Sir Herbert Tree—Gordon Craig—Henry Arthur Jones—Temple Thurston—Miss Janet Achurch—Miss Horniman

Sir Herbert Tree never met a stranger without trying to impress him. He always succeeded. He would take the utmost pains about it: go to any lengths: use his last resource.... I am not now, of course, dealing with him as an actor. We all have our varying opinions of him as an actor. Some think he could; some think he couldn’t.... But I am writing of him at the present moment as a man. A showman, if you like. As a man, as a man who “showed off” either as a wit, a mimic, a man of the world, a superman, or what not, he was supreme.

I met him in his private office at His Majesty’s in the middle of the run of Joseph and his Brethren. He had invited me there in order to dictate an article to me, but, as he told me over the ’phone, he hadn’t the remotest notion what the subject of the article was going to be. Could I help him with any ideas? His article was for a Labour paper. Did I know anything about Labour? If I didn’t, did I know anybody who did?

In speaking to me over the ’phone, he appeared so anxious that I began to rack my brains for a subject. In the recesses of my meagre intellect I found the remnants of two or three subjects, and at nine o’clock that evening I presented myself at His Majesty’s Theatre with them on the tip of my tongue.

His room was empty as I entered it. Opposite the door 200was a fireplace and above the fireplace a mirror; on the left of the door as you entered it was Sir Herbert’s large desk. By the side of this, seated on a low chair, I waited. I had not to wait long, for presently I heard a soft, rather pulpy kind of sound coming down the passage and, a moment later, Sir Herbert entered, wearing a long white beard and the garments of a gentleman of the East. The play was still in the first act, and he had that minute come off the stage.

“Got a subject?” he asked, shaking hands. “So have I. The Influence of the Stage on the Masses! What do you think of it? Very trite, I know, but there are a few important things I want to say. Sit here, will you? Here you are—ink and paper.”

And, sitting down, he began immediately to dictate the article. He got along swimmingly, and about a third of the article must have been down on paper when I heard a squeaky voice outside the door. It was the call-boy. Sir Herbert rose, stroked his beard, adjusted his gown, and walked outside; as he did these things he continued dictating, his voice stopping in the middle of a rather involved sentence when he was out in the passage.

After five or six minutes, I heard the same soft, pulpy sound approaching and, while yet outside the door, he began dictating at the precise point where he had left off, rounding off the sentence most beautifully. It was a remarkable feat of memory. After a very short period, we heard the high-pitched voice a second time, and once more he moved dreamily away, still dictating. Again he stopped, purposely as it seemed to me, in the middle of a sentence, and again, when he reappeared, he spoke the waiting word. Marvellous! He gave me a cautious, inquiring look, as if to discover if I had noticed his cleverness. I smiled back reassuringly. In a few minutes the article was finished.

201“Do you like it?” he asked.

“Exactly the thing. The Daily Citizen readers will be delighted. But what an extraordinary memory you have!”

“Ah! You noticed that?” he said, seemingly well pleased.

He began to talk of Joseph and his Brethren and, in the middle of our conversation, Mr Temple Thurston, looking rather nervous, was shown in. I knew that, at that time, Thurston was writing for Tree a play on the subject of the Wandering Jew, and as I guessed they had business to transact, I withdrew as quickly as possible.

I saw Sir Herbert on another occasion, but whether it was soon before, or soon after, the incident I have just related I cannot recollect.

He was conducting a rehearsal on the stage of His Majesty’s, and I stood in the wings, watching him. He had recently produced a play called, I think, The Island, by a Spanish or a Brazilian writer. It was a dead failure and was withdrawn after three or four nights. It was to talk of this play that I had come, and as he advanced to the wings I noticed that he looked rather worried.

“What was wrong with the play?” he asked. “All you critics have tried to tell me, but I’m blessed if I can understand what you are all talking about.”

“To me the fault of the play was quite obvious. The author had got hold of a good idea and the drama had several fine situations; but, whereas the idea was poetical and mysterious and the situations tense and dramatic, the author or the translator had employed the most stilted kind of dialogue, and language as commonplace as that which I am now using. The play should have been translated or rewritten by a poet.”

“Ah! It’s very strange you should say that, for I myself had felt strongly disposed to ask John Masefield 202to prepare the thing for the stage. I wish I had done; but, of course, it’s too late now. But a manager can never tell beforehand what play will be a success and what won’t.”

“Pardon me. That is often said, but I don’t believe it’s true. Some people really do know what the public wants. Arnold Bennett, for example, and Hall Caine, not to mention others. Do they ever make mistakes? Has Arnold Bennett ever been guilty of a failure?”

“No, perhaps not. But I can’t engage Bennett as a reader. Even if he would consent to do the work, I should not be able to afford his fee.”

“Yes, I know. But my contention is that there are people who can and do gauge to a nicety the taste of the public.” And I mentioned the names of two critics who had, on many occasions, foretold most accurately the exact length of time new pieces would run.

Tree was called back to the rehearsal, and he glided away for a few moments, fluttering a handful of loose papers as he went. He soon returned, and this time he was cheerfulness itself.

“It’s going very well,” he said, referring to the rehearsal. “It’s only a stop-gap, of course, but it’ll make a little money. I must write to those critics you mentioned,” he added musingly; “or perhaps it would be better if I seemed to run across them accidentally?”

But whether or not he did run across either of the critics accidentally, I do not know, for the war broke out soon after and disrupted everything.
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It was when I was staying in Guilford Street, Bloomsbury, six or seven years ago, in a house opposite the Foundlings’ Hospital, that, one morning, Gordon Craig came into the room. He was, I think, in search of Ernest Marriott, a most ingenious and original artist, who at that time and for long after was doing some sort of work for 203Craig. Marriott and I were staying at the same boarding-house.

When Craig’s bulky form filled the doorway I recognised at once, from Marriott’s description of him, who he was, and I introduced myself to him, telling him Marriott was out.

“Yes, I know he is,” said Craig; “but I have often wanted to look at one of these fine old houses.”

And he walked round and round the room, with his eyes on the cornice, telling me all sorts of things, which I have long forgotten, that I had never heard before. He seemed to have made a special study of English architecture of the early nineteenth century, and whilst he was in the house talked of nothing else, though I tried to lure him into gossip of the theatre.

He gave me the impression of a large, white man with hair which, if not entirely grey, was very fair. He had, I remember, hands much plumper than one would expect an artist to possess; his face also was rather plump. He seemed to fill the large room and radiate vitality. He left as suddenly and as inconsequently as he had come.

“How like he is to Miss Ellen Terry!” remarked my landlord, not knowing the identity of his visitor.

“Yes,” said I, “now you mention it, I notice the extraordinary resemblance. But, after all, the resemblance is not so remarkable, for you see, he is her son.”
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On one occasion I was sent to interview Mr Henry Arthur Jones. Over the telephone I made an appointment with him for the morrow, and when I arrived at his house I found rather elaborate preparations had been made for the occasion. Mr H. A. Jones was standing in the middle of the drawing-room with outstretched hand, on a table near the open window (it was July, I think) was a tray with what one calls tea-things, a lady shorthand typist (specially engaged for the occasion) was 204waiting with notebook and pencil, and a maid was carrying into the room a teapot, and cress sandwiches.

The presence of the lady typist embarrassed me. She took down in shorthand my questions and Mr Jones’ replies. Thinking it would be foolish to waste any time on preliminary politenesses, I plunged straight into the middle of my subject. The lady typist sipped her tea in the awkward little pauses that came from time to time. It was not an interview; it was a kind of official statement. It was like the proceedings at a police court. I felt I should be held responsible to a higher authority for every word I spoke.

However, at the end of an hour a good deal of excellent matter had been taken down, probably enough for a two-column article. But my news editor did not want a two-column article. He wanted a scrappy little paragraph or, at most, two scrappy little paragraphs. Now, in view of the fact that Mr Jones had gone to the trouble and expense of getting a shorthand typist specially from town, and, more particularly, in view of the fact that it was perfectly clear that he had not contemplated the possibility of an interview with him being used merely and solely for a snappy little paragraph, I felt it incumbent upon me to tell him just how matters stood. But how could I? Could you have told him? Well, I couldn’t, though I tried and tried hard.

When the interview was over, he arranged that the shorthand typist should return to her office, type out her shorthand, and send the result to me in Fleet Street early that evening. In due course, ten foolscap sheets of valuable and most interesting matter came along, and I handed it in to the night-editor just as it stood.

Next morning, only two snippety paragraphs appeared in the paper, and I have often thought since that Mr H. A. Jones must have felt disgusted with the paper, a little more disgusted with himself, but most of all 205disgusted with me. After all, it was not entirely my fault, was it?... I mean, he should not have taken himself quite so importantly, should he?

I retain a very clear impression of his personality. He was short, rather dapper, and very deliberate. He always thought briefly before he answered a question, but when he did answer it he did so without hesitation, going straight into the middle of the matter. He struck me, as he sat on a rather low chair opposite the window, as essentially earnest, essentially honest-minded, essentially clear-headed. His ma............