Henry Neville was also in Man and Woman. A delightful actor, he is one of the Stage’s most courtly gentlemen, one of those rare people whose manners are as perfect at ten in the morning as they are at ten at night. Writing of Henry Neville reminds me that later he was going to appear at a very big matinée for Ellen Terry at Drury Lane, in which “all stars” were to appear in the dance in Much Ado. Everybody who was anybody was to appear—Fred Terry, Neville, my husband, Ben Webster, and many more whose names I cannot remember at the moment. At ten each morning down they went to rehearse. Edith Craig was producing the dance, and put them through their paces. Apparently they were not very “bright”, and Edie was very cross. Finally she burst out: “No, no, no—and if you can’t do it any better than that, you shan’t be allowed to do it at all!” Evidently after that they really “tried hard”, for they certainly were allowed to “do it”, as the programme bears witness.
In a special matinée at the old Gaiety I met Robert Sevier. He had written a play called The Younger Son, which I heard was his own life when he was in Australia. I don’t think it was a great success—at anyrate, it was not played again—but Sevier enjoyed the rehearsals enormously. After the matinée he asked all the company to dinner at his house in Lowdnes Square. His wife, Lady Violet Sevier, was present. Sevier enjoyed the dinner, as he had done the rehearsals, but she—well, she “bore with us”; there was a frigid kindness about her which made one feel that—to put it mildly—she “suffered” our presence, and regarded the whole thing as an eccentricity of “Robert’s” (I cannot imagine that she ever called him “Bob”, as did the rest of the world).
Photograph by Alfred Ellis, London, W. To face p. [37]
Pepita
“Little Christopher Columbus”
The same year, 1893, I played in Little Christopher Columbus. Teddie Lonnen was the comedian. May Yohe played “Christopher”, and played it very well too; I impersonated her, in the action of the play. We had to change clothes, for reasons which were part of the plot. She was not an easy person to work with, and she certainly—at that time, at all events—did not like me. This play was the only one in which I ever rehearsed “foxy”—that is, did not put in the business I was going to play eventually. The reason was this: as I gradually “built up” the part, putting in bits of “business” during the rehearsals, I used to find the next morning that they were “cut”: “That line is ‘out’, Miss Moore,” or “Perhaps you’d better not do that, Miss Moore.” So “Miss Moore” simply walked through the rehearsals, to the horror of the producer. I used to go home and rehearse there. But on the first night I “let myself go”, and put into the part all I had rehearsed at home. The producer was less unhappy about me after that first night! However, it still went on after we had produced. Almost every night the stage manager would come to my room: “Miss Moore, a message for you—would you run across the stage less noisily, you shake the theatre”; would I stand further “up stage”; or would I do this, or that, or the other. Oh! May Yohe, you really were rather trying in those days; still, things did improve, and eventually she really was very nice to me. It was in Little Christopher Columbus that I wore “boy’s clothes”. I thought they suited me—in fact, I still think they did—a ballet shirt, coat (and not a particularly short coat either) and—breeches. But, behold the Deus ex machina, in the person of my husband! He came to the dress rehearsal, and later we rode home to our little flat in Chelsea on the top of a bus, discussing the play. Suddenly, as if struck by a bright thought, he turned to me and said: “Don’t you think you’d look awfully well in a cloak?” I felt dubious, and said so, but that did not shake him. “I do,” he said, and added: “Your legs are much too pretty to show! I’ll see about it in the morning.” He did! Early next morning he went up and saw Monsieur Alias, the cloak was made and delivered to me at the theatre that very evening, and I wore it too. It covered me from head to foot; with great difficulty, I managed to show one ankle. But Harry approved of it, very warmly indeed.
There is a sequel to that story. Twenty years after, I appeared at a big charity matinée at the Chelsea Palace as “Eve”—not Eve of the Garden of Eden, but “Eve” of The Tatler. I wore a very abbreviated skirt, which allowed the display of a good deal of long black boots and silk stocking. Ellen Terry had been appearing as the “Spirit of Chelsea”. After the performance she stood chatting to Harry and me. “Your legs are perfectly charming; why haven’t we seen them before?” I pointed to Harry as explanation. She turned to him. “Disgraceful,” she said, adding: “You ought to be shot.”
I was engaged to follow Miss Ada Reeve in The Shop Girl at the Gaiety Theatre. It was a ghastly experience, as I had, for the few rehearsals that were given me, only a piano to supply the music, and my first appearance on the stage was my introduction to the band. I had to sing a duet with Mr. Seymour Hicks—I think it was “Oh listen to the band”—at anyrate, I know a perambulator was used in the song. Mr. Hicks’s one idea was to “get pace”, and as I sang he kept up a running commentary of remarks to spur me on to fresh efforts. Under his breath—and not always under his breath either—he urged me to “keep it up”, to “get on with it”, until I felt more like a mental collapse than being bright or amusing. This was continued at most of the performances which followed; I sang, or tried to sing, accompanied by the band—and Mr. Hicks. Then, suddenly—quite suddenly—he changed. The theatre barometer swung from “Stormy” to “Set fair”. Even then, I think, I had learnt that such a sudden change—either in the barometer or human beings—means that a storm is brewing. It was!
I remember saying to Harry, when I got home one evening after this change, “I shall be out of the theatre in a fortnight; Seymour Hicks has been so extraordinarily pleasant to me—no faults, nothing but praise.” What a prophet I was!
As I was going to the dressing-room the next evening, I met Mr. George Edwardes on the stairs. He called to me, very loudly, so that everyone else could hear, “Oh! I shan’t want you after next Friday!” I protested that I had signed for the “run”. I was told that, though I might have done so, he had not, and so ... well!
It was before the days when Sydney Valentine fought and died for the standard contract, before the days when he had laboured to make the Actors’ Association a thing of real use to artists—a real Trades Union; so I did not claim my salary “for the run”, but the fact that I received a cheque from the management “in settlement of all claims” is significant.