We went much to the theater. While the English stage at this time could not be seriously compared to the French or Italian, it was far better than the American, and there were some good companies in London. Charles Wyndham, Mr. and Mrs. Kendal, Beerbohm Tree, John Hare, and Forbes-Robertson were all acting. At the Lyceum Ellen Terry and Henry Irving, both at the height of their powers, were playing Shakespeare. We saw magnificent productions of the “Merchant of Venice”, “Henry the Eighth”, and “Hamlet.” Witty Mary Abbott told us of a cockney comedian’s criticism of Sir Henry.
“Look at ‘Enery Hirving! Look at ’is ’Amlet! Asthmatic, I grant you, but werry wulgar. Give ’im a song and dance and where is ’e?”
Not long after seeing Ellen Terry’s entrancing acting of Beatrice, J. and I met her former husband, the great artist George F. Watts. My diary gives an account of our visit, but does not mention that I was haunted throughout by Miss Terry’s voice and face. I could not imagine her at home in Watts’ quiet, well-ordered house. They seemed as far apart as the poles, and yet she once reigned here supreme. There’s a legend that during their brief married life Watts often gave large stag dinners where his child wife was not expected to appear. This was little to her liking. One evening, when a grave company of distinguished men were seated at the board, the lovely madcap appeared suddenly from under the table, where she had been hiding, dressed as Cupid in silk tights and wings, sprang upon the table, and ran its length before the astonished guests. “Se non è vero, è ben trovato.”
July 8, 1892. To lunch with Mr. and Mrs. Watts, Little Holland House, Melbourne Road, Kensington. Found them waiting for us in the drawing-room. She was a Miss Gordon Cumming. Watts is a man of perhaps seventy-six, slender, small, deaf in one ear. Keen blue eyes, fine teeth, the rest of him a delicate and dignified wreck. He was oddly dressed in a little claret-colored skullcap, a brown coat, very old, canvas shoes, unlaced, and linen ruffles at his wrists instead of cuffs. His presence was a benediction. The gentleness, the otherworldliness, the purity and spirituality of the great little man brought tears to my eyes. He made me think of Mr. Emerson, and a little of Papa, at the end. We lunched in a room filled with pictures and portraits and afterwards went into the gallery, thrown open to the public Saturday and Sunday afternoons. The “Life and Love”, a picture I always liked, grows on one.
“I think of giving this to America,” Watts said, “it may have a lesson for your country. Life is a poor thing at best, toiling up a steep, rough path, and unless helped by Love, not worth having. Love does not lift the burden from Life, nor give it very much support, but touches it gently, tenderly, and makes the stony path endurable.”
I admired a portrait of Mrs. Langtry.
“I call it the Dean’s Daughter,” he said. “She came in one day in a simple little bonnet and dress. There was a feather in the bonnet that I asked her to take out. Then I painted her just as she was.”
The portrait is a perfect, womanly thing. Not the professional beauty, the actress, or the pleasure-loving woman the world knows, just the sweet loveliness of the Dean’s Daughter.
“There is something very good about her,” he said.
Remembering her smile, which kept the childlike quality and the brightness of sunshine, I understood.