I was already deeply in love, in a far-distant and hopeless sort of way, with Miss Ellen Terry, and when there came a first night at the Lyceum Theatre, I resolved to be present in the pit. I told Aunt Augusta not to expect me at dinner-time, but she was well used to this and said she wouldn’t. So the moment that I was free from my appointed task I flew off to the Lyceum pit door and took my place. I was, however, by no means the first to arrive. A crowd had already collected and I found myself among that hardy and famous race of men and women known as “first-nighters.” There were even youngish girls in the crowd, for one stood near me reading the Merchant of Venice, which was the play we had all come to see. Luckily for the girl a gas-lamp hung over her head and she was thus enabled to read the play and pass the time. Like a fool I had brought nothing, yet it was enough amusement and instruction for me to be among so many regular professional “first-nighters”; and I listened with great interest to their deep knowledge of the subject. Five or six men of all ages evidently knew one another, and they were talking about a little book that had just been written on Mr. Henry Irving by Mr. William Archer. It was a very startling book—the very one, in fact, that I was going to buy at the bookstall when the shady customer pretended he was Mr. Martin Tupper. It was a small book with rather a grim picture of Mr. Henry Irving on the outside, and I found that these old hands of the stage did not altogether approve of the book and thought parts of it rather strong coming from Mr. Archer to Mr. Irving.
“He says that Irving is half a woman,” said a grey man. “Now that’s going too far, in my opinion.”
“I know what he’s driving at,” answered a young man with a very intellectual face. “You see, every artist has got to be man, woman, and child rolled into one. Every great artist has to have the imagination and power of feeling and fellow-feeling to identify himself with every other sort of possible person. If you can’t do that, you can’t be a first-class actor. That’s where Irving beats Barrett into a cocked hat—temperament and power of imagination. Irving could act anything—from Richard the Third to an infant in arms; Barrett could not.”
“Barrett very nearly made Hamlet an infant in arms, all the same,” said the grey man, and at this excellent and subtle joke they all laughed. I wanted to laugh in an admiring sort of way, but doubted whether it would not be rather interfering. So I contented myself with smiling heartily; because I didn’t want them to think so fine a joke had been lost upon me.
They were very deeply read in everything to do with the theatre, and I found that they knew most of the actresses by their married names, which, of course, I did not. Thus, greatly to my surprise, I found out that nearly all the most fascinating and famous actresses were married. Many even had families.
Splendid stories were told by the grey man. He related a great jest about Mr. William Terriss when he was acting with Mr. Irving. It was irreverent in a way to such a famous actor as Mr. Terriss; but, of course, for mere intellectual power Mr. Terriss was not in it with Mr. Irving—any more than any other actor was, though he might, none the less, be very great in himself. And once, when Mr. Terriss was rehearsing with Mr. Irving, the latter, failing to make the former do what he wanted, said before the actors, actresses, and supernumeraries at that time assembled on the spacious boards of the Lyceum Theatre—he said, “My dear Terriss, do try and use the little brains that God has given you!”
The hours rolled by and one or two of the young men spoke kindly to me. Then the girl, who had grey eyes and a mass of yellow hair under a deer-stalker hat, and was dressed in cloth of the same kind, also spoke to me and asked me to take my elbow out of her shoulder-blade. I apologised instantly and altered my position. The crush was now increasing and the air was exceedingly stuffy; but there still remained an hour before the doors opened.
Having broken the ice, the girl, who I think was tired of keeping quiet for such a long time, began to talk. We discussed the drama and “first nights” in general. From one thing we went to another and I found, much to my interest, that the girl intended to become an actress. She was an independent and courageous sort of girl. Her parents had a shop in the Edgware Road and were very much against her going on the stage; but she was determined to defy them. There was to be a dramatic school opened shortly, and she was going to join it. Then I naturally told her that I was going to join that school too, and she was quite pleased.
“Perhaps we shall play parts in the same play some day,” she said; and I said I hoped we might.
“Phew!” she exclaimed presently. “This is getting a bit thick, isn’t it?”