When Barrie’s Twelve Pound Look was at the Coliseum, two “comedy sketch artists” were in the stalls. The play went very well—very well indeed. One of the comedians turned to the other: “Who wrote this?” “Fellow called ‘Barrie’,” was the reply. “Ah!” said the first, “he writes our next; he’s good!”
While rehearsing a scene in a film production, the producer described to the two artistes the Eastern atmosphere he wanted—the warmth, the amorous love conveyed in the love scenes. He read the scene, with all the usual Eastern language, such as “Rose of Persia”, “O, Light of My Desire”, “Look at me with your lovely eyes”, and other such remarks which might convey the “kind of acting” which he was trying to get. The actor listened to what the producer said in silence, then remarked cheerfully, “Yes, yes, I know—‘Shrimps for Tea’.”
Decima’s son was very young when the war broke out. He was a “Snotty” at Dartmouth, and saw a great deal of active service. After the Battle of Jutland he wrote home to us a short description of the fight, saying briefly that he had seen this or that ship sunk, adding: “And now to turn to something really serious; I owe my laundry thirty shillings, and until the bill is paid the blighter refuses to let me have my shirts. Could you loan me a couple of quid?”
When Flames of Passion, the film in which I appeared, was showing at the Oxford, a woman I knew went to see it, and was sitting in the gallery. Next to her was a flower-woman—one of the real old type, complete with shawl and small sailor hat. After a time they began to talk to each other. This is the conversation as it was reported to me later:
“It’s a good picture, dearie, ain’t it?” asked the “flower-girl”. “Very good.”
“I think Eva Moore’s good, don’t you?” “Very good.”
“She’s lorst ’er ’usband lately, pore thing; very ’ard for ’er. Though, mind yer, it’s a pleasant change, in one way: most of these ’ere actresses only mislay theirs.”
Which reminds me of another story. Some time after Harry died, a man I knew slightly called to see me. He came in, and began to say how grieved he was to hear of Harry’s death, and how much he sympathised with me in my loss. This went on for some time, then he said: “But the real thing I came to ask was—do you know of a good ‘jobbing’ gardener?”
An author once engaged an actor for a part, simply on account of his very ugly face and his exceeding bad complexion. At the dress rehearsal the author met the actor at the side of the stage, “made up”. “Who are you?” he asked. The actor gave his name. “Go and wash all the make-up off at once,” said the author; “I only engaged you for your ugly face.”
At Henley Regatta, years ago, Jack (about six years old, very fair and attractive) was watching the races from a balcony over Hobbs’ boathouse, which belonged to kind friends of ours, Mr. and Mrs. Pidgeon, who yearly invited us to see the wonderful view. After watching several races, Jack turned to our hostess and said, “Please, does the steamer never win?”