CHAPTER V THE ARMY AND THE STAGE

Captain Robert Marshall—From the Ranks to the Stage—￡10 for a Play—How Copyright is Retained—I. Zangwill as Actor—Copyright Performance—Three First Plays (Pinero, Grundy, Sims)—Cyril Maude at the Opera—Mice and Men—Sir Francis Burnand, Punch, Sir John Tenniel, and a Cartoon—Brandon Thomas and Charley’s Aunt—How that Play was Written—The Gaekwar of Baroda—Changes in London—Frederick Fenn at Clement’s Inn—James Welch on Audiences.

ONE of our youngest dramatists, for it was only in 1897 that Captain Robert Marshall’s first important play appeared, has suddenly leapt into the front rank. His earlier days were in no way connected with the stage.

It is not often a man can earn an income in two different professions; such success is unusual. True, Earl Roberts is a soldier and a writer; Forbes Robertson, Weedon Grossmith, and Bernard Partridge are actors as well as artists; Lumsden Propert, the author of the best book on miniatures, was a doctor by profession; Edmund Gosse and Edward Clodd have other occupations besides literature. Although known as a writer, W. S. Gilbert could earn an income at the Bar or in Art;[Pg 93] A. W. Pinero is no mean draughtsman; Miss Gertrude Kingston writes and illustrates as well as acts; and Harry Furniss has shown us he is as clever with his pen as with his brush in his Confessions of a Caricaturist. Still, it is unusual for any one to succeed in two ways.

Nevertheless Captain Robert Marshall, once in the army, is now a successful dramatist. He was born in Edinburgh in 1863, his father being a J.P. of that city. Educated at St. Andrews, the ancient town famous for learning and golf, he later migrated to Edinburgh University. While studying there his brother entered Sandhurst at the top of the list, and left in an equally exalted position. This inspired the younger brother with a desire for the army, and he enlisted in the Highland Light Infantry, then stationed in Ireland. The ranks gave him an excellent training, besides affording opportunities for studying various sides of life. Three years later he entered the Duke of Wellington’s West Riding Regiment as an officer, receiving his Captaincy in 1895, after having filled the post of District Adjutant at Cape Town and A.D.C. to the Governor of Natal, Sir W. Hely-Hutchinson.

No one looking at Captain Marshall now would imagine that ill-health had ever afflicted him; such, however, was the case, and but for the fact that a delicate chest necessitated retiring from the army, he would probably never have become a dramatist by profession. It was about 1898 that he left the Service; but he has made good use of the time since[Pg 94] then, for such plays as His Excellency the Governor, A Royal Family, The Noble Lord, and The Second in Command have followed in quick succession. Then came an adaptation of M.M. Scribe and Legouvé’s Bataille de Dames, which he called There’s Many a Slip, but which T. Robertson translated with immense success as The Ladies’ Battle some years before.

Mrs. Kendal, àpropos of this, writes me the following:

“My dear brother Tom had been dead for years before I ever played in The Ladies’ Battle. He translated and sold it to Lacy, an old theatrical manager and agent, for about ￡10. Mr. Kendal and Mr. Hare revived it at the Court Theatre when I was under their management.”

What would a modern dramatist say to a ￡10 note? What, indeed, would Captain Marshall say for such a small reward, instead of reaping a golden harvest as he did with his translation of the very same piece. Times have changed indeed during the last few years, for play-writing is now a most remunerative profession when it proves successful.

I remember once at a charming luncheon given by the George Alexanders at their house in Pont Street, hearing Mr. Lionel Monckton bitterly complaining of the difficulty of getting royalties for musical plays from abroad. Since then worse things have happened, and pirated copies of favourite songs have been sold by hundreds of thousands in the streets of London for which the authors, composers, and publishers have never received a cent. Mr. J. M. Barrie, who was[Pg 95] sitting beside me, joined in, and declared, if I am not mistaken, that he had never got a penny from The Little Minister in America, or The Window in Thrums; indeed, it was not till Sentimental Tommy appeared in 1894 that he ever received anything at all from America, so The Little Minister, like Pinafore, was acted thousands of times without any royalties being paid to the respective authors by the United States.

Of course there was no copyright at all in England till 1833, and until that date a play could be produced by any one at any time without payment. The idea was preposterous, and so much abused that the Royal Assent was given in Parliament to a copyright bill proposed by the Hon. George Lamb, and carried through by Mr. Lytton Bulwer, who afterwards became famous as Lord Lytton. Still, even this, unfortunately, does not prevent piracy. Pirate thieves of other people’s brains have had a good innings lately.

The only way to safeguard against the confiscation of a play without the author receiving any dues is to give a “copyright performance.” With this end in view the well-known writer, Mr. I. Zangwill, gave an amusing representation of his play called Merry Mary Ann, founded on his novel of the same name. The performance took place at the Corn Exchange, Wallingford, and Mr. Zangwill was himself stage manager. This took place a week before it was given with such success in Chicago, and secured the English copyright to its author as well as the American.

[Pg 96]

The modus operandi under these circumstances is:

(1) To pay a two-guinea fee for a licence.

(2) To hire a hall which is licensed for stage performances.

(3) To notify the public by means of posters that the play will take place.

To make some one pay for admission. If only one person pay one guinea, that person constitutes an audience, which, if small, is at least unanimous.

Having arranged all these preliminaries the author and his friends proceed to read, or whenever possible act, the parts of the drama, and a very funny performance it sometimes is.

Mr. Zangwill’s caste was certainly amusing. Mr. Jerome K. Jerome, author of Three Men in a Boat, was particularly good; but then he is an old actor. He lives at Wallingford-on-Thames, where he represents literature and journalism, G. F. Leslie, R.A., representing art; both joined forces for one afternoon at that strange performance which was in many ways a record. Sir Conan Doyle, of Sherlock Holmes fame, was to have played; but was called away at the last moment.

Mr. Zangwill is an old hand at this sort of thing; when a copyright performance of Hall Caine’s Mahdi was given at the Haymarket Theatre he began at first by playing his allotted part; but as one performer after another threw up their r?les he was finally left to act them all. The female parts he played in his shirt-sleeves, with a high pitched voice. Mr. Clement Scott gave a long and favourable notice in the[Pg 97] Daily Telegraph next day. Mr. Zangwill has lately taken unto himself a wife, none too soon, as he was the only member left in his Bachelor Club!

It is rather amusing to contrast the first plays of various men; for instance, Mr. Pinero, writing in the Era Annual, graphically described his beginning thus:

“First play of all: Two Hundred a Year. This was written for my old friends Mr. R. C. Carton and Miss Compton (Mrs. Carton) as a labour of love when I was an actor, and was produced at the Globe in 1877. The love, however, was and is more considerable than the composition, which did not employ me more than a single afternoon. My next venture was in the same year, and entitled Two Can Play at the Game, a farce produced at the Lyceum Theatre by Mrs. Bateman in order really to provide myself with a part. I acted in this many times in London, and afterwards under Mr. Irving, as he then was, throughout the provinces. By the way, Mrs. Bateman paid me five pounds for this piece.”

Mr. Sydney Grundy tells the following story:

“In 1872 I amused myself by writing a comedietta. I had it printed, and across the cover of one copy I scrawled in a large bold hand, “You may play this for nothing,” addressed it to J. B. Buckstone, Esq., Haymarket Theatre, London, posted it, and forgot all about it. A week afterwards I received a letter in these terms: ‘Dear Sir,—Mr. Buckstone desires me to inform you that your comedietta is in rehearsal, and will be produced at his forthcoming Benefit. Mr. and Mrs. Kendal will play the principal parts.—Yours[Pg 98] faithfully, F. Weathersby.’ New authors were such rare phenomena in those days, that Mr. Buckstone did not know how to announce me, so adopted the weird expedient of describing me as ‘Mr. Sydney Grundy, of Manchester.’ The comedietta was a great success and received only one bad review. One critic was so tickled by the circumstance that the author lived in Manchester that he mentioned it no fewer than three times in his ‘notice.’”

G. R. Sims describes his initial attempt thus:

“My first play was produced at the Theatre Royal, 113, Adelaide Road, and was a burlesque of Leah; the parts were played by my brothers and sisters and some young friends. The price of admission to the day nursery, in which the stage was erected, was one shilling, which included tea, but visitors were requested to bring their own cake and jam. The burlesque was in four scenes. Many of the speeches were lifted bodily from the published burlesque of Henry J. Byron.

“That was my first play as an amateur. My first professional play was, One Hundred Years Old, and is now twenty-seven years old. It was produced July 10th, 1875, at a matinée at the Olympic Theatre, by Mr. E. J. Odell, and was a translation or adaptation of Le Centenaire, by D’Ennery and another. It was less successful than my amateur play. It did not bring me a shilling. The burlesque brought me two—one paid by my father and one by my mother.”

Such were the first experiences of three eminent dramatic authors.

[Pg 99]

It must be delightful when author and actor are in unison. Such a thing as a difference of opinion cannot be altogether unknown between them; but no more united little band could possibly be found than that behind the scenes at the Haymarket Theatre, where the rehearsals are conducted in the spirit of a family party. The tyrannical author and the self-assertive representatives of his creations all work in harmony.

“As one gets up in the Service,” amusingly said Captain Marshall, “one receives a higher rate of pay, and has proportionately less to do. Thus it was I found time for scribbling; it was actually while A.D.C. and living in a Government House that I wrote His Excellency the Governor. Three days after it came out I left the army.”

“Was that your first play?” I inquired.

“No. My first was a little one-act piece which Mr. Kendal accepted. It dealt with the flight of Bonnie Prince Charlie from Scotland in 1746. My first acted play appeared at the Lyceum, and was another piece in one act, called Shades of Night, which finally migrated to the Haymarket.”

It is curious how success and failure follow one on the other. No play of Captain Marshall’s excited more criticism than The Broad Road at Terry’s; but nevertheless it was a failure. It was succeeded immediately by A Royal Family at the Court, which proved popular. He has worked hard during the last few years, and deserves any meed of praise that may be given him by the public. Many men on being told to relinquish[Pg 100] the profession they loved because of ill-health would calmly sit down and court death. Not so Robert Marshall. He at once turned his attention elsewhere, chose an occupation he could take about with him when driven by necessity to warmer climes, lived in the fresh air, did as he was medically advised, with the result that to-day he is a comparatively strong man, busy in a life that is full of interest.

As a subaltern in the army the embryo dramatist once painted the scenery for a performance of The Mikado in Bermuda, and was known to write, act, stage-manage, and paint the scenes of another play himself. Enthusiasm truly; but it was all experience, and the intimate knowledge then gained of the difficulties of stage craft have since stood him in good stead.

Captain Marshall is a broad, good-looking man, retiring by disposition, one might almost say shy—for that term applies, although he emphatically denies the charge—and certainly humble and modest as regards his own work. The author of The Second in Command is athletically inclined; he is fond of golf, fencing, and tennis—the love of the first he doubtless acquired in his childhood’s days, when old Tom Morris was so well known on the St. Andrews links.

The playwright is also devoted to music, and nothing gives him greater pleasure than to spend an evening at the Opera. One night I happened to sit in a box between him and Mr. Cyril Maude, and probably there were no more appreciative listeners in[Pg 101] the house than these two men, both intensely interested in the representation of Tannh?user. Poor Mr. Maude having a sore throat, had been forbidden to act that evening for fear of losing the little voice which remained to him. As music is his delight, and an evening at the Opera an almost unknown pleasure, he enjoyed himself with the enthusiasm of a child, feeling he was having a “real holiday.”

Captain Marshall is so fond of music that he amuses himself constantly at his piano or pianola in his charming flat in town.

“I like the machine best,” he remarked laughingly, “because it makes no mistakes, and with a little practice can be played with almost as much feeling as a pianoforte.”

When in London Captain Marshall lives in a flat at the corner of Berkeley Square; but during the winter he migrates to the Riviera or some other sunny land. The home reflects the taste of its owner; and the dainty colouring, charming pictures, and solid furniture of the flat denote the man of artistic taste who dislikes show without substance even in furniture.

The first time I met Robert Marshall was at W. S. Gilbert’s delightful country home at Harrow Weald. The Captain has a most exalted opinion of Mr. Gilbert’s writings and witticisms. He considers him a model playwright, and certainly worships—as much as one man can worship at the shrine of another—this originator of modern comedy.

One summer, when Captain Marshall found the[Pg 102] alluring hospitality of London incompatible with work, he took a charming house at Harrow Weald, and settled himself down to finish a play. He could not, however, stand the loneliness of a big establishment by himself—a loneliness which he does not feel in his flat. Consequently that peace and quiet which he went to the country to find, he himself disturbed by inviting friends down on all possible occasions, and being just as gay as if he had remained in town. He finished his play, however, between the departure and arrival of his various guests.

Two of the most successful plays of modern times have been written by women; the first, by Mrs. Hodgson Burnett, was founded on her own novel, Little Lord Fauntleroy, of which more anon. The second had no successful book to back it, and yet it ran over three hundred nights.

This as far as serious drama is concerned—for burlesque touched up may run to any length—is a record.

Mice and Men, by Mrs. Ryley, must have had something in it, something special, or why should a play from an almost unknown writer have taken such a hold on the London public? It was well acted, of course, for that excellent artist Forbes Robertson was in it; but other plays have been well acted and yet have failed.

Why, then, its longevity?

Its very simplicity must be the answer. It carried conviction. It was just a quaint little idyllic episode of love and romance, deftly woven together with[Pg 103] strong human interest. It aimed at nothing great, it merely sought to entertain and amuse. Love rules the world, romance enthrals it, both were prettily depicted by a woman, and the play proved a brilliant success. To have written so little and yet made such a hit is rare.

On the other hand, one of our most successful playwrights has been very prolific in his work. Sir Francis Burnand has edited Punch for more than thirty years, and yet has produced over one hundred and twenty plays. ’Tis true one of the most successful of these was written in a night. Mr. Burnand, as he was then, went to the St. James’s Theatre one evening to see Diplomacy, and after the performance walked home. On the way the idea for a burlesque struck him, so he had something to eat, found paper and pens, and began. By breakfast-time next morning Diplomacy was completed, and a few days later all London was laughing over it. There is a record of industry and speed.

The stage, however, has not claimed so much of his attention of late years as his large family and Mr. Punch. Sir Francis is particularly neat and dapper, with a fresh complexion and grey hair. He wears a pointed white beard, but looks remarkably youthful. He is a busy man, and spends hours of each day in his well-stocked library at the Boltons (London, Eng.: as our American friends would say), or at Ramsgate, his favourite holiday resort, where riding and sea-boating afford him much amusement, and time for reflection. He is a charming[Pg 104] dinner-table companion, always full of good humour and amusing stories.

It was when dining one night at the Burnands’ home in the Boltons that I met Sir John Tenniel after a lapse of some years, for he virtually gave up dining out early in the ’90’s in order to devote his time to his Punch cartoon. One warm day in July, 1902, however, John Tenniel was persuaded to break his rule, and proved as kind and lively as ever. Although eighty-two years of age he drew a picture for me after dinner. There are not many men of eighty-two who could do that; but then, did he not draw the Punch cartoon without intermission for fifty years?

“What am I to draw?” he asked. “I have nothing to copy and no model to help me.”

“Britannia,” I replied. “That ever-young lady is such an old friend of yours, you must know every line in her face by heart.” And he did. The dear old man’s hand was very shaky, until he got the pencil on to the paper, and then the lines themselves were perfectly clear and distinct; years of work on wood blocks had taught him precision which did not fail him even when over fourscore.

Every one loves Sir John. He never seems to have given offence with his cartoons as so many have done before and since. Cartoonists and caricaturists ply a difficult trade, for so few people like to be made fun of themselves, although they dearly love a joke at some one else’s expense.

A few doors from the Burnands’ charming house[Pg 105] in Bolton Gardens lives the author of Charley’s Aunt.

When in the city of Mexico, one broiling hot December day in 1900, I was invited to dine and go to the theatre. I had only just arrived in that lovely capital, and was dying to see and do everything.

“Will there be any Indians amongst the audience?” I inquired.

“Si, Se?ora. The Indians and half-castes love the theatre, and always fill the cheaper places.”

This sounded delightful; a Spanish play acted in Castilian with beautiful costumes of matadors and shawled ladies—what could be better? Gladly I accepted the invitation to dine and go to the theatre afterwards, where, as subsequently proved, they have a strange arrangement by which a spectator either pays for the whole performance, or only to witness one particular act.

We arrived. The audience looked interesting: few, however, even in the best places wore dress-clothes, any more than they do in the United States. The performance began.

It did not seem very Spanish, and somehow appeared familiar. I looked at the programme. “La Tia de Carlos.”

What a sell! I had been brought to see Charley’s Aunt.

One night after my return to London I was dining with William Heinemann, the publisher, to meet the great “Jimmy” Whistler. I was telling Mr. Brandon[Pg 106] Thomas, the author of Charley’s Aunt, this funny little experience, when he remarked:

“I can tell you another. My wife and I had been staying in the Swiss mountains, when one day we reached Zürich. ‘Let us try to get a decent dinner,’ I said, ‘for I am sick of table d’h?tes.’ Accordingly we dined on the best Zürich could produce, and then asked the waiter what play he would recommend.

“‘The theatres are closed just now,’ he replied.

“‘But surely something is open?’

“‘Ah, well, yes, there’s a sort of music hall, but the Herrschaften would not care to go there.’

“‘Why not?’ I exclaimed, longing for some diversion.

“‘Because they are only playing a very vulgar piece, it would not please the gn?dige Frau, it is a stupid English farce.’

“‘Never mind how stupid. Tell me its name.’

“‘It is called,’ replied the waiter, ‘Die Tante.’”

Poor Brandon Thomas nearly collapsed on the spot, it was his very own play. They went. Needless to say, however, the author hardly recognised his child in its new garb, although he never enjoyed an evening more thoroughly in his life.

The first draft of this well-known piece was written in three weeks, and afterwards, as the play was considerably cut in the provinces, Mr. Thomas restored the original matter and entirely re-wrote it before it was produced in London, when the author played the part of Sir Francis Chesney himself.

[Pg 107]

I have another recollection in connection with Charley’s Aunt. It must have been about 1895 that my husband and I were dining with that delightful little gentleman and great Indian Prince, the Gaekwar of Baroda, and the Maharanee (his wife), and we all went on to the theatre to see Charley’s Aunt. At that time His Highness the Gaekwar was very proud of a grand new theatre he had built in Baroda, and was busy having plays translated for production. Several Shakespearian pieces had already been done. He thought Charley’s Aunt might be suitable, but as the play proceeded, turning to me he remarked:

“This would never do, it would give my people a bad idea of English education; no, no—I cannot allow such a mistake as that.”

So good is His Highness’s own opinion of our education that his sons are at Harrow and Oxford as I write.

Charley’s Aunt has been played in every European language—verily a triumph for its author. How happy and proud a man ought to be who has brought so much enjoyment into life; and yet Brandon Thomas feels almost obliged to blush every time the title is mentioned. When Mr. Penley asked him to write a play, in spite of being in sad need of cash, he was almost in despair. His eye fell upon the photograph of an elderly relative, and showing it to Penley he asked:

“How would you like to play an old woman like that?”

“Delighted, old chap; I’ve always wanted to play[Pg 108] a woman’s character.” And when the play was written Penley acted the part made up like the old lady in the photograph which still stands on Brandon Thomas’s mantelshelf.

London is changing terribly, although Charley’s Aunt seems as if it would go on for ever. Old London is vanishing in a most distressing manner. Within a few months Newgate has been pulled down, the Bluecoat School has disappeared, and now Clifford’s Inn has been sold for ￡100,000 and is to be demolished. Many of the sets of chambers therein contained beautiful carving, and in one of these sets dwelt Frederick Fenn, the dramatist, son of Manville Fenn, the novelist. He determined to have a bachelor party before quitting his rooms, and an interesting party it proved.

I left home shortly after nine o’clock with a friend, and when we reached Piccadilly Circus we found ourselves in the midst of the crowd waiting to watch President Loubet drive past on his way to the Gala performance at Covent Garden (July, 1903). The streets were charmingly decorated, and must have given immense satisfaction not only to the President of France but to the entire Republic he represented. From the Circus through Leicester Square the crowd was standing ten or fifteen deep on either side of the road, and we had various vicissitudes in getting to our destination at all. The police would not let us pass, and we drove round and round back streets, unable to get into either the Strand or St. Martin’s Lane. However, at last a mighty cheer told us the royal party[Pg 109] had passed, and we were allowed to drive on our way to Clifford’s Inn. Up a dark alley beyond the Law Courts we trudged, and rang the big sonorous bell for the porter to admit us to the courtyard surrounded by chambers.

Ascending a spiral stone staircase, carpeted in red for the occasion, we passed through massive oak doors with their low doorways and entered Mr. Fenn’s rooms.

“How lovely! Surely those carvings are by the famous Gibbons?”

“They are,” he said, “or at any rate they are reputed to be, and in a fortnight will be sold by auction to the highest bidder.”

This wonderful decoration had been there for numbers of years, the over-doors, chimneypieces and window-frames were all most beautifully carved, and the whole room was panelled from floor to ceiling. The furniture was in keeping. Beautiful inlaid satinwood tables, settees covered with old-fashioned brocade, old Sheffield cake-baskets, were in harmony with the setting.

It was quite an interesting little party, and I thoroughly enjoyed my chat with James Welsh, the clever comedian, who played in the New Clown for eighteen months consecutively. Such an interesting little man, with dark round eyes and pale eyelashes, and a particularly broad crown to his head.

“I don’t mind a long run at all,” he said, “because every night there is a fresh audience. Sometimes they are so dull we cannot get hold of them at all till the second act, and sometimes it is even the end of the second act before they are roused to enthusiasm;[Pg 110] another time they will see the fun from the first rise of the curtain. Personally I prefer the audience to be rather dull at the beginning, for I like to work them up, and to work up with them myself. The most enthusiastic audiences to my mind are to be found in Scotland—I am of course speaking of low comedy. In Ireland they may be as appreciative, but they are certainly quieter. Londoners are always difficult to rouse to any expression of enthusiasm. I suppose they see too many plays, and so become blasé.”