Marguerite Arnold Bennett.
This letter was written after Harry played “Touchstone”, when he was so severely criticised by some for his conception of the part:
My Dear Esmond,
Touchstone, Touchstone, Touchstone at last! A creation, a triumph, a delight; wit, fantasy, irony—that hint of the Great God Pan behind the motley—all unite to make the Touchstone I have always longed for but have only now seen for the first time.
Sincerely yours,
Justin Huntly McCarthy.
Here is a letter which Harry wrote to me. He was arranging for a theatre at the time, though what theatre I cannot remember. He evidently feels that he has been successful in an absolutely business-like way—probably because he never was, and if he had made a fair “deal” over anything it was due entirely to the honesty of his associates and not to his own capacity, for, as I have said elsewhere, he was never “one of the children of this world”:
“Your poor husband,” he writes, “has been having a devil of a time. The evolving, the planning, the diplomacy, the craft!—but we rehearse Monday, and open in ten days. Jill had a lovely time in the garden to-day, as happy as a bumble bee. I think I’ve had the dreariest week I’ve ever had in my life, but all’s well that ends well.” Evidently all the “craft” had been taking all the colour out of life for him!
When he died, I had so many wonderful letters from all our friends, and not only friends who were personally known to me, but dear people who wrote to me from all over the world, offering their sympathy and love; offerings of sympathy from their Majesties the King and Queen—one of those signal proofs of their kindly thought in and for their subjects which have helped to make them so dearly loved by the Empire; from men and women who had worked with us, who had known Harry as an actor, as a man, or as both; from people who had never known him, but loved him for his written and spoken word; from people who had known me, and wished to send me their loving help at such a time. Among these many letters there is one from Sir Johnston Forbes Robertson, a letter full of regret at Harry’s death, and of kind and cheering thoughts for me; it gives a picture of Harry, riding a bicycle past Buckingham Palace one morning. The night before Forbes Robertson had played in a new production, and the critics in some of the papers had not been too kind. The letter recalls how Harry, riding past Forbes Robertson that morning, called out cheerily, “Never mind what they say, you were fine.” The writer adds, “Wasn’t it just like him?” One of those happy pictures of Harry which did so much to bring rays of happiness to me at that time.
Not the least beautiful was one which consisted only of a single line, the letter of the best type of Englishman, the man who “cannot talk”, but whose very affection renders him dumb. It was just this: “Eva, dear, I am so sorry for you”—and so said everything that a kind heart could say.