BUST OF ELLEN TERRY, BY W. BRODIE, R.S.A.
Presented to The Shakespeare Memorial, Stratford-on-Avon, by Sir Henry Irving.
[To face page 88.
I wonder what she would have said if the recreant Sothern had thus committed himself! But in spite of occasional fits of joyousness this Haymarket engagement seems to have been a disappointment to her. She regarded it as one of her "lost opportunities,"—and in later days she would have given much to "find it again." By her own wish, however, it came to an early end. No doubt the ordeal was a severe one. She was exceedingly young, and she was called upon to vie with the picked comedians of her day. She acquitted herself not only bravely but with distinction, but no doubt her ever supersensitive nature (the inevitable if undesirable nature of the true artist) often whispered to her that she had blundered where she had really made a marked impression. Mrs. Siddons was wont to say that the player's nerves must be "made of cart ropes." Ellen Terry's highly-strung organisation seems to move on the slenderest of silken threads, and no doubt in those early days the strain of her public appearances were often a torment to her. In the June of 1863 Edward Leman Blanchard records her appearance at the Princess's Theatre, and her performance of Desdemona to the Othello of Walter Montgomery. This was an interesting event, for it witnessed the return of the little Mamillius and Prince Arthur of former days to the scene of her early successes, and this in a Shakespearean part in which she subsequently won great renown at the Lyceum.
Not long after this, and to the intense regret of those who were carefully watching the rapid progress of her artistic career, she temporarily left the stage. Probably she found its duties too irksome to one of her restless, self-doubting nature. Men and women endowed with unusual talents are generally prone to have their own way, and it is perhaps well for the full fruition of those great gifts, that are to be a present boon and future memory to mankind, that they should follow it. Who would wantonly put Pegasus in the Pound?
Even in those (to her) unpromising "Georgina" days Ellen Terry had shown real genius. Genius, as William Winter has beautifully put it, is the petrel, and like the petrel it loves the freedom of the winds and the waves.
Just as the petrel of the ocean appears during its flight sometimes to touch the surface of the waves with its feet, so she had daintily fluttered across the boards which were for a time to lose her.