CHAPTER IX
PERSONALITIES
“You are surprised that I know such nice people?”
—Fools of Nature.
The Pageantry of Great People! If I could only make that pageant live for you as it does for me! I know it is impossible; it needs greater skill than mine to make the men and women live on paper. It is only possible for me to recall some small incident which seems typical of the individual. In itself, that may be a poor way of drawing mental pictures; but it is the only way I can attempt with the smallest hope of success. Great people, whether great in art, wit, or greatness of heart, demand great skill to depict them, so, having excused myself for my inevitable shortcomings, I will set to work. If I fail utterly, I ask you to remember it is due to lack of skill, and not lack of appreciation. If I seem to recall these “big” people chiefly through incidents that seem humorous, it is because I like to remember the things which have made me, and others with me, laugh. If the stories do not appear very laughable, then you must make allowances again, and believe that they “were funny at the time”, perhaps because when they happened I was young. We all were young, and the world was a place where we laughed easily—because we were happy.
Sir Herbert Tree.—I begin my Pageant with Herbert Tree because he was a great figure; he stood for a very definite “something”. You might like or dislike him, but you had to admit he was a personality. He certainly posed, he undoubtedly postured; but how much was natural and how much assumed, I should not like to attempt to decide. There was something wonderfully childlike about him; he would suddenly propound most extraordinary ideas in the middle of a rehearsal—ideas which we knew, and for all I know Tree knew too, were utterly impossible. I remember during the rehearsals of Carnac Sahib, when we were rehearsing the scene in the Nabob’s palace, Tree suddenly struck an attitude in the middle of the stage and called for Wigley (who, by the way, he always addressed as “Wiggerley”), who was “on the list” as either stage manager or assistant stage manager, but whose real work was to listen to Tree and to prompt him when necessary—which was very often. Tree called “Wiggerley”, and “Wiggerley” duly came. “I’ve got an idea,” said Tree. “Wiggerley” expressed delight and pleasure, and waited expectant. “Those windows” (pointing to the open windows of the “palace”); “we’ll have a pair of large, flopping vultures fly in through those windows. Good, I think; very good.” The faithful “Wiggerley” agreed that the idea was brilliant, and stated that “it should be seen to at once”. Tree was perfectly satisfied. The vultures never appeared, and I have not the slightest belief that “Wiggerley” ever looked for any, or indeed ever had the smallest intention of doing so.
Tree was very fond of Harry, and used often to ask him to go back to supper, after the theatre, when Tree lived in Sloane Street. One evening he asked him to “come back to supper”, and Harry, for some reason, wanted to come straight home; probably he had a very nice supper of his own waiting. Tree persisted. “Oh, come back with me; there’s stewed mutton; you know you like stewed mutton”, and finally Harry gave way. They drove to Sloane Street, and walked into the dining-room. There was on the table a large lace cloth, and—a bunch of violets! That was all. Tree went up to the table, lifted the violets and smelt them, an expression of heavenly rapture, as of one who hears the songs of angels, on his face. He held them out to Harry (who smelt them), saying “Aren’t they wonderful?”, then, taking his hand and leading him to the door, he added “Good-night, good-night.” Harry found himself in the street, Tree presumably having gone back either to eat or smell the violets in lieu of supper.
When he produced Much Ado, playing “Benedick”, he introduced a scene between “Dogberry” and “Verges”, and also some extraordinary business when Sir Herbert sat under a tree and had oranges dropped on him from above. Harry and I went to the first night, and he resented each “introduction” more fiercely than the last. He sank lower and lower in his stall, plunged in gloom, and praying that Tree would not send for him at the end of the play and ask “what he thought of it all”. However, Tree did, and we found ourselves in the “Royal Room”, which was packed with people, Tree holding a reception. I begged Harry to be tactful, and Harry had made up his mind not to give Tree the opportunity of speaking to him at all, if it could be avoided. Tree saw him and came towards us; Harry backed away round the room, Tree following. Round they went, until Harry was caught in the corner by the stair. Tree put the fateful question, “What do you think of it?” By this time Harry’s “tact” had taken wings, and he answered frankly, if rather harshly, “Perfectly dreadful!” I fancy Tree must have thought the world had fallen round him; he couldn’t believe he was “hearing right”. He persisted, “But my scene under the tree?” Back came Harry’s answer, “Awful!” “And the scene between Dogberry and Verges?” Again, “Perfectly appalling!” Tree stared at him, then there was a long pause. At last Tree spoke: “Yes, perhaps you’re right.”
Here is a picture of Tree at a dress rehearsal of, I think, Nero. Tree, attired in a flowing gold robe, moving about the stage, with what was apparently a crown of dahlias on his head. The crown was rather too big, and, in the excitement of some discussion about a “lighting effect”, it had slipped down over one eye, giving Tree a dissipated appearance, not altogether in keeping with his regal character. Lady Tree (I don’t think she was “Lady” Tree then) called from the stall: “Herbert, may I say one word?” Tree turned and struck an “Aubrey Beardsley” attitude; with great dignity he replied, “No, you may not”, and turned again to his discussion.
A wonderful mixture of innocence and guile, of affectations and genuine kindness, of ignorance and knowledge, of limitations and possibilities, that was Herbert Tree as I read him. But a great artist, a great producer, and a very great figure.
William Terriss.—“Breezy Bill Terriss”, the hero of the Adelphi dramas. Handsome, lovable, with a tremendous breadth of style in his acting that we see too seldom in these days of “restraint”. His “Henry VIII.” to Irving’s “Wolsey” was a magnificent piece of acting. There is a story told of him, when Irving was rehearsing a play in which there was a duel—The Corsican Brothers, I think. At the dress rehearsal (“with lights” to represent the moon, which lit the fight), Irving called to “the man in the moon”: “Keep it on me, on me!” Terriss dropped his sword: “Let the moon shine on me a little,” he begged; “Nature is at least impartial.” Everyone knows of his tragic death, and his funeral was a proof of the affection in which he was held—it was practically a “Royal” funeral. When, a few months ago, Marie Lloyd was buried, the crowds, the marks of affection, the very real and very deep regret shown everywhere, reminded me of another funeral—that of “Breezy Bill Terriss”.