"Children educated to appear becomingly upon the scene have always been obtainable, and upon easy terms; but here were little players who could not merely repeat accurately the words they had learnt by rote, but could impart sentiment to their speeches, could identify themselves with the characters they played, could personate and portray, could weep themselves that they might surely make others weep, could sway the emotions of crowded audiences. They possessed in full that power of abandonment to scenic excitement which is rare even among the most consummate of mature performers. They were carried away by the force of their own acting; there were tears not only in their voices but in their eyes; their mobile faces were quick to reflect the significance of the drama's events; they could listen, their looks the while annotating, as it were, the discourse they heard; singular animation and alertness distinguished all their movements, attitudes, and gestures. There was special pathos in the involuntary trembling of their baby fingers, and the unconscious wringing of their tiny hands; their voices were particularly endowed with musically thrilling qualities. I have never seen audiences so agitated and distressed, even to the point of anguish, as were the patrons of the Princess's Theatre on those bygone nights when little Prince Arthur, personated by either of the Terry sisters, clung to Hubert's knees as the heated iron cooled in his hands, pleading passionately for sight, touchingly eloquent of voice and action; a childish simplicity attendant ever upon all the frenzy, the terror, the vehemence, and the despair of the speeches and the situation.
"Assuredly Nature had been very kind to the young actresses, and without certain natural graces, gifts, and qualifications, there can scarcely be satisfactory acting. All Romeo's passion may pervade you, but unless you can look like Romeo—or something like him—if your voice be weak or cracked, your mouth awry or your legs askew—it is vain to feel like him; you will not convince your audience of your sincerity, or induce them to sympathise in the least with your actions or sufferings; still less will you stir them to transports. Of course Genius makes laws unto itself, and there have been actors who have triumphed over very serious obstacles; but, as Mr. G. H. Lewes has observed, 'a harsh, inflexible voice, a rigid or heavy face, would prevent even a Shakespeare from being impressive and affecting on the stage.' The player is greatly dependent upon his personality. At the same time, mental qualities must accompany physical advantages. The constitutionally cold and torpid cannot hope to represent successfully excitement or passion. The actor must be en rapport with the character he sustains, must sympathise with the emotions he depicts. A peculiar dramatic sensitiveness and susceptibility from the first characterised the sisters Terry; their nervous organisation, their mental impressibility and vivaciousness, not less than their personal charms and attractions, may be said to have ordained and determined their success upon the stage."
Coming from this high source such trustworthy and carefully analysed appreciation is invaluable; but the criticism that I love best to preserve in connection with the early appearances of the little Terrys at the Princess's Theatre is that of John William Cole, the biographer of Charles Kean. Writing for a book (published in 1859), long before the girls had established their names, he said:—
"Before quitting the subject of 'King John' (1852) at the Princess's Theatre, it would be unjust not to name in a special sentence of approval the impressive acting of Miss Kate Terry, then a child of ten years of age, as Prince Arthur, and of Mr. Ryder as Hubert."
In the revival of "King John" in 1858, Ellen Terry was the Prince Arthur, that sound actor, John Ryder (he had been one of the mainstays of Macready), again playing Hubert.
Concerning the production of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" in 1856, Mr. Cole says: "Another remarkable evidence of the excellent training of the Princess's Theatre presented itself in the precocious talent of Miss Ellen Terry, a child of eight years of age, who played the merry goblin Puck, a part that requires an old head on young shoulders, with restless elfish animation, and an evident enjoyment of her own mischievous pranks."
It is because Mr. Cole wrote and published, as it were, "upon the spot," that I consider his criticism not only discerning, but beyond all price. We all know how easy it is to prophesy after the event!
Ellen Terry's recollections of her appearance as the infant Mamillius in "The Winter's Tale" are very vivid, as, indeed, they may be. In more ways than one it was a notable first night for the little maid. Queen Victoria, Prince Albert, and the Princess Royal were present, and the next morning she woke to find herself with her foot on the first step of the steep stairs that lead to fame. No less an authority than the Times declared that she had played her part with a vivacious precocity that proved her a worthy relation of her sister. No doubt there were that day rejoicings in the Terry family, and the sensitive child must have been rewarded for her own passing tribulations. "My young heart swelled with pride—I can recall the sensation now," she has declared, "when I was told what I had to do,"—and then comes the sad confession that she wept bitter and prolonged tears when the audience laughed when she fell over the rather ridiculous toy-cart with which Mamillius was ordered to "go play." She calls it her "first dramatic failure," and felt at the moment that her "career as an actress was ruined for ever."
I wonder if that untoward episode of the toy-cart had anything to do with the extreme nervousness that, according to her own confession, the actress always suffers from on "first nights"? Probably not; for I believe all true stage artists are continually nervous—nervous for themselves, nervous for their audiences. She says to this day that she is so "high strung" on a first night that if she realised that there was an audience in front staring at her, she would fly away from the theatre and be far off "in two-twos."