To the exceptional and startling success upon production of Robertson's five delicate little comedies, and to the frequently-recurring revivals of them, we owed much. They appeared just when they were wanted to revive interest in the drama. Nature was Robertson's goddess, and he looked upon the bright young manager as the high-priestess of the natural school of acting.
When the prolific fountain ceased, through the early and untimely death of Robertson, the choice of plays until the end of our career was left to me. I was honoured and helped by implicit confidence in my judgment; no word of rebuke passed her lips for a mistake, no word of praise was withheld when it was thought merited. No spark of professional jealousy was born to her; she always loved to act with the ablest and best equipped of her comrades. She had no place for the more sordid side of life, and was as free from extravagance as she was indifferent about money. Her life from childhood was passed in the service of the public until I thought the time had come for it to be less strenuous.
It may be that for the early withdrawal from triumphant scenes of the great gifts of so famous an actress I was to blame—if blame there was. I plead excuse in a painful remembrance of pitiful words, written by a powerful pen, on lingering too long upon the stage; words which drew the sad picture of a much-loved servant of the public clinging to the faded chaplet won as its idol in earlier days; of clutching at the withered trophy after the time had come for its graceful surrender to youth and promise, and before the admiration once so showered upon her should be replaced by indulgence—indulgence to be followed by compassion, compassion in its turn by indifference. Indulgence—compassion—indifference. The mere utterance of such words causes one pain. Twilight in art—as in nature—must be mournful: surely a sweeter picture is the splendid sinking of an early autumnal sun.
It will mean happiness to me to lay a few flowers at her feet, gathered in the gardens of those who knew and loved her. So I have asked three dear friends, a man of letters, a dramatist, and an actor, to help me in that task.
Macready and the child
The first tribute is from the pen of W. L. Courtney:
"MY DEAR B,—
"I gladly avail myself of the opportunity you give me to pay a tribute to the memory of Lady Bancroft.
"She herself has told us the sort of impression she made on those around her when she was a child; and because that early verdict passed on her is singularly prescient, it is worth recalling. Macready is the first witness. Marie Wilton—to use her maiden name, which was soon to be famous on the stage—acted the parts of the boy Fleance and the apparition of a child in the caldron scene to Macready's Macbeth at the close of his career, and was invited by the great actor to visit him in his room. 'Well,' he said, 'I suppose you hope to be a great actress some day. And what do you intend to play?' The answer came at once: 'Lady Macbeth.' 'Oh, is that all! Well, I like your ambition. You are a strange little thing and have such curious eyes. But you must change them before you play Lady Macbeth, or you will make your audience laugh instead of cry.' The story shows that Macready had quickly noticed two things about the child. Her eyes, which were not so much curious as unusual and always alive, were laughing, merry, twinkling eyes, the eyes of one who would never allow her outlook on the world to be other than genial and good; who could bear misfortune with as much courage as good fortune. He had noticed also what was almost the first thing that the spectator observed about Marie Bancroft's performance in almost every one of her parts, and that was the inscrutable fashion in which she at once established the best relations with her audience. It was in its way a little bit of magic, the secret of which she retained. The effect was irresistible. She came down to the footlights, or stayed where she was, without movement, and instantly flashes of mutual goodwill passed between her and the audience, even before the musical tones of her voice were heard. Sometimes, as with an actress like Eleonora Duse, time has to elapse while she is, so to speak, making herself at home. Marie Bancroft had undoubtedly what I have called a little bit of magic. Whatever the part that she was to play, there was always the comfortable feeling when she was on the stage that everything was going well, and that success was practically assured. In the series of her parts in the Robertsonian drama she was, of course, helped by the author's knowledge of her and of her temperament; but whether she was a schoolgirl or supposed to be grown up; whether the part belonged to the upper or the lower levels of society: in every case sympathy was instantly linking her with the eager and attentive house. She no sooner came than she saw what was wanted, and she conquered with what seemed consummate ease and economy of effort. I have never seen an actress who more rapidly and easily made her presence known on the stage as a gracious, winsome, affectionate creature, filled with human kindness, and always ready to believe the best of people and of things.
Dickens and the girl