"UNCLE BEN" (Mr. Lionel Brough).
"BOB GASSITT" (Mr. Henry Irving).
The Modern Mathews: At one of the Ash Wednesday performances by Cole at the Haymarket Theatre. I played Captain Murphy Macguire in "The Serious Family," and John Clayton was the Charles Tarcus. I often played with Clayton. He and I were in the cast of "Dearer Than Life," at the Queen's Theatre, in 1868, together with Toole, Irving, Lionel Brough, and Henrietta Hodson (Mrs. Labouchere). I paid a guinea to play Macguire, and it was worth more to me, for I was soon after playing with Buckstone, and then made my first dash on at the Royalty at £1 a week, when Ellen Terry and I used to play lovers. But one of my great desires was to play Rover in "Wild Oats." I made up my mind to do it as soon as I saw Phelps in the part at Sadler's Wells. I had £30, and meeting another young fellow with a similar sum, we began to negotiate for the Strand Theatre, then under the management of Mr. Payne. But our hopes were crushed, as a slight barrier cropped up in the way of rent. Payne wanted £60 a week rent, and three months in advance. By this time I was ashamed of myself, although I had an offer of twelve shillings a week at the Theatre Royal, Preston—which, probably, I never should have got! I wrote to my father. He was somewhat wroth when I told him my theatrical desires. He said: "Well, take your diploma, and I won't interfere." I accepted the bargain, finished my medical studentship, went to Dublin—took my diploma. I had almost abandoned the idea of going on to the stage, and 1863 found me on my way to America to the war. I left with £9 in my pocket! It was the dad's suggestion I should go, but I believe he did it with a breaking heart. Look at that! (Takes a massive gold ring set with a single diamond, and passes it to Interviewer.) Why, the old fellow came over to America whilst I was there. When he was leaving the docks, he threw this, wrapped up in a piece of paper, on to the quay. My eyes were fixed on my father. There was he, making frantic gesticulations and pointing. I thought the piece of paper a greenback, and refused to pick it up. At last he became almost frantic in his anxiety. I picked up the paper, and there was that ring in it. The old fellow went away happy. This diamond and sapphire ring was given to me by the Czar. Not a bad ring, eh? Look at it. (Interviewer does so, and unconsciously puts it on finger!)
MR. WYNDHAM AS "ROVER."
(Wild Oats.)
From a Photo by the London Stereoscopic Co.
(Interviewer is busy for the next ten minutes in noting small "asides," thrown in between whiffs of cigarette: "£250 a year as medical officer." "In several engagements." "Did fairly well." "Have a cigarette?" "Appeared with Mrs. John Wood in New York." "Six weeks." "£4 12s. a week." "Dismissed for incompetency." "Came home." "Met amateur friends again." "Engaged at Royalty." "£4 a week." "Leading light comedy and stage management." "Offer from Miss Herbert to go to St. James's. Went. Miss Herbert, Irving, Mr. and Mrs. Frank Mathews, Stoyle, Ada Cavendish there, and—Oh! that first night.")
The Modern Mathews crosses to table L., and taking up an edition de luxe of a commemorative volume of the Clover Club, reads the story which he told ten years ago of that first night. His back is to the fireplace (CENTRE), the book in one hand leaves the other free for action. He reads and remembers.
"The piece was an adaptation of Ouida's 'Idalia.' I was playing the hero, Hugh Stoneleigh; a young actor named Charles was Victor Vane; Miss Herbert (long since retired) was Idalia; and Henry Irving was the villain of the play, Count Falcon. In those days, by-the-bye, managers would insist upon casting me for the virtuous heroes, and Irving for the vicious ones, although our proclivities in no way justified the selection. But what a charming villain Irving was: the only actor I have ever seen who has been able to make villainy on the stage appear as it should appear—lovable. But to resume: The opening scene was a rocky defile, in which I was suddenly attacked by Irving, and left for dead. The stage-manager had outshone himself in the production of a grandly impressive scene, in which the demands of realism were observed by the introduction of a natural waterfall: descending from the flies at the side, passing under a massive bridge, and rushing wildly and obliquely across the stage. It was certainly a gorgeous scene; an inspiring one, bound to elicit uproarious approval. Well, on the first night it did, and during the rest of the evening that waterfall was never forgotten. I told you it was supposed to dash under a massive bridge (which, by-the-bye, sloped down towards the footlights, in full view of the audience); but stage-managers propose, and waterfalls dispose. It was its first appearance on any stage, and, like most beginners, it wanted to do too much: it not only dashed under the bridge, but it trickled over the bridge; and, on its passage across the stage, it oozed from its proper channel, in several independent little rivulets, down towards the footlights. Wherever that inexperienced water went, it left the stage slippery. Thunders of applause greeted the enthusiastic débutant, and all the time the traitor was preparing for the annihilation of his brother artists. Gracefully down the bridge came F. Charles. He touched the slippery part of the bridge, threw his arms out wildly, away went his cloak into the torrent, and—well, he sat down. With dramatic instinct in every nerve of his body, firmly entered, half a minute afterwards, Henry Irving; looked about him warily; then strode down the bridge—you know the stride—till he also reached the fatal spot, threw his arms wildly round, and—well, he sat down. Need I tell you that the awe of the situation was fading? Now came my turn. Standing on a platform behind the scene from the commencement, I had seen what had happened to my two friends; so, stepping gingerly down the bridge, I arrived on the stage without sitting down, had my encounter with the two ruffians, escaped from them, had run wildly up the bridge again to receive the shot from Falcon's pistol, and had fallen, according to stage-manager's instructions, a foot or so below the treacherous spot. On came Idalia—she had heard the shot. 'Ah! a body on the bridge!' She runs down, recognises me—'Great heavens, 'tis he!'—rushes further down, reaches the fatal place, away go her arms, and—well, she sat down: the folds of her dress falling over me and completely hiding me from the view of the audience. That was the end of the act—it was a powerful one. We had all done our level best, but the waterfall had scored the most.