Marie Loftus.—One of the names which recall the time when there were still “giants” on the music hall stage. I don’t mean to imply that Variety does not still possess great artists, but there seems to be no longer that “personal” feeling, the affection, admiration—I might almost say adoration—which was given to the “giants”; and Marie Loftus was “of them”. I saw her years ago at the Tivoli, when she came on with a “baby” in her arms, playing a “comic-melodrama”. I remember she “threw snow over herself”, and finally committed suicide by allowing a small toy train to run over her. Perhaps it does not sound amusing, perhaps we have all grown too sophisticated; if so, we are losing something—and something very well worth keeping. The Second time I saw Marie Loftus was at the Chelsea Palace, about two years ago. I saw her do a “Man and Woman” act, one half of her dressed as a woman, the other half as a man. These “two” people fought together—it was a masterpiece. I shall never forget the unstinted praise which it called forth from Harry, who was with me. I saw her not long ago, not on the stage; she was then looking forward to an operation on her eyes, which she hoped would make it possible for her to “work” again. Whether she does so or not, I shall always look back on those two evenings—one at the Tivoli, the other many years later at Chelsea—as occasions when I saw a very brilliant artist at work.
Sir Henry Irving.—I saw him first when I stayed with Florrie Toole, when I first went on the stage, and Irving came to see her father. I do not remember anything he said or anything he did, but I do remember the impression which the appearance of the two men (and, after all, it was more truly an indication of their character than it is of most people) made upon me. Toole, short and eminently cheerful—you could not imagine him anything but what he was, a natural comedian, with all a comedian’s tricks of speech; and Irving, tall, thin, with something of the monastic appearance, which stood him in such good stead in “Becket”, dignified, and to all but his friends rather aloof. And the one attracted the other so that they were unchangeable friends. I have heard that Irving could be very bitter, very cruelly sarcastic: I know he could be the most truly courteous gentleman who ever stepped, and I will give an instance which was one of the finest illustrations of “fine manners” that I ever witnessed. A most wonderful luncheon was given at the Savoy to Mr. Joe Knight, a critic, on his retirement. The whole of the theatrical profession was there, and Irving was in the chair. Harry and I were present. He was rather unhappy at the time, because he had been “pilled” for the Garrick Club; he felt it very much—much more then than he would have done a few years later. He was quite young then, and took it rather to heart. After the lunch we went up to speak to Sir Henry, who, as he shook hands with Harry, said in a tone half humorous, half sardonic, and wholly kindly, “I understand you have been honoured by the Garrick Club as I have been”; adding, still more kindly, “only to me it happened twice.” If anything could have salved the smart in Harry’s mind it was to know he shared the treatment which had been given to Sir Henry Irving; that is why I cite this incident as an example of real courtesy.
H. B. Irving.—Often so detached that his very detachment was mistaken for rudeness or unkindness; with mannerisms which, to those who did not know him, almost blotted out the very genuine goodness of heart which lay underneath them. Yet again with a queer lack of knowledge of “who people were” and what went on around him, as the following story will show. This was told me by a man who knew him well and witnessed the incident. “Harry” Irving was playing Waterloo on the variety stage, and on the same “bill”, on this particular week, were George Chirgwin (the White-Eyed Kaffir) and Marie Lloyd. One evening there was a knock at the door of Irving’s dressing-room, and a dresser told him “Miss Lloyd would like to speak to you in her dressing-room, please, sir!” “H. B.” turned to James Lindsay, who was in the room, and asked blandly, “Who is Miss Lloyd, Jimmy? Ought I to answer the summons? I don’t know her, do I?” Jimmy explained that Miss Lloyd was certainly accustomed to people coming when she sent for them, and that “anyway she was distinctly a lady to meet, if the opportunity arose”. Irving went, and was away for over half an hour; when he returned he sat down and said earnestly, “You were quite right. She is distinctly a lady to know. Most amusing. I must meet her again. Her humour is worth hearing, perhaps a little—er—but still most amusing.” “But why did she want you at all?” Jimmy asked. “Ah!” said Irving, “that is the really amusing thing! She didn’t want me! She really wanted a man called George Chirgwin, who is apparently a friend of hers. The dresser mixed the names, poor fool.” The sequel is from Marie Lloyd herself. Someone asked her about the incident. “I remember,” she said, “I remember it quite well. I sent for Chirgwin, to have a chat, and in walks this other fellow. I didn’t know who he was, and he didn’t say who he was; and I’m certain he didn’t know me. He sat down and chatted; at least, I chatted; he seemed quite happy, so I went on, and presently he wandered out again. He seemed a nice, quiet fellow.” Try and read under all that the simplicity of two great artists, and you will realise that it is not only an amusing incident, but a light on the character of both.
Lawrence Irving.—I think—no, I am sure—that he would, had he lived, have been a very great actor; his performance in Typhoon was one of the finest things I have ever seen. He was a man full of enthusiasms. I can remember him talking to Harry of Tolstoi, for whom he had a great admiration, and being full of excitement about his work. Once he was at our house, and Harry and he were arguing about some writer as if the fate of the whole world depended upon the decision they came to. Harry offered Lawrence a cigar, and had at once poured upon his head a torrent of reasoned invective against “smoking” in general and cigars in particular. It was “a disgusting and filthy habit”, men who smoked were “turning themselves into chimneys”, and so on. The next morning Harry was going by the Underground to town, and on the opposite platform saw Lawrence Irving smoking a perfectly enormous cigar. Harry, delighted, called out, “What about ‘filthy habits’ and ‘chimney pots’ now!” in great glee. Lawrence took the cigar from his lips and looked at it seriously, as if he wondered how it got there at all. Then he climbed down from the platform, over the rails to the other side, where Harry stood, simply to give him an explanation, which, he said, he “felt was due”. He was smoking “to see how it tasted”!
Photograph by Bassano, London, W. To face p. [124]
Harry as Lord Leadenhall
“The Rocket”
W. S. Gilbert.—He was Jill’s God-father, and I have a photograph of him, which he signed “To Eva, the mother of my (God) child.” And that was typical of Gilbert; he could make jokes from early morning to set of sun—and did. Once, many years ago, when Decima was playing at the Savoy, I had hurt my knee, and for some reason she told Gilbert. I think it was because she wanted to be excused a rehearsal so that she might come back to be with me “when the doctor came”. Gilbert insisted that I should be taken to his own doctor, Walton Hood, and that at once. So, without waiting for my own doctor to arrive, off we went to Walton Hood. He looked at my knee, tugged at it, something clicked, and he said “Walk home”, which I did, putting my foot to the ground for the first time for a month. I am sure it is due to W. S. Gilbert that I am not now a cripple.
Sir Charles Hawtrey.—Once upon a time (which is the very best way of beginning a story) Charles Hawtrey owed Harry some money—a question of royalties, as far as I remember. Harry was “hard up”—in those days we were all often “hard up”, and didn’t mind owning it, though I don’t suppose we really liked it any better then than we do now—so away went “H. V.” to see Charles Hawtrey at the Haymarket. He was shown into his room, and the question was discussed. Mr. Hawtrey decided that “of course you must have it at once”. He took Harry into an adjoining office, where upon a table were numbers of piles of money, all with a small label on the top of the pile, each label bearing a name. Hawtrey’s hand hovered above the piles of money, and alighted on one. “You shall have this one,” he said, and prepared to hand it over to Harry, when a voice called from an inner office, “You can’t take that one, sir; that belongs to So-and-so.” Again the actor-manager’s hand went wandering over the table, and he had just announced “You shall have this one”, when the same voice called out the same warning. This went on for several minutes, until at last Hawtrey turned to Harry. “They all seem to belong to somebody,” he said; “but never mind, I’ll go out now and borrow it for you!” This story might be called “A New Way to Pay Old Debts.”
Anthony Hope.—I might call him Sir Anthony Hope Hawkins, but I knew him first (and shall always think of him) as Anthony Hope. I have met a good many brilliant authors, but very few who were as brilliant “out of their books” as in them. Anthony Hope is the exception. He used to give the most delightful supper parties at his flat in Savoy Mansions, supper parties where everyone seemed to shine with the brilliance inspired by their host. He—well, he talked as he wrote—polished, clever witticisms. Speaking of him reminds me of a holiday Harry and I spent at Hazleborough one summer, years ago. We were staying at a bungalow there, and soon after we arrived a note was delivered to Harry. It was from “The Mayor of Hazleborough”, and stated that he had heard of the arrival of the “well-known dramatist, Mr. H. V. Esmond”, and begged that the said “Mr. H. V. Esmond” would open the local bazaar, which was to be held in a few days’ time. I thought Harry ought to say “Yes”; Harry was equally certain that he should say “No”, and added that he had brought no suitable clothes with him. A note was finally dispatched to the Royal Castle Hotel, from which “the Mayor” had written, to say that “Mr. Esmond regretted, etc.” Later we were sitting in the garden. I was still maintaining that it had been a mistake to refuse, and Harry equally certain that he had done the best thing in refusing, when three heads appeared over the fence and three voices chanted in unison, “Ever been had?”—Anthony Hope, May and Ben Webster, who had sent the letter, and were indeed, combined, “The Mayor of Hazleborough”.
Mrs. Patrick Campbell.—Harry knew her much better than I did. They had been at the same theatre for a long time, in different plays, and he admired her tremendously. He used to say that one of the most beautiful pictures he had ever seen was one evening when he went home to her flat, somewhere in Victoria, with her husband, Patrick Campbell. It was very late, and she had gone to bed, but she got up and came into the dining-room in her nightdress. She curled herself up in a large armchair, wrapped a skin rug round her, and, with her hair falling loose on her shoulders, Harry said she was one of the most lovely things he had ever seen in his life. He even railed at Kipling, after this incident, for daring to describe any woman as “a rag, and a bone, and a hank of hair”. The meeting with Mrs. Campbell that I remember was this: A matinée was to be given, Royalty was to be present, and I was asked to approach Mrs. Campbell if she would consent to appear. She was then playing, I think, at the Haymarket. I went, and Harry went with me. We were shown into her dressing-room. For some reason, which neither he nor I could ever quite fathom, she did not wish to remember who he was. She repeated his name in a vague, rather bored voice: “Mr. Esmond? Esmond?”; then, as if struck with a sudden thought, “You write plays, don’t you?” Harry, entering into the spirit of it all, said very modestly that he “tried to do so”. More inspiration seemed to come to her: “Of course—yes! Sisters—you have had an enormous success with Sisters in America, haven’t you?” (I should say here that he never wrote a play called Sisters in his life.) He smiled and agreed: “Tremendous!” “It is so interesting to meet clever people—who write successful plays,” she added. The conversation went on along these lines for some time. When we left, she said “Good-bye” to me, and turned to Harry with “Good-night, Mr.—er—Esmond.” An extraordinary incident, possibly an extraordinary woman, but a very great actress.