Behind the Footlights

s’ Pursuits—Strain of Theatrical Life—Life and Death—Fads—Mr. Maude’s Dressing-room—Sketches on Distempered Walls—Arthur Bourchier and his Dresser—John Hare—Early and late Theatres—A Solita

r. George Alexander on the stage of the St. James’s Theatre. It was in honour of t

lace, one of those magnificent royal evening receptions Queen Alexandra has instituted instead of those dreary afternoon Drawing-rooms. This gentleman[Pg 126] had been there when the Royalties received the Indian Princes in June, 1902, the occasion when the royal cor

ited so much admiration at Buckingham Palace. Although small he was a fine-looking man and had charming manners. He read his programme carefully and se

I asked; “or can I ex

cannot quite make out whether the lovely young lady is really going to marry that hump-

sca marries

was really amusing. Evidently the lovely white lady (Miss Millard) deserved[Pg 127] a better fate according to their ideas, for he repeatedly expressed his distress as the play proceeded. B

ersed with friends, while a perfect army of stage carpenters and strange women, after moving out the front row of stalls, brought flights of steps and made delightfully carpeted staircases lead up to either side of the stage. Huge palms and lovely flowers banked the b

case stood the handsome actor-manager in plain dress clothes, washed and cleaned

ad been arranged to form a second room

a couple of hundred persons thoroughly enjoyed that supper behind the footlights at the St. James’s Theatre. Many of the people had never been on a stage before, and it was rather amusing to see them peeping behind the flies, and asking weird q

several opportunities of enjoying these unique receptions. At the supper at His Majesty’s Theatre a few nights later the chief attractions besides the Beerbohm Trees were Mrs. Kendal and Miss Ellen Terry, the latt

, 23a, Old Bond S

RGE ALE

s brought him to London. From that moment he was a constant theatre-goer, and in September, 1879, made his first bow behind the footlights. He owes much of his success to the training he received in Sir Henry Irving’s Company at the Lyceum. There is no doubt much of the business learned in early youth has stood him in good stead i

through the mill, worked his way from the bottom to the top, and being possessed of an exc

ells a good sto

of a country town not a hundred miles from London. She confided in me that she was a spinster, and that she did not[Pg 130] consider her relations sympathetic. She was obviously well-to-do—I gathered this from her account of her home and her daily life as she described them. Suddenly her lett

——’ said the e

’ I r

id. ‘She has written

g, but following up th

hristian n

’ he r

he live

ers had acted for her family for many years, and were friends of her relations, they had taken her instructions quietly, but after much discussion in private had decided to call on me and inform me of t

ge at Chorley Wood to study. I bicycled thither one day from Chalfont St.

“for it is so hot, and I’m

she would “go and see.” She went, and immedia

maid has orders not to admit an

at her feet was Boris, the famous hound. The Alexanders had been a fortnight at the cottage working hard at the play, and at the moment of my arrival Mrs. Alexander was hearing her husband his part. Not only does she do this, but she makes excellent suggestions. She studies the play

ood and London a few days later,[Pg 132] he might have thought Ge

e?” asked the actor whe

” was m

g

taking it to Lond

ee what I have here,” and opening a litt

!” I ex

h your sanguinary weapon, fo

razors to London

that train, or a gun and six razors mig

e satiated with publicity, to long for the country and an outdoor, freer life, and in many instances they not only long for it, but actually succe

successful career; otherwise the breakdown is sure to come, and may come with such force as to leave the victim afflicted for life, so it is far wiser for the brain-worker of whatever profession or business to realise this

constitutional weakness, theatrical life will find it out. Extremes of heat and cold have to be borne. Low dresses o

times in an evening, in spite of all his dresser’s rubbing down. The mental and physical strain affects the pores of the skin and exhausts the body, that is why

[Pg 134] the wife’s serious and protracted illness. Months wore on, and every night the husband played his part, wondering what news would greet him

d caper and be amusing. Think of the mockery of it all. Next morning he was up early, toying with his breakfast, in order to be at the home before nine o’clock, when that serious operation was to be performed. He did

was not so well. It was a matinée day, and in an agony of anxiety and excitement that poor man played two performances, receiving wires about her condition between the acts. Think of

py without a cigar. Ellen Terry is so devoted to her son and daughter, she finds recreation in their society. Cyril Maude loves shooting and all country pursuits. Winifred Emery never mentions the theatre after she leaves the stage door, and finds relaxation in dom

ote to boredom—a tonic to the overworked, and ac

it is nowadays, but even then his pictures were works of art. He portrayed his contemporaries—the De Reskes, Van Dyck, Calvé, Hans Richter, Mascagni, Joachim, Tosti, Alma-Tadema, John Drew, Melba, and

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one tucked under her arm. Many actresses have particular mascots. Miss Ellen Terry, Miss Lily Hanbury, and a host more have their lucky ornaments which they wear

to be the heroine of any little stage joke.” This is rather an amusing assertion for a lady who is continua

l of which he had seen, and I noticed that he seemed particularly gloomy and morose at its conclusion. On the first night, when I came back to my dressing-room from the stage, I found the door locked. Here was a pretty predicament. It was clear that he had got the key and had mysteriously disappeared. I had the door b

dent man and honest gallery boy I am bound to express my unbiased opinion

a horse, and he loves a race meeting. In fact, on one occasion re

handsome wife has had much to say to the decoration, the actor-manager has decided views of his own in these matters. He has a delightful study at the back of the house, round the sides of which

ike a Catholic priest of ?sthetic tendency; but as the expression changes with lightn

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dressing-room, where the walls are decorated ac

little collection they make. Phil May, Harry Furniss, Dudley Hardy, Holman Clarke, Bernard Partridge, Raven Hill, Tom Brown, are among the contributors, and Leslie Ward’s portrait of Lord Salisbury is one of the f

dressing-room attached. It is quite near the stage, and has first-floor windows which look out on King Street, next door to Willis’s Rooms, once

days the actor-manager dines, an arrangement which saves him much time and trouble, and his huge dog Boris—the famous boarhound which appeare

mortals to dine at his hours, and he cannot accommodate himself to theirs. The artist who appears much in public

and adopt a “high-tea” principle before the play; but as all the audience

ama from seven to ten instead of nine to twelve? By this means early comers and late diners would both be satisfied. Instead of which, as matters stand in London, the late diners a

r this meal, they are able to get a little rest before startin

between each act. Then a long time is required to “make up.” For instance in such a part as Giovanni Malatesta (Paolo and Francesca), Mr. Alexander spent an hour each day painting his face and arranging hi

meal consequently delayed, it is impossible to eat again between five and six, consequently the two meals get merged into one. Rehearsals for a new play frequently last a whole month, and during that month the players perform eight times a week in the old piece, and rehearse, or have to attend the theatre nearly all day as well. Thre

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ssion, where habit had drilled him to punctuality. One Sunday he was s

ss me, s

dinner, during the course of which his neig

en it—but if you ar

he

ife was sitting in full evening d

ery late,”

as early. It is only

iting for nea

ng—wha

ch me a little after ten

inner-party, forgot there was a

white tie?” aske

t too! Dear, dear, what a man I am

raderie among all people engage

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e forced to “rest” when he wants to work, and his old colleagues will try and procure him employment, and when work and health fail utterly, they get up a benefit for him

enerous purses, but to give gracefully req

He who buys what he does not want ends in wanting what he cannot buy. Style and show begun in flourishing times are hard to relinquish. Capital soon runs away when drawn u

learn there is no disgrace in bei

des has informed the public that ￡100 a week is the highest he ev

ble to command ￡100 a week in a comic opera, but after all it is not for long. It is never for fifty-two weeks in the year, and only for a few years at most. Beauty fades, flesh increases, the attractio

t at Drury Lane for ￡50 a night, and on one occasion he made ￡2,000 by a benefit. Madame Vestris, however, bea

salaries are doled out accordi

ue, while every Friday night the treasurer and his assistants with trays full of “salary” go round the theatre and distribute packets in batches to the endless persons who combine to make a successful performance. The money is sealed up in

lf. This all meant extra tips and extra expenses everywhere, for she was the “leading lady”! Wonderful notices appeared in all the provincial papers and this girl was the draw. The manager knew that, and advertised her and pushed her forward in every way. All the company thought she began at a salary of ￡10 a week, and rumour said this sum had been doubled afte

tance: there are man

than any man in London, and yet he has only drawn ten weeks’ salary. Everything has turned out badl

act, Sir Henry Irving was earning about ￡30,000 a year at the begin

s they bought a house in Berkeley Square, retired, and have enjoyed a well-earned rest. More than that, Sir Squire Bancroft stands unique as regards charities. Although not wishing to be tied any more to the stage, he does not mind giving an occasional “Readi

their Robertson pieces were considered suitable to my early teens by way of amusement, while I was taken to Shakespeare’s

an unfashionable part of London, to which they attracted society people of that day. The theatre was not then what it is now, the “upper ten” seldom visited the play at that

tails, each in their turn to inculcate the same thoroughness in the next generation. These people numbered John Hare, Mr. and Mrs. Kendal (Madge Robertson was the yo

nd call them “stalls,” for which they dared ask 6/-apiece. They got it—more were wanted. Others were added, and graduall

ourse of conversation that he was just fifty, though he looked[Pg 147] much younger. His tall figure was perfectly erect, and his white

I don’t think I should mind much if I never entered a theatre again, either as spectator or actor—and my wife feels the same. My only regret

tre. During the performance they had coffee and biscuits, or sometimes, on cold nights, a little soup, and the moment the curtain was down they jumped into their carriage, and were in their ow

otographs which I had seen

m away, and only yesterday, after an interval of six years, I gave the order for their removal. Thi

see her act when I was quite a girl, and somehow Miss Marie Tempest

yes seem to disappear in one glorious smile, and every one near her joins in her mirth. Mrs. Bancroft was comparatively a young woman when she reti

nal dress rehearsal, as a rule, is played before a small critical audience, and the piece is expected to run as smoothly as on the first night itself—to be, in fact, a sort of p

ost alone in her opinion.[Pg 149] It is really, therefore, a matter of taste whether the whole performance be gone through in separate portions or whether one final effort be made before the actual first night. As a rule Sir Henry Irving has thre

lete must pass through one imagination, one intellect must organise and control. In order to attain this end it is necessary to experiment: no one likes to be corrected before strangers, therefore rehe

ess or failure. This, however, gradually became a nuisance, and early in this twentieth century both actors and authors struck. They decided that even privileged persons should be excluded from final rehearsals, which are always in[Pg 150] costum

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