Photograph by Alfred Ellis, London, W. To face p. [66]
Lady Mary Carlyle
“Monsieur Beaucaire”
When I played in Alfred Sutro’s play, John Glayde’s Honour, with George Alexander, Matheson Lang was playing, what I think I am right in saying was his first “lover” part in London, in the same play. My mother came to the first night, and watched me play the part of a wife who leaves her husband, going away with her lover. Her comment was: “I’m sure you were very clever, darling,” as she kissed me; “but I never want to see you play that part again.” “Muriel Glayde”, though not really a sympathetic character, was intensely interesting, and I loved playing her.
Which reminds me of another story of my mother, that I can tell here. After my father died, she came to live in London. She was then 73 years old. She had been up to town to see the flat which we had taken for her, and to make certain arrangements. She was going back to Brighton, and I was driving with her to the station, when she said, seriously: “Of course, darling, when I come to live in London, I shall not expect to go to a theatre every night.” To go to the theatre every night had been her custom during her brief visits to me when my father had been alive.
When I played in Mr. Somerset Maugham’s play, The Explorer, in 1908, I had a narrow escape from what might have been a nasty accident. Mr. A. E. George was playing my lover, and in the love scene he used to take from me the parasol which I carried and practise “golf strokes” with it to cover his (“stage”, not real, be it said) nervousness. One evening the parasol and its handle parted company; the handle remained in his hand, and the other half flew past my cheek, so near that I could hardly believe it had left me untouched, and buried itself in the scenery behind me. There was a gasp from the audience, then I laughed, and they laughed, and all was well.
That winter I played “Dearest” in Mrs. Hodgson Burnett’s Little Lord Fauntleroy. “Dearest” is a young widow, and I remember after Harry had seen the play his comment was: “Well, it is not given to every man to see his wife a widow!”
Earlier in that year I went to Drury Lane to play in The Marriages of Mayfair, one of those spectacular dramas for which the Lane was so famous. Lyn Harding and that delightful actor, Mr. Chevalier, who, alas! has lately died, were both in the play. There was one very dangerous—or, anyhow, very dangerous-looking—scene. Mr. Chevalier and I had to appear in a sledge which was supposed to be coming down the mountain-side. The platform—or, rather, the two platforms—on which Mr. Chevalier, myself, driver, horse, and sledge had to wait before appearing, was built up as high as the upper circle of the theatre. The horse, after a few performances, learned to know his cue for appearing, got very excited, and took to dancing, much to our alarm. The two platforms used slowly to divide, and we could see down to the depths of the theatre, right below the stage. Mr. Chevalier and I used to sit with one leg outside the sledge, in case it became necessary for us to make a hasty leap. Later, a horse that was a less vivid actor was given the rôle, much to our comfort. I remember it was suggested that Miss Marie Lloyd should appear and play herself, but Miss Lloyd did not fall in with the idea.
I have heard that she did not care for either pantomime, revue, or the drama, and did not consider herself suited to it. Which reminds me of a story which was told to me about an occasion when Marie Lloyd appeared in pantomime. Her great friend, Mrs. Edie Karno, came round after the performance, and was asked by the comedienne: “Well, dear, what do you think of me in pantomime?”
Edie Karno, who was nothing if not truthful, and who had herself been one of the greatest “mime” actresses of the last generation, replied: “I don’t think it suits you like your own work.”
“You don’t think I’m very good?” pursued Marie Lloyd.