Ellen Terry has modestly declared that it was because of her popularity as Olivia that Henry Irving invited her to be his helpmate in his great projects for his management of the Lyceum Theatre. It was not only this: many things pointed to the fact that she was destined to be the greatest Shakespearean actress of the latter years of the nineteenth century.
CHAPTER IX
SOME SPLENDID STROLLING
In the early autumn of 1878, before entering upon her all-important Lyceum engagement, Ellen Terry, accompanied by her husband, appeared in some of our leading provincial cities. Everywhere they were most warmly welcomed, and the experiment proved so successful that, even after her Lyceum duties seemed sufficient to engross all her time and attention, it was, during a period extending over two years, repeated.
That was a splendid time for the so-called "country" playgoer. I well recall how within one week at the Theatre Royal, Birmingham (this was in 1879), I saw Ellen Terry in her matchless rendering of Portia in "The Merchant of Venice," as Ophelia in "Hamlet," as Lady Teazle in the "School for Scandal," and as Lilian in "New Men and Old Acres." I would gladly live that week over again. In Shakespearean characters Charles Kelly was not, I think, seen at his best, but in his comedy parts he was admirable, and there is always an interest in seeing husband and wife act together. Actors and actresses love playing to ardent and sympathetic provincial audiences. Their absolutely unrestrained appreciation and applause delight them. The intent faces and eager ears, bent on losing neither a movement of the expression nor an inflection of the voice, act as a tonic to them; there is magnetism between the stage and the house, and under such conditions acting is sure to be at its best. There is nothing blasé about the provincial playgoer. He pays for a play that he wants to see, and if he is pleased he expresses his gratitude in no uncertain terms. If he is disappointed he goes sadly and quietly away, but he is never rude to those who have done their best to entertain him. "Boos" and author-baiting are happily unknown in the provinces, and no doubt this is why actors of eminence are fond of exploiting new plays in the country before exposing them to the exasperating risks of a London first night. It seems astounding that people should exist who can wantonly deride the failure of anxious authors and actors, who, having honestly sought to conquer, are miserably conscious of their own defeat. No play can be depended upon until it has gone through the ordeal of a public performance. If the piece that has read well and rehearsed well fails to grip the public, the sensitive actors and author are the first to feel it, and surely in their keen disappointment they should be spared the humiliation of rowdyism.
Not long ago there was a discussion as to the "rights" of first-night audiences to "boo" a new play and the performers in it. The views of leading actors and dramatists were sought, and Ellen Terry replied as follows:—
"I so entirely believe in the verdict of the great public that I long to have the first night of a new play over and done with, for it is, to my mind, the second night which tells me of the future good or bad fortune of the play and of our efforts. On the first night there are one's friends, so many so prejudiced; and one's enemies—not so many, but equally prejudiced, and so it seems to me that the first night scarcely counts. Then comes the second night, and all the nights. I can't tell how much it affects me—moves me—the enthusiasm, the attention, the encouragement. I just adore the public, and the public loves me back again. I know it, feel it, and am grateful for it. It refreshes my heart."
"Ellen Terry."
This is very prettily put, and it is all very true, but such a universal favourite is hardly a judge with regard to the feelings of her less loved sisters who are subject to the baseness and vulgarity of a detestable faction of first-nighters.