“Yes, I know. But my contention is that there are people who can and do gauge to a nicety the taste of the public.” And I mentioned the names of two critics who had, on many occasions, foretold most accurately the exact length of time new pieces would run.
Tree was called back to the rehearsal, and he glided away for a few moments, fluttering a handful of loose papers as he went. He soon returned, and this time he was cheerfulness itself.
“It’s going very well,” he said, referring to the rehearsal. “It’s only a stop-gap, of course, but it’ll make a little money. I must write to those critics you mentioned,” he added musingly; “or perhaps it would be better if I seemed to run across them accidentally?”
But whether or not he did run across either of the critics accidentally, I do not know, for the war broke out soon after and disrupted everything.
. . . . . . . .
It was when I was staying in Guilford Street, Bloomsbury, six or seven years ago, in a house opposite the Foundlings’ Hospital, that, one morning, Gordon Craig came into the room. He was, I think, in search of Ernest Marriott, a most ingenious and original artist, who at that time and for long after was doing some sort of work for [203] ]Craig. Marriott and I were staying at the same boarding-house.
When Craig’s bulky form filled the doorway I recognised at once, from Marriott’s description of him, who he was, and I introduced myself to him, telling him Marriott was out.
“Yes, I know he is,” said Craig; “but I have often wanted to look at one of these fine old houses.”
And he walked round and round the room, with his eyes on the cornice, telling me all sorts of things, which I have long forgotten, that I had never heard before. He seemed to have made a special study of English architecture of the early nineteenth century, and whilst he was in the house talked of nothing else, though I tried to lure him into gossip of the theatre.
He gave me the impression of a large, white man with hair which, if not entirely grey, was very fair. He had, I remember, hands much plumper than one would expect an artist to possess; his face also was rather plump. He seemed to fill the large room and radiate vitality. He left as suddenly and as inconsequently as he had come.