After the war, a well-known “play-going” society gave a dinner to a representative section of the legitimate and variety stages who had done work for the soldiers in the war. Mr. George Robey was to respond for Variety. I sat opposite to him, with Mr. Harry Tate on my left, and almost opposite me, quite close to George Robey, sat Marie Lloyd. She was wonderfully dressed, with a marvellous ermine cloak; and it was quite evident, from the moment she arrived (which was very late), that she was in a very bad temper. (As a matter of fact, I heard later that she was upset at the death of an old friend, Mr. Dick Burge.) Mr. Robey got up to “respond for Variety”, and really I must admit that his speech was very much on the lines of “I have been very glad—er—er—that is, we have been very glad”, and so on. I watched Marie Lloyd’s face; it got more and more “black” as his speech went on. When he finished, she rose and said in that attractive, rather hoarse voice—which was at that moment a remarkably cross voice too—“I’m Marie Lloyd; I’ve done my bit for the “boys”; I haven’t had my photo in the papers for years; and what I want to know is—touching this speech we have just listened to—what’s Marie Lloyd and poor old Ellen Terry done?” She leant across to Harry Tate, said “Come on, Harry”, and walked from the room. Everyone gasped. It was all over in a few seconds, but it left its mark on the dinner.
When Brookfield took a company to America he lost a good deal of money over the venture. On his return he walked into the Green Room Club, and met Grossmith (“Old G. G.”), and began to tell him of his losses. “Can’t understand it,” said G. G., “you people take thousands of pounds of scenery, trainloads of artists, spend money like water, and come back and say ‘It hasn’t paid!’ Look at me: I take nothing to America with me but a dress suit, come back having made ten thousand pounds!” “Very likely,” said Brookfield; “remember everyone doesn’t look as damned funny in a dress suit as you do!”
Lionel Monckton was in the Green Room Club one evening, having supper. Mr. Thomas Weiglin, a well-developed gentleman, walked in, faultlessly attired in full evening dress; everyone applauded his entrance. Mr. Monckton looked up, and said in a voice of protest, “I have been coming to the club in evening dress for forty years, and no one has ever done that to me.”
Winifred Emery told me this. She and Cyril Maude were on their honeymoon. She was lying in bed, wearing a most engaging nightdress, and she thought that she was looking very nice. He stood at the end of the bed, watching her, and presently walked to her, took a small piece of the nightdress in his fingers, saying as he did so, “Don’t you think it would be better if it was made of stronger calico?”
Herbert Tree met Fred Terry in the Garrick Club one day, and said to him: “My new production—er—what do you think about my having your beautiful daughter, Phyllis, to play the leading lady’s part?”
Fred Terry said he thought it would be very admirable for all concerned, and that he approved entirely.
“What handsome remuneration should I have to offer her?” Tree asked. Mr. Terry named a sum, which he thought “about right”.
“What;” said Tree; “what!” Then came a long pause, and at last Tree said in a dreamy voice, “Do you know I can get Marie Lloyd for that?”
I was once playing a sketch at a hall in the provinces, where the population apparently come to the performance so that they may read their evening papers to the accompaniment of music. At the end of the week, the manager asked me how “I liked the audience”, and I told him. “You’re quite right,” he replied, “but I’ve got a turn coming next week that they will appreciate, that they will understand.” I asked what the turn was. “Roscoe’s Performing Pigs,” he told me.
A certain actor tells a story about himself when he first went on the stage. He had just sold out of the Army, and felt he was rather conferring a favour upon Henry Irving by joining his company at the Lyceum. They were rehearsing Coriolanus, and someone was wanted to “walk on” as a messenger. Irving looked round, and his eye lit upon our friend, who was wearing—as smart young men did in those days—a large white fluffy tie. “Here you, young man in the white tie,” he said. The product of the Army took not the slightest notice. “Here you,” Irving repeated; “come here, I want you.” Our friend, with offended dignity on every line of his face, advanced and asked, “Did you want me?” “Yes,” said Irving, “I did.” “Then,” said the budding Thespian, “my name is Gordon!” “Oh, is it?” Irving said, affably. “Mine is Irving; how are you?” Then, changing his tone, “Now I want you to come on here, carrying,” etc., etc.