Interviewer: What—Henry—Henry J.?
The Modern Mathews: Yes, dear old "Our Boys" Byron. He was with him for seven years. I've had him since. Poor old Byron! What a wit he was. He joked to the last—almost his last breath was a joke. He wrote "Fourteen Days" for me. He was very bad—had a consumptive cough when the play was finished. He would persist in reading it to me. It was heartbreaking. When he was dying we used to drop in and sit with him, and take him little delicacies. Just before he had been doing work for Hare and Kendal at the St. James's. I went in one day, and there was a fine hare by his side. "Hare sent it to me," he said. "It's so big that I thought Kendal was inside!" Dear old Byron!
(A pause.)
"THE GREAT DIVORCE CASE"
From a Photo by Falk, New York.
"PARKER"
(Miss Kate Rorke).
"G. GORDON"
(Mr. Wyndham).
The Modern Mathews (with gaiety a trifle forced): Let me see—where were we when we left the house? Paradoxical that, eh? Oh! yes—I remember—of course. Well, after playing about for some years, at last came a moment when I seemed to be on the horns of a dilemma. I had just advanced beyond the position of a stock actor, and hadn't achieved any particular individual reputation—that is, I felt unless I adopted some special line managers wouldn't offer me engagements. One morning—I was playing at Brighton—at breakfast I had three telegrams in succession. One read: "Would you accept an engagement at a West-end theatre to manage it yourself?" A second—from T. E. Smale: "Would you like a theatre in London? I can find money for it." And a third from Alexander Henderson: "Could you open at Criterion in 'Brighton' next Monday?" This seemed direct. I rushed to town. Henderson said: "Rare chance. If open next Monday—can have theatre rent free!"
Interviewer: Of course——?
The Modern Mathews: Yes—I went! Played a month. Went to Paris. Returned at Easter. Opened in "The Great Divorce Case," and I started with the principle of making it a farcical comedy theatre. Made a contract with Henderson for seven years. This was in 1—8—7—6. Always a good memory for dates of that kind. "Pink Dominos!" Forced on me—absolutely forced on me. "The Great Divorce Case" was free to anybody to use, and when I produced it I wrote to the authors in Paris telling them I was prepared to pay them. A week or two after they sent their agent to me, saying that the same authors had just produced a piece in Paris and would like me to have it. It very much resembled "The Great Divorce Case," you know; and, on this basis, I refused it. They sent three or four times. At last I bought it for a mere song—I didn't want it—£40 down and £1 a night for a hundred nights!