Exits and Entrances

by Eva Moore

Then came Duke of Killiecrankie, with Grahame Browne, Weedon Grossmith, and Marie Illington. She was a dignified lady; a very excellent actress, as she is still. Grossmith, who loved to have “little jokes” on the stage (and, let me say, not the kind of jokes which reduce all the artistes on the stage to a state of helpless imbecility, and leave the audience wondering what “Mr. So-and-so has said now”), one evening at the supper scene held a plate in front of Marie Illington, whispering in ecstatic tones, “Pretty pattern, isn’t it? Lovely colouring”, and so on—not, perhaps, a very good joke, but quite funny at the time. She was furious, and on leaving the stage, said to him in freezing tones, “Kindly don’t cover up my face. You’re not the only ornament on the stage, you know!”

Then followed a Barrie play—or, rather, two Barrie plays—one, Josephine, a political satire; the other, Mrs. Punch. I recollect working like a Trojan to learn an Irish jig, and that is about the extent of my memories of the play.

It seems rather remarkable how easily one does forget plays. For the time being, they are a very actual part of one’s life; but, once over, they are very quickly forgotten, with all the hopes and fears, the worries and uncertainties, attached to them. For example, I once played the leading part in The Importance of Being Earnest, learnt the part in twelve hours, and played without a rehearsal. I only “dried up” once during the play; I worked at top pressure to learn the part, and now (though I will admit it is some years ago) not a single line of the play remains in my mind.

In Lights Out, one incident certainly does remain very vividly in my memory. Charles Fulton had to shoot me at the end of the play. I wasn’t too happy about the pistol, and Harry was frankly nervous. He besought Fulton to “shoot wide”, so that there might be no danger of the “wad” (which was, or should have been, made of tissue paper) hitting me. At the dress rehearsal, the wad (which was made of wash-leather), flew out and hit me on the arm. I had a bad bruise, but that was all; and I remember saying happily to Charles Fulton, “That’s all right; now it will never happen again!” However, on the second night, the property man, who loaded the pistol, put in, for some reason best known to himself, another wad made of wash-leather. The fatal shot was fired: I felt a stinging pain in my lip as I fell. When I got up, I found my mouth was pouring with blood; the wad had hit me on the mouth and split my lip. Fulton turned to me on the stage, preparing to “take his call”, saying brightly and happily, “All right to-night, eh, Eva?”

Then he saw what had happened. The curtain went up for the “call” with poor Fulton standing with his back to the audience, staring at me. My old dresser, Kate, had a cloth wrung out in warm water ready, and I sat on the stage mopping my lip. Everyone seemed to forget all about me, the entire company gathered round the pistol, and I sat watching H. B. Irving and Charles Fulton alternately squinting down the barrel, as if some dark secret was contained in it. They went so far as to stick a bit of white paper on the fireproof curtain and shoot at it, to see how far either way the pistol “threw”. It all struck me as so intensely funny that I roared with laughing, which recalled my existence to their memory. A doctor was sent for, and I was taken to my dressing-room. Meanwhile the car was sent to the Green Room Club to call for Harry, who finished early in the play. The chauffeur (who was a very fat youth) met Charles Hallard coming out of the club; very nervously he stopped him and said, “Oh, sir, will you tell the master the mistress has been shot!” Hallard, trying to be very tactful, went into the cardroom, where Harry was playing, leant over him, and said in a dignified whisper, “It’s all right, don’t worry, Eva’s not badly hurt.” Harry rushed round to the theatre, to find poor Fulton walking up and down in great distress. He tried to stop Harry to explain “how it happened”; all he got was a furious “Curse you, curse you!” from Harry, who was nearly beside himself; no doubt picturing me dead.

I asked the doctor to give me “the same thing as he gave the prize-fighters”, to stop my lip swelling; and he did; but when I played the following night, which I had to do, as my understudy did not know the part, I felt that I had enough superfluous face easily to “make another”.

I used to do a “fall” in Lights Out—which, by the way, I never rehearsed—which used to take the make-up off the end of my nose every night.

I have played in many costume parts—Powder-and-Patch—which I loved. There was “Lady Mary” (the “Lady of the Rose”, as she was called) in the famous play, Monsieur Beaucaire, when Lewis Waller revived that play. “Lady Mary” was not a very sympathetic part, but picturesque; and to play with Will (as he was lovingly called by all who knew him) was a joy. I had a lovely doll, dressed as “Lady Mary”, presented to me, and I have her still.

Sweet Kitty Bellaires, by Egerton Castle, was another Powder-and-Patch part; she was a delight to play, but, alas! that play was not one of those that ran as long as it deserved. In one scene, a large four-poster bed was required, in which Kitty in her huge crinoline and flowing train had to hide herself when she heard the arrival of unwelcome visitors; but it was not considered “nice” for a bed to be used, at anyrate in that theatre, so after the dress rehearsal the bed was removed, and Kitty had to hide behind window curtains.

Shortly after this play, Miss Jill Esmond made her first bow to the world; a wee but most amiable baby, all laughter and happiness; in fact, during one holiday at Puise, near Dieppe, where we spent a lovely family holiday, Jack used to make her laugh so much I quite feared for her.