author with one of his most esteemed possessions.

He was indeed to be envied! Henry Irving wrote to him: "Yesterday was a veritable triumph for you and Miss Terry. Her performance was a lovely, never-to-be-forgotten thing—beautiful in conception and perfect in execution." So delighted was he with her success in this original character that he purchased the play and made her a present of it. When it is remembered that he took no part in the victory it will be understood that he is not a selfish actor.

This was doubly proved when in the following year (1888) the piece was staged for a run in the evening bill, with Hermann Vezin and George Alexander in the cast. It was again well received, and ran through a season. Sir Edward Burne-Jones wrote of it:—

"I went to the Lyceum Theatre yesterday for the third time to see your beautiful poetic fairy play. It is a most inspiring work to a painter—and Miss Terry's performance a revelation of loveliness. It is not acting—it is a glimpse into Nature itself. Is there any one like her? I think not. I had not been in a theatre for twenty years before I went to see 'The Amber Heart.'"

Lord Leighton wrote—"Beautiful!—beautiful! Acting and play beautiful! A sweet and abiding memory."

In America the play was received with the same enthusiasm. Miss Terry wrote as follows after its production in New York: "'The Amber Heart' went splendidly. It made a distinct sensation, and I wish you had been there. The people simply love it—just as they did at home."

Ellen Terry's next task was in some ways the most difficult she has been called upon to undertake. When it was known that she was to appear as Lady Macbeth, those (and they were in an overwhelming majority) who associated the character with the majestic, awe-inspiring methods of Mrs. Siddons, and who, going back to the Garrick period, recalled a formidable-looking picture of Mrs. Yates as the Thane's wife with forbidding hooped skirts and a dagger remorselessly clutched in each determined hand, shook their heads, and anticipated failure. How could the graceful, gracious, tender-eyed, sweet-voiced, gentle Ellen Terry grasp such a part as this? Stage tradition had claimed Lady Macbeth for its own, and very few playgoers reflected that, as a matter of fact, it would be more likely that Macbeth would be persuaded by a beautiful and fascinating wife than he would be commanded by a cold and imperious one. To fight against these firmly fixed ideas was a most formidable undertaking, but, anxious though she must have been, Ellen Terry went to work with a brave heart.

On November 6, 1888, she wrote (from Margate) to her friend, Alfred C. Calmour:—

"My holiday is nearly over, and somehow I wish it was just going to begin! However, I feel pretty content. Since I last saw you I have been N., S., E., and W. I have seen very few people, and I have been absorbed by Lady Mac, who is quite unlike her portrait by Mrs. Siddons! She is most feminine, and altogether, now that I have come to know the lady well, I think the portrait is much the grander of the two! But I mean to try at a true likeness, as it is more within my means. Like a good friend, send on the notes you spoke of—the notes on Macbeth. I'm staying here to get away from people and to be quiet, but I shall come up for your play, 'Widow Winsome,' if you do it on the 15th. I'm so glad you'll have a good cast. Katie Rorke is quite the best of our young ones."

Kate Rorke, it will be remembered, commenced her stage career at the Court Theatre when Ellen Terry was in the first flush of her success as Olivia.

This clearly shows that she was intent on giving her own original reading of Lady Macbeth.

Clement Scott has recorded a very interesting conversation that took place between them after the production. In the course of it she said:—

"Although I know I cannot do what I want to do in this part, I don't even want to be a 'fiend,' and I can't believe for a moment that Lady Macbeth did conceive that murder—that one murder. Most women break the law during their lives; few women realise the consequences of what they do to-day.... I do believe that at the end of that banquet, that poor wretched creature was brought through agony and sin to repentance, and was forgiven. Surely she called the spirits to be made bad, because she knew she was not so very bad?"

And in response to the inquiry—"But was Lady Macbeth good?" she said:—

"No, she was not good, but not so much worse than many women you know.... Was it not nice of an actress—she sent me Mrs. Siddons' shoes! not to wear, but to keep. I wish I could have stood in 'em! She played Lady Macbeth—her Lady Macbeth, not Shakespeare's; and if I could I would have done hers, for Shakespeare's Lady Macbeth was a fool to it. But, at the same time, I don't think I'd even care to try to imitate her imitators.... I wish I could have seen Helen Faucit in the part. I do believe she was the rightest, although not to be looked at by the side of the Siddons portrait as a single effective figure."

Now all this goes to prove that though Ellen Terry believed that the "Siddons" view of the character was the most effective from the theatrical point of view, she was not what Shakespeare meant, and that she had resolutely determined to give it her own reading.

On the 29th of December 1888, the tragedy was performed before a crowded, distinguished, and excited audience. What a picture Ellen Terry looked in her queenly and exquisitely-designed robes and her long plaits of squirrel-coloured hair! One could understand a man doing anything at the bidding of such a lovely, commanding, yet withal winsome creature. This made her influence over Macbeth very easy of comprehension, and, so far, a great point was gained; but I remember thinking that night that the new Lady Macbeth seemed, as the play advanced, to become an encumbrance rather than a support to her husband, and that she left him to fight his losing battle alone. She seemed to content herself with presenting an attractive, affectionate, and devoted wife, who could rule her husband at will, and encouraged him in his crimes because she thought they would advance his ambition. Despite her collusion in the series of cruel murders that were designed to clear the Thane of Cawdor's way to the throne, she was always feminine, and far sooner than he, she collapsed under the weight of their mutual guilt.

That the impersonation proved singularly attractive is beyond all doubt, and it was well summed up in the words:—

"Miss Terry's Lady Macbeth filled every one with wonder and admiration. As in the case of her Queen Katherine, it seemed a miracle of energy and dramatic inspiration triumphing over physical difficulties and habitual associations. The task was herculean, and even those who objected could not restrain their admiration."

Indeed, we were all heart and soul with Henry Irving, when, at the fall of the curtain, and in response to ringing cheers, he said:—

"Our dear friend, Ellen Terry, in appearing as Lady Macbeth for the first time, has undertaken, as you may suppose, a desperate task, but I think no true lover of art could have witnessed it without being deeply interested, and without a desire to witness it again."

He was right: his and her admirers came over and over again, and "Macbeth" was not withdrawn until June 29, 1889.

In the April of 1889 a very interesting event took place. Having received the royal command, Henry Irving, Ellen Terry, and the Lyceum Company appeared before Her Majesty Queen Victoria, the Prince and Princess of Wales, and many other members of the Royal Family, at what was for the nonce dubbed the "Theatre Royal, Sandringham." For the occasion the ballroom had been converted into a miniature Lyceum, the proscenium and act-drop of the theatre having been produced on a smaller scale. The following was the programme:—

After the performance, Henry Irving and Ellen Terry had the honour of being presented to Queen Victoria, who expressed herself with enthusiasm as to their respective impersonations. Subsequently, through the Prince of Wales, her Majesty presented the great actor with a pair of handsome diamond and gold sleeve-links, and the reigning Portia with a brooch, as beautiful as it was costly.

In her next Lyceum part, that of Catherine Duval, in the revival of Watts Phillips's stirring French Revolution drama, "The Dead Heart" (Sept. 28, 1889), Ellen Terry did all she had to do with her usual taste, and evinced much pathos; but the character afforded her no really great chance. The occasion was, however, a very interesting one, for Gordon Craig (Edward Wardell, who had made his first appearance on the stage in America as the boy Joey, in "The Fate of Eugene Aram") played with great skill the part of Arthur, the handsome son of Catherine, after she had become the wife of the Count de St. Valery. It was pleasant to see the mother and son thus playing together, though looking at her it seemed almost impossible that the relationship could exist. Indeed, one writer was induced to predict that the situation would in due course be reversed, and that Ellen Terry, "blessed with perennial youth and undecaying beauty, will successfully portray a character, in some happily-chosen drama, in which she will pose as the daughter of her own son."

On the 20th September 1890, Henry Irving produced Hermann Merivale's stage-version of Scott's great story, "The Bride of Lammermoor," entitled "Ravenswood," in which he played the ill-fated Edgar, and she was the Lucy Ashton. Here again, it seemed to me, that her opportunities were few and far between, though, of course, she seized and made the most of them whenever they came in her way, and thus wove wonders out of rather scant material. In her picturesque costumes she looked most charming, and she has told me that she "dearly loved" the part.

In the next production, the famous revival of "Henry VIII.," in which as far as scenery, costumes, and general splendour were concerned, the Lyceum manager excelled himself, the actress made a veritable tour de force. Her Queen Katherine was, as Percy Fitzgerald truly said, an astonishing performance, and took even her greatest admirers by surprise. She made the same gigantic effort as she did with Lady Macbeth to interpret a vast character, and one that might well have seemed beyond her strength. It did not aim at being the great Queen Katherine of Sarah Siddons. As in the former instance, Ellen Terry founded her conception on different lines, and acted up to her own ideas with marvellous truth and effect. We believed in, and sympathised with, this earnest and tender-hearted woman, and hated those who persecuted her and hunted her down. She could, and did show irritation, indignation, and hot anger, but beneath it all she let us see the woman's heart, and we knew that it was wrongly and cruelly lacerated. Her victory over those who had pinned their faith on the Siddons reading of the character was complete, and, considering the great difficulties that lay in her path, it was a great one. The pathetic resignation of her death-scene was a piece of beautiful acting ever to be remembered.

Among the dainty gentlewomen attendant upon this heart-touching Queen Katherine was a charming young lady, who figured in the play-bills as Ailsa Craig. This was Ellen Terry's daughter and inseparable companion, Edith Wardell.

From Queen Katherine to Cordelia is a very far cry, and yet when she felt it to be her duty to undertake the difficult task Ellen Terry did not shirk her responsibility to her manager. It is true, that with the modesty that always goes hand in hand with true genius, she said that she would like to resign the character of King Lear's favourite child to a younger actress, and volunteered to appear in the character of the Fool. That would have been such a bewitching interpretation of one of Shakespeare's most carefully etched characters that it seems a pity it was lost to us; but Henry Irving was right in his judgment. He had determined that his audiences should see Ellen Terry as Cordelia; they saw her, and rejoiced in a new and striking triumph.

How vividly I recall that anxious first night of November 10, 1892. First impressions are generally the best, and therefore I do not hesitate to repeat what I wrote in the early hours of the succeeding November 11:—

"In penning these lines it is not so much my intention to enter into critical judgment on our leading actor's rendering of the most noble and exacting of Shakespearean characters, but rather to give my readers some description of one of the most notable 'first nights' of the modern stage. Under the Irving sway all first nights are important, but this one was especially so, for to the present generation of theatre-goers 'King Lear' is, from an acting point of view, practically an unknown play. There can be few amongst us now who can recall Macready's revival of 1838, that of Phelps in 1845, or Charles Kean's elaborate production of 1858—of which it was said that 'he had equalled his Hamlet and Louis the Eleventh.' That is exactly what every one hoped Henry Irving would do. More he could not do. Edwin Booth played Lear for a few nights at the Princess's in 1881—and it has, fitfully, been seen in the provinces, but to all intents and purposes the tragedy has for many years been laid on the shelf. What was Irving going to do with it? That was the question asked by every one in the house last night, and if his performance is to be judged by the tumultuous applause that greeted his first entrance, that followed him throughout the play, and that called and recalled him at the end of each act, he had done well indeed. And what a house it was! My comfortable and easily arrived at seat happened to be in the last row of the stalls, and consequently I overheard the conversation of the front rows of the pit—which has been rightly called the mouth through which the final verdict of the house is given. Here were any number of ladies who, bringing books, refreshments, and camp-stools with them, had patiently waited for five hours in the pit entrance of the theatre during a foggy and comfortless November afternoon in order to obtain good seats, and who spoke not only cheerfully, but even boastfully, of their experiences! Such a tribute to the popularity of the actor is surely noteworthy. It mattered nothing to them that the fog got into the theatre and set them coughing, that their camp-stools were sadly in their way, that the play was a long one, and some of the 'waits' were tedious. Eleven o'clock arrived, and there was still an act to be played, but their allegiance was as unshaken as their applause was undiminished. With such a loyal following as this, Henry Irving has no cause to fear a rival. The upper parts of the house were packed. Every available seat in circles and gallery was occupied, and the private boxes can only be described as 'boiling over.' But the fifteen rows of densely thronged stalls formed the centre of attraction. From the first it was noticeable that the house was almost as much interested in the house as in the play. Men stood up to see and be seen, and opera-glasses were as plentiful as blackberries in October. The eager pittites exchanged surmises and certainties with regard to celebrities—and, probably unconscious of the interest they were arousing, celebrities displayed themselves to the best possible advantage, and exchanged greetings with brother and sister celebrities. To give the names of those present would be to quote the very pick of the literary, artistic, scientific, and aristocratic world. That the critics, reporters, and artists were there in full force, goes without saying, and most of them seemed busy, some taking notes of the performance on the stage, others jotting down the names of the lions among the audience, and many making lightning-like sketches of those present, both on the stage and in the auditorium. But, after all, 'the play's the thing,' and it may be briefly said that this was followed with unflagging interest, and listened to with breathless silence. By the time this appears in print[3] those who are interested in things theatrical will have had an opportunity of reading the critical verdict of our leading dramatic censors on Henry Irving's Lear, and Ellen Terry's Cordelia. Whatever the ultimate popularity of these impersonations may be, there was but one opinion in the crowded and brilliant audience of last night. The people seemed never tired of cheering, and late though the hour was when the curtain fell, no one moved until Henry Irving, who throughout the evening looked 'every inch a king,' was compelled to give utterance to a few well-chosen words of heartfelt thanks. His first night of 'Lear,' he said, would be one of the happiest of his memories. A pleasant feature of the evening was the right loyal welcome given to Henry Howe, who, now playing the old man, tenant to Gloster, was the King of France in the Macready revival of fifty-five years ago."

Ellen Terry has told me that it was one of the most nervous and anxious first nights she had experienced, and it might well be so, for the task of all concerned in this great production was a heavy one. But though critical opinion differed as to some points in the representation—though sapient playgoers shook their heads, and, quoting Charles Lamb, declared that "King Lear" should never be acted, there was no argument as to the merits of the new Cordelia. Her maidenly simplicity and delicately expressed, though manifestly intense, love for her father touched the right chord, and once more she won all our hearts. Her initial popularity in the character continued throughout the long and, I believe, unprecedented run of the play.

No wonder that Ellen Terry is fond of saying that she is a "useful" actress to her manager. That, she declares, has always been her desire, and while under an engagement she considers it her duty to play any part that is offered to her and to do her best with it. Though she will not say so, I believe I am right in feeling that she is justifiably proud of having, in quick succession, succeeded in such widely divergent Shakespearean characters as the imperious Queen Katherine (a part in which I am inclined to think she actually satisfied that fastidious critic—herself) and the gentle Cordelia.

And here let me emphasise the fact that she repudiates the suggestion that it was her ambition to play Lady Macbeth. She had no desire for the part, but when called upon to take it she did not shirk the task.

Her next original impersonation was that of Fair Rosamund in Lord Tennyson's beautiful play, "Becket," which was brought out at the Lyceum on February 6, 1893. It did not tax her strength very much, but no one who witnessed the impersonation will forget its exquisite tenderness or her perfect delivery of such lines as—

It is a delightful thing to read Tennyson. To hear his words interpreted by Ellen Terry is a revelation.

In connection with "Becket," I have another little story to tell indicative of my heroine's never-ending unselfishness. GeneviÈve Ward, who, it will be remembered, played most magnificently as Queen Eleanor, has told me how, in that strong and stormy scene between the jealous Queen and the luckless Rosamund, the stage moon was wont to show a little undue favouritism towards the fair denizen of the bower, flooding her with radiance and leaving her vindictive visitor in comparative obscurity. "This," to quote my friend's own words, "hurt Ellen Terry's sense of justice, and more than once she has turned her back upon the audience, and gently rebuked the too partial moon by a tragic line thrown into the wings—'Take it off me and turn it on Miss Ward.'" Such anecdotes could be told by all the artists who have appeared with her, but this one will suffice.

Against this I may tell a counter story. Amongst Ellen Terry's treasures there is a ring that was given to her by GeneviÈve Ward. When she shows it to her friends, she says, "Queen Eleanor, you see, is not at all vindictive to Rosamund off the stage."

When "Becket" had run its course, and pending another great production, some revivals were given. Amongst them was Charles Reade's one-act play—"Nance Oldfield." Most of us know the pretty, imaginative story as related by Ellen Terry's early friend and mentor, Charles Reade. Mistress Nance Oldfield, it will be remembered, was one of the earliest and most popular of English actresses. She made her first appearance in 1699, and was the darling of the stage until she died in 1730, and, with nobles supporting her pall, was laid to rest in Westminster Abbey. History records of her that she was not only an admirable actress, but a good and charitable woman, and it is from this pleasant point of view that Charles Reade has limned her in his dainty little cabinet picture. In his play her mission is to cure the love that a romantic young man has conceived for her through seeing her on the stage. How, in order to do this, she converts herself from the most charming of women into a veritable "tom-boyish" hoyden, is known to all who delight in the graceful and consummate art of Ellen Terry. When she is playing this part, her vivacity and high spirits seem to know no bounds, but her winsomeness always fascinates her audiences. The little piece is ever followed with intense interest mingled with much laughter, and the only regret is that it comes to an all too early end. It lives and will live as long as Ellen Terry chooses to play it. By the way, it is on record that a descendant of the original Mistress Oldfield has said, "Anne Oldfield herself could not have played the character better." The part has also been admirably handled by GeneviÈve Ward.

Later on, at a special performance at Daly's Theatre, Ellen Terry appeared in a short piece by George Moore and "John Oliver Hobbes," entitled "Journeys End in Lovers Meeting." It was very interesting; but the little candle soon flickered out, and the experiment only calls for passing record.

No doubt, before, and certainly ever since, the days of Sir Thomas Malory and the printing by Caxton of "Morte d'Arthur," the Arthurian legends have had a fascination for English-thinking folk. The publication of Tennyson's immortal "Idylls of the King" added a new zest to the glorious old romances, and great delight was expressed when it was announced that Henry Irving and Ellen Terry were to appear as the blameless King and his beautiful Queen in a stage version of the familiar, pathetic, and very human legend of Arthur, Guinevere, and Lancelot. The project had often been mooted, and several leading dramatists had been named as likely to be entrusted with the important and difficult work, but at last the choice fell on Comyns Carr, and right well he performed his task, writing in fluent blank verse, and telling his story in the true dramatic way.

The play was produced on January 12, 1895, and made a profound impression. The beauty of the scenery designed by Sir Edward Burne-Jones, and the melody of the music that had been composed by Sir Arthur Sullivan, added much to the reality of a presentment which, in its way, was one of the most captivating things ever seen on the stage. No doubt the production surpassed everything that had gone before it in the splendour of its setting, and its effect upon critical audiences. In this connection it was truly pointed out that it said much for the power of the principal performers that their art was not overwhelmed by the magnificence of its surroundings. Their triumph as artists was only the greater because it was won under circumstances that were really adverse to the actor. The tendency of these magnificently staged plays is undoubtedly to make the individual performer wither, as the composition in its entirety of scenery, grouping, and accessories grows more and more.

A fault that some playgoers found with "King Arthur" was that it afforded few acting opportunities to Henry Irving. The character of the spotless consort of Guinevere, who stands out so nobly in the legends and idylls, somehow seemed unsympathetic when seen upon the stage. Is it, I wonder, that mixed audiences follow the all-seeing Shakespeare when he said, "They say best men are moulded out of faults, and, for the most, become much more the better for being a little bad?" In one of his clever plays Sydney Grundy goes so far as to suggest that such a very good man as King Arthur might be to an ordinary human being "a little difficult to live with." If such be the case, abundant pardon should be meted out to the erring Guinevere. As for Ellen Terry as Guinevere she not only looked a perfect picture, but made the most of every line allotted to her in one of the most touching and pathetic characters that (outside Shakespeare) she has been called upon to play. Mention of this production would not be complete without record of the splendid acting of Johnston Forbes Robertson as Lancelot—and the striking effect made by GeneviÈve Ward as Morgan le Fay.

I cannot think that "King Arthur" lived as long as it should have done, but I fear it came at a time when frivolous playgoers were so absorbed in the dresses and doings of the Giggling Girl—the Gurgling Girl—the Gargling Girl—or whatever that volatile and versatile young lady was for the moment presenting, that they could not do much homage to Sir Thomas Malory, Lord Tennyson, Sir Edward Burne-Jones, Sir Arthur Sullivan, and Sir Henry Irving—for it was at this period that our great actor-manager was honoured with his well-won knighthood.

In the early autumn of 1896 a new Shakespearean prize was offered to Ellen Terry, and she eagerly seized upon and materially profited by it. Contenting himself with the unsympathetic part of Iachimo (how admirably he played it!), Henry Irving resolved to revive the far too seldom seen "Cymbeline," and of course the ideal Imogen was at hand. "I love the part!" says Ellen Terry with her infectious enthusiasm, and, loving it, she brought it out in all its beauty and fragrance just as the beneficent sun unfolds the petals and extracts the sweet scent of the rose.

Agreeing as I do with every word he says on the subject, I must here once more quote my good friend, Clement Scott:—

"Ellen Terry," he writes, "astonished dramatic students with her Imogen on September 22, 1896. Ellen Terry's Imogen was not only a surprise—it was a revelation. It may not satisfy the old school, but it will certainly delight the new. It is not the reading of Helen Faucit, the best of the Imogens remembered; it may be picked to pieces by schoolmen and students; it was of course un-Shakespearean; but Ellen Terry's Imogen is Ellen Terry with twenty years or more off her merry shoulders. I can only describe Ellen Terry's Imogen as her Beatrice mingled with her Rosalind that might have been.

"No, it was not that; it was Ellen Terry, that peculiar amalgam of witchery, charm, and wilfulness which has baffled every critic of her work. I shall be told that this is not Imogen; but it is Ellen Terry's Imogen, and she held her audience in the palm of her hand. Imogen was never played in like fashion before. The scene in which Imogen was summoned by her dear milord to Milford Haven may not be Shakespearean, but it was pure Ellen Terry at her best.

"She bounds about the stage like a young fawn, she kisses her hand, she kisses her dear lord's letter, she is a wilful madcap and a romp. Is this Imogen, the King's daughter, the serious, thoughtful Imogen of Shakespeare? Who cares? What does it matter to the audience? It is the Imogen of Ellen Terry, and she has undoubtedly made out a good case.

"It may be heresy to the old school to hear an actress interpolating asides and adding remarks and breaking in upon the text with charming gestures, but Ellen Terry does it, and every one loves her for doing it.

"So far so good for the earlier and middle scenes. There was a hesitating period, and an Ellen Terry period; but when we got to the FidÈle scenes then came the revelation, the touching of the heart, the true tears. There was only one remark in the house, 'Oh, what a Rosalind she would have made!' And many added, 'and ought to make.' Here in these scenes we had comedy of the finest flavour, and pathos exquisitely true. Few will forget the eminently Rosalind-like incident of the sword at the entrance to the cave—it was the bloody 'kerchief over again—and few indeed will fail to admire the nervous passion, the really eloquent grief, over the supposed body of the headless Posthumus.

"The success of the FidÈle scenes nerved the actress to a fresh attack, and in the grand reconciliation scene she played with the romance and activity of a girl of eighteen. It was a surprising effort from first to last; and of all the Shakespearean essays of this delightful artist, from her own stand-point, this was assuredly the best.

"Hitherto I should have said Beatrice; but here we have Beatrice with the pathetic touches of Rosalind superadded. Miss Terry is a model Shakespearean boy; there is no doubt about that, and has both laughter and tears at her winsome command.

"The loss of such a Rosalind to the stage as Ellen Terry would, and must have been, has ever formed a subject for regret with her warmest and most enthusiastic admirers. If ever woman lived who displayed in advance the temperament of Rosalind, it was Ellen Terry. What affection she would have shown for Celia; what tears would have been shed, and what anxiety displayed for Orlando at the wrestling bout; with what incomparable humour such a Rosalind would have started on her romantic journey; and oh! the scenes with Orlando in the forest, the love, the sport, the joyousness, the masquerading, and the tears, it makes one almost sad to know and feel what we have lost in this incomparable Rosalind."

Ellen Terry's performance in "Cymbeline" also excited the admiration of the French critic, Augustin Filon, who, in an article in the DÉbÂts, headed "Une Grande TragÉdienne," said that her Imogen prevented him from seeing the "absurdities" of the play! Much more than that, she compelled him to accept them. He had only to open his eyes and his ears and Imogen was before him. Her style is marked by a simplicity which, to inexperienced spectators, may seem the absence of art, but which, as a matter of fact, is the perfection of art. She entirely forgets that two thousand persons are following her movements and listening to her words. No glance at the audience, no intonation bearing traces of study, no obvious effort to delight! DÉsirÉ Nisand, referring to the dÉbuts of Rachel, remarked, "This girl showed me that I had never understood Corneille or Racine." The same might be said of Ellen Terry, that "noble artist," in regard to Shakespeare.

Augustin Filon, it will be seen from this, has little or no patience with those who say that Shakespeare should be read instead of seen on the stage. He quotes the lines between Imogen and the attendant in the bedchamber scene—

The French censor had not hitherto seen the significance of these words. Ellen Terry's performance served to enlighten him. "She seemed to say," he records, "'Poor girl, it is not your fault if your mistress has sorrows which deprive her of sleep. Unhappy princesses are not the only people in the world. You need rest; get thee to bed, and if you oversleep yourself you are already forgiven.' All this," continues the writer, "is suggested by Ellen Terry's delivery of this simple speech."

In his interesting book on the English stage the same critic says: "Ellen Terry has not only been an incarnation, delicate, moving, impassioned, of Shakespeare's heroines, but has in her pure and sweet elocution set the poet's dream to music."

Ellen Terry has, indeed, always found favour, not only with French critics, but with her sisters and brothers of the Parisian stage.

Sarah Bernhardt has said of her: "She is perfectly delightful, and is one of my best friends. The greatest treat I can give myself, and a pleasure to which I can look forward for months, is to see her act. She is as near absolute perfection as any one can be. In her, English dramatic art has a splendid exponent."

Again she declared: "Ellen Terry and Henry Irving are perfect! I adore them!—particularly the former. What grace, what ease! It is not acting at all, but the real character before one's eyes. In comedy she is unequalled, at any rate in English-speaking countries, while Henry Irving, in certain emotional parts, it would be hard to surpass."

Coquelin aÎnÉ loves her acting—"AngÉlique, trÈs sympathÉtique, trÈs tendre!" he once cried, after a glance at her through an opera-glass. "Mais c'est charmant! Elle a des vraies larmes dans ses yeux!"

By the way, the Saturday Review once instituted an interesting comparison between Sarah Bernhardt and Ellen Terry. "The latter," the writer said, "is to the English stage what the other is to the French. The two actresses are superficially about as unlike as may be, and yet their method is radically the same; or, in other words, they are both true actresses. It must, of course, be admitted that Ellen Terry has not yet had such opportunities of displaying her powers as have fallen to the lot of Sarah Bernhardt; nor has she yet attained the perfection of art which Sarah Bernhardt can, when she chooses to take the trouble, display; but to her, as to Sarah Bernhardt, one may safely apply the much-misused term of genius. Like Sarah Bernhardt, Ellen Terry has the semblance of spontaneousness; and, like her, she is always identified with every thought and habit of every character that she represents. There is further likeness between the two, in that both are excellent both in tragedy and comedy. It is, however, as Ophelia that Ellen Terry has won for herself a place in the first rank of actresses."

It should be noted that this was written in 1879, long before Ellen Terry had made her subsequent triumphs in that long list of great characters chronicled in these pages. On April 10, 1897, Ellen Terry was called upon to pit herself against another famous French actress—RÉjane. This was as Madame Sans-GÊne in Comyns Carr's excellent English adaptation of Victorien Sardou and Emile Moreau's play bearing that name. The ordeal was a trying one. It had been freely suggested and honestly thought that the broad comedy of the character would not be suitable to the methods of our sweet English actress. She soon put all doubts to rest, and, in spite of great difficulties, achieved a success that was in its way unique. Writing after the performance, William Archer, who always weighs his words and never unduly praises, said that Ellen Terry was "a born comedian, and throws herself with immense gusto into this sympathetic part."

Coquelin, who was present at the first performance, and who naturally might have been somewhat biassed in favour of his famous compatriot, was enthusiastic. Without for a moment undervaluing the splendid performance of RÉjane, he declared that Ellen Terry had "won his heart." "She is full of gaiety," he said, "and enters fully into the spirit of the rÔle. Her exquisite freshness in the laundry scene, when she discomfits that shy conspirator, FouchÉ, by putting a hot hissing iron near his cheek, and her movements in the scene of the Emperor's study, twenty years later, when she astonishes the same FouchÉ, who has become Duke of Otranto, by the brilliant schemes which she explains to him, and which he successfully adopts, stand unsurpassed. She is natural, bright, impulsive, and embodies the character from first to last. Sir Henry Irving's realisation of Napoleon is—even to a professional actor—an astonishing performance. His incarnation of the great Emperor is superb all through the two important final acts of the play."

Coming from such a source this is indeed high praise, and really it seems needless to add to it. Happily Ellen Terry is still playing the part, and playing it to perfection. Truly has it been said that her laughter is as infectious as her sympathy. The ready tear which springs to the eye at the misfortunes of the Count de Neipperg is as spontaneous and as moving as the victorious smile with which she drives home her sallies against Caroline, Queen of Naples. If she misses some of that wily petulance which belongs to Parisian gaminerie, she more than makes amends by the downright straightforwardness, the rich flow of humour, and the disinterested kindness which enter so largely into the composition of Lefebvre's plebeian and lovable wife. Madame Sans-GÊne is undoubtedly one of Ellen Terry's happiest creations.

On the first of January 1898, Laurence Irving's ambitious, interesting, and in many respects powerful play, "Peter the Great," was produced at the Lyceum. It was essentially "a man's play," and as the Empress Catherine, Ellen Terry had few chances. Nevertheless she acted very finely, and the portrait worthily fills a place in her well-stocked gallery. She had already appeared with much success in America in a short piece by the same author, entitled "Godefroi and Yolande." This had a magnificent first-night reception, and she has told me how, when the curtain fell, Henry Irving stepped forward, and in a few graceful words thanked the applauding audience for the approval with which his son's work had been greeted.

"The Medicine Man," the joint work of H. D. Traill and Robert Hichens, which succeeded "Peter the Great," proved a great disappointment, and Ellen Terry's appearance as Sylvia Wynford need only be mentioned for purposes of record.

Photograph by [Window & Grove.

ELLEN TERRY AS "VOLUMNIA."

In the Lyceum revival of "Coriolanus," 1901.

[To face page 292.