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From Queen Katherine to Cordelia is a very far cry, and yet when she felt it to be her duty to undertake the difficult task Ellen Terry did not shirk her responsibility to her manager. It is true, that with the modesty that always goes hand in hand with true genius, she said that she would like to resign the character of King Lear's favourite child to a younger actress, and volunteered to appear in the character of the Fool. That would have been such a bewitching interpretation of one of Shakespeare's most carefully etched characters that it seems a pity it was lost to us; but Henry Irving was right in his judgment. He had determined that his audiences should see Ellen Terry as Cordelia; they saw her, and rejoiced in a new and striking triumph.

How vividly I recall that anxious first night of November 10, 1892. First impressions are generally the best, and therefore I do not hesitate to repeat what I wrote in the early hours of the succeeding November 11:—

"In penning these lines it is not so much my intention to enter into critical judgment on our leading actor's rendering of the most noble and exacting of Shakespearean characters, but rather to give my readers some description of one of the most notable 'first nights' of the modern stage. Under the Irving sway all first nights are important, but this one was especially so, for to the present generation of theatre-goers 'King Lear' is, from an acting point of view, practically an unknown play. There can be few amongst us now who can recall Macready's revival of 1838, that of Phelps in 1845, or Charles Kean's elaborate production of 1858—of which it was said that 'he had equalled his Hamlet and Louis the Eleventh.' That is exactly what every one hoped Henry Irving would do. More he could not do. Edwin Booth played Lear for a few nights at the Princess's in 1881—and it has, fitfully, been seen in the provinces, but to all intents and purposes the tragedy has for many years been laid on the shelf. What was Irving going to do with it? That was the question asked by every one in the house last night, and if his performance is to be judged by the tumultuous applause that greeted his first entrance, that followed him throughout the play, and that called and recalled him at the end of each act, he had done well indeed. And what a house it was! My comfortable and easily arrived at seat happened to be in the last row of the stalls, and consequently I overheard the conversation of the front rows of the pit—which has been rightly called the mouth through which the final verdict of the house is given. Here were any number of ladies who, bringing books, refreshments, and camp-stools with them, had patiently waited for five hours in the pit entrance of the theatre during a foggy and comfortless November afternoon in order to obtain good seats, and who spoke not only cheerfully, but even boastfully, of their experiences! Such a tribute to the popularity of the actor is surely noteworthy. It mattered nothing to them that the fog got into the theatre and set them coughing, that their camp-stools were sadly in their way, that the play was a long one, and some of the 'waits' were tedious. Eleven o'clock arrived, and there was still an act to be played, but their allegiance was as unshaken as their applause was undiminished. With such a loyal following as this, Henry Irving has no cause to fear a rival. The upper parts of the house were packed. Every available seat in circles and gallery was occupied, and the private boxes can only be described as 'boiling over.' But the fifteen rows of densely thronged stalls formed the centre of attraction. From the first it was noticeable that the house was almost as much interested in the house as in the play. Men stood up to see and be seen, and opera-glasses were as plentiful as blackberries in October. The eager pittites exchanged surmises and certainties with regard to celebrities—and, probably unconscious of the interest they were arousing, celebrities displayed themselves to the best possible advantage, and exchanged greetings with brother and sister celebrities. To give the names of those present would be to quote the very pick of the literary, artistic, scientific, and aristocratic world. That the critics, reporters, and artists were there in full force, goes without saying, and most of them seemed busy, some taking notes of the performance on the stage, others jotting down the names of the lions among the audience, and many making lightning-like sketches of those present, both on the stage and in the auditorium. But, after all, 'the play's the thing,' and it may be briefly said that this was followed with unflagging interest, and listened to with breathless silence. By the time this appears in print[3] those who are interested in things theatrical will have had an opportunity of reading the critical verdict of our leading dramatic censors on Henry Irving's Lear, and Ellen Terry's Cordelia. Whatever the ultimate popularity of these impersonations may be, there was but one opinion in the crowded and brilliant audience of last night. The people seemed never tired of cheering, and late though the hour was when the curtain fell, no one moved until Henry Irving, who throughout the evening looked 'every inch a king,' was compelled to give utterance to a few well-chosen words of heartfelt thanks. His first night of 'Lear,' he said, would be one of the happiest of his memories. A pleasant feature of the evening was the right loyal welcome given to Henry Howe, who, now playing the old man, tenant to Gloster, was the King of France in the Macready revival of fifty-five years ago."

Ellen Terry has told me that it was one of the most nervous and anxious first nights she had experienced, and it might well be so, for the task of all concerned in this great production was a heavy one. But though critical opinion differed as to some points in the representation—though sapient playgoers shook their heads, and, quoting Charles Lamb, declared that "King Lear" should never be acted, there was no argument as to the merits of the new Cordelia. Her maidenly simplicity and delicately expressed, though manifestly intense, love for her father touched the right chord, and once more she won all our hearts. Her initial popularity in the character continued throughout the long and, I believe, unprecedented run of the play.

No wonder that Ellen Terry is fond of saying that she is a "useful" actress to her manager. That, she declares, has always been her desire, and while under an engagement she considers it her duty to play any part that is offered to her and to do her best with it. Though she will not say so, I believe I am right in feeling that she is justifiably proud of having, in quick succession, succeeded in such widely divergent Shakespearean characters as the imperious Queen Katherine (a part in which I am inclined to think she actually satisfied that fastidious critic—herself) and the gentle Cordelia.

And here let me emphasise the fact that she repudiates the suggestion that it was her ambition to play Lady Macbeth. She had no desire for the part, but when called upon to take it she did not shirk the task.

Her next original impersonation was that of Fair Rosamund in Lord Tennyson's beautiful play, "Becket," which was brought out at the Lyceum on February 6, 1893. It did not tax her strength very much, but no one who witnessed the impersonation will forget its exquisite tenderness or her perfect delivery of such lines as—

"Rainbow, stay,

Gleam upon gloom,