"Still in my mind is the beautiful farewell to her on the day when her mortal remains were laid to rest. I was very proud at finding myself one of the four intimate friends chosen to pay their last respects at her burial; and when, towards the close of the memorial service at St. Martin-in-the-Fields which immediately followed it, that inspired man delivered the farewell address (quite the most beautiful of the many I have heard), I was shaken with a deep emotion even to tears.
"Ever your affectionate friend,
"J. FORBES-ROBERTSON."
I will restrict myself to writing of her in one play only, and will choose W. S. Gilbert's dramatic contrast Sweethearts—which, by the way, I had the good fortune to name.
"Sweethearts"
No play of its length has ever excited more attention than Sweethearts. Pages could be filled with the chorus of praise which swelled from the press. One leading critic wrote that Gilbert had determined to test talent by a most difficult stage exercise; and that my wife had been able to prove the studied grace and polished elegance of her dramatic scholarship. From the subject set to her, called Sweethearts, she produced the poem of "Jenny." The success of the creation was complete. No striking or unusually clever writing, no wit, or epigram, or quaint expression of words, no telling scene, or passionate speech, taken separately or in combination, could account for the impression made by the actress. The audience was fascinated by the detail of the portrait, as charming in youth as it was beautiful in age.
An accomplished judge of acting, well acquainted with the European stage, after our retirement from management, said of my wife: "In my humble opinion, the gem of her repertoire is Sweethearts, next to that, Masks and Faces and Caste." Ellen Terry has written that her performance in Sweethearts was unapproachable.
More perfect acting, I venture to say, has not been seen upon our stage. The ars celare artem was at its highest and best; there were tones and touches, hints and suggestions, which were marvellous in the wealth of meaning they conveyed. Of her acting, indeed, it might be said, as one of our old poets proclaimed of the face of his mistress:
"'Tis like the milky way i' the sky,
A meeting of gentle lights without a name!"
I have seen all the finest acting available to me in the last seventy years—since my boyhood—and still delight in the enjoyment of the stage. I can summon noble phantoms from the past, and dwell gladly upon the experiences of more recent days. After searching thought, the most critical remembrance, I can recall no acting more perfect, in my judgment, than my wife's performances in Sweethearts. The creatures of the different acts were, from the first line to the last, absolutely distinct, but equally complete; the one, a portrait of impetuous girlhood, the other of calm maturity. There was not, throughout, one movement of the body, one tone of the voice, one look on the speaking face, to change or amend. There was nothing, it seemed to me, that could in any way be bettered. There shone throughout those gleams of genius which in all art are priceless.