Selected by COSMO HAMILTON,

Star (Christchurch), Issue 9320, 21 August 1908, Page 1

Selected by COSMO HAMILTON,

' Playwright, Novelist and Journalist. I No. VI. [All Bights Resekved.] I was playing the leading part in a clever comedy by Mr R. C. Carton at the Theatre itoyal, Brighton, when the first opportunity of being engaged to act in London was offered to me. It ' was the last week of the tour. We had been successfully "on the road 5 ' for the usual twenty-two weeks. During the last six of them I had written to [ all the London managers and to the '. few dramatists 1 had met, and to . everyone 1 knew who had any influence on the London stage saying that I , should be open to an engagement on such and such a day. I wrote mechanically and more or less hopelessly because , it seemed to me that, oven although I was k now ripe for good work, I should , never, never get to London. And yet it also seemed to me — perhaps jealousy did warp something of my reasoning power — that there were very few really capable actresses in the London theatres. When I was out of , .an engagement I naturally went to see all the plays. Not only did I think so — I didn't claim any value for my belief — but the critics, too, thought and said that London was suffering from a dearth of leading actresses, and that authors had the greatest difficulty to find women of experience, intelligence and- appearance to choose from. Often F shuddered to see the way in which brilliant parts were handled : how London leading ladies who had gamed — somehow or other — great reputations and stepped from oiih fine part to another, were utterly devoid of the elementary knowledge of right emphasis, how they listened to their own voices rind sang or wailed their lines, and often were quite inaudible. There was one lady in particular, the wife of an actor-manager, who was hiniselr a most versatile actor with a great sense of character, who, being oast to play all his leading parts, killed one good play after another and made it absolutely impossible for dramatists to offer their plays to her husband for production. She was a most intelligent woman, bright, witty and charming off the stage, wailing, over-subtle, amateurish, inaudible on it. Physically and temperamentally she was the antithesis of an actress. She was born to be an extension lecturer or an inspector of factories, anything, in fact, except an actress. And there were many others equally impossible who walked trom theatre to theatre, good part to good part. When I saw and listened to them I marvelled that they should be where they were, and came to the conclusion — afterwards substantiated — that they either paid for their parts or were put there by the people who backed the management. No wonder, therefore, that women with youth, good looks and experience were doomed to the provinces. But my chance came in a curious way. A new management had taken a well-known London theatre, two entirely independent young men who produced plays by new writers for short runs and were unhampered in their choice of actors and actresses to fill their parts. One of them happened by a lucky chance to be in Brighton when I was there,' and, by a still more lucky chance, for me — to come and see | the piece. When the t play was over be sent in his name to me. Filled with hop© and excitement and nervousness, [ changed as quickly as I could and went out to see him. I met with no enthusiasm — hardly, in fact, any criticism or encouragement. All he said was, " Miss Macgregor, my partner and I are producing a new play six weeks hence. If you have nothing bettei t*» do- -I hear that your tour ends on Saturday next — will you accept the understudy of tho leading; part?" Mv hopes went down to zero. Understudy ! Go back almost to the beginning after all my years of work, all my years of ftouring. It was almost enough to break my spirit. I think my eyes filled with tears, although I struggled to hide my feelincs. " TlianJi yon." T said. "Very well!" he said. "If you will come to the theatre on Monday we will arrange terms, and you can attend the rehearsals and watch the piece. Good night." I went to my rooms, and cried as I had never cried before. Was I never to get my chance? Was all my work to co for nothing;? Was my youth to Blip away? Were mv .eood looks to crow into the sere and yellow, before I had the opportunity I had worked <x> long; and arduously to prepare myself for? Already I ws« twenty-five. I Ji a d bpAi ei^teon w>i^r» T started out In Mr Sam Fleet's Old English Comedy Company. And the end was the offer of an understudy! Oh, how hard and bitter seemed my lot. I had not dawdled through my years. Just doing ' mv evening's w«rk and nothing: eTse. I had studied and schooled myself, and rpad "-^ l->"r? lVtayod morp narts of entirely different character than a ' great many women with London repu- *■'■->-'/} Tiort purfn V»P3 V *l of. But yet it was a way of getting into T^nde" a +T<*v oll ] v vc, av f,r, r me. I regretted that I had said "Ti~«ml? von." but wont to t^*> fhp.ptre on Monday as arranged. A short conr-+r>,v-r ;-+nT~-joT t--\4-1, ,+J.o. -partners l^d to my signing the agreement, the na^t was handed to me, and T was r^qnwted to F<i+. in +iie ■^'•anpf! and cold stall® — to wp + "*» thf> rp^en^fiils. Even in the fi^f roncrh stages with j pponle rpp^'iw tfrpir lines in m rp<»ue 1 t,r,A fn w 'Mrn.«r m at"w>r, ami bens j pis red here and there, the t>li^ : Up VI arid moW me. It seemed j to mo +/> he a nW ftranorelv nr ,d vro«<l°rfnnv tU" n-n id cf «fcereotvry>d 1 rTw+rtcflliPTn. fnM "f t.vTws of neonlo ; as they moved anr? li^e^ tvß*i not ime i of the sawdust-stuffed creatures which. I

filled the -wardrobe room of every theatre, and were rummaged out by nearly every dramatist and made to perform over and over again their well-known and unnatural tricks. It was as the partners themselves told me, a play which would cause something of a sensation among the critics and delight the small intelligent section of theatre-goers to which their theatre appealed, but which was far too clever and brilliant to attract the ordinary theatre-goer who loved and was very loyal to conventional stage figures. Every day for a month I watched the rehearsals with intense interest and pleasure, particularly studying every movement of the character that I was engaged to understudy. By that time I was letter-perfect in the part — a part I would liave given my head -to play. A week before the production the leading lady was taken seriously ill. Consternation seized the partners, the , author and everyone in the theatre. What was to be done? No other leading lady could or would study, the part in a week. The first night seats had been sent out, the opening night advertised. Taking my courage in both hands I knocked at the partners' door. " I can play the part," I said, controlling my nervousness and escitemont as well as I coud. " I know" every v line and movement. I could play it tonight if it were necessary." They both looked at me for a moment in silence. I was utterly unknown to London. My name would not' attract a single person to the theatre. A postponement of the production meant a L serioujs loss. I was thanked cordially ; but nervously. "We will see you re- > hearse the part," they said. ± The company, which had been diei cussing the situation jin corners, was [ called together, and asked to go - straight through the play as if nothing ; had happened. " Miss Macgregor will » take the leading lady's part, to-day." > I took it, nervously at first, fright- • ened lest I might fail, knowing only too : well that this was the great opportun- ■ ity of my life. As I went on I gained 1 confidence and forgetting myself, and ( all the circumstances connected with ■ the occasion, threw myself into the j character and gave the best that was in me. At the end of the rehearsal the com- ! pany was told that it would not be re- , quired any further that day. I was y requested to stay. I sat down in a ■ dark corner of the stage, filled with a : rush of conflicting emotions. I had I done badly. I had failed. I was no i good, ( I might as well go home and j play golf and tennis and go to the af- | ternoon teas and bridge parties till the j end of ray life. * j I waited only ten minutes, but to; me j it seemed the longest hour I had ever I lived. A boy came up to me. '" Will i you come to the office, please?" Trembling I rose and followed. I found the partners and the author waiting for me. As a entered the author stepped forward and shook me warmly by the hand. His' action was followed by the two partners. I was thanked by all three and. told that I was to play the part-. The first thing I did on leaving the theatre was to call at the house of the leading lady. She was too ill to see anyone. Her illness necessitated an i operation. The seriousness of the news | damped my joy and made me more sorry than I could say -fco think that my chanc c came to me at someone else's expense. One thing, however, gave me comfort. I knew that however well I might play the part I could do no harm i to the reputation of the poor lady who lay on her bed of sickness. Her position was secure, and neither I, nor anyone , eke, oould play the part half as well as she would have played it. And so followed a jveek of incessant rehearsal, the fitting- of dresses, and j terrible nervousness and anxiety. I saw j . my name in the papers, with details of I my career on the 6tage, and the circumstances surrounding the choice of mo to succeed the invalid. I tried to forget everything except just my part. I tried to forget that this was the great opportunity of my life, and to think ! that I was merely appearing for the first time in a new part at a provincial theatre as I had done <so many .times. But on the first night, as I sat in my dressing-room waiting to hear the call boy's voice, " Beginners please," I nearly broke down. Every limb trembled so violently that I wa6 afraid to stand. With the intense sympathy which exists between people with the artistic temperament, both the partners, the author and all the members of the company were most kind to fe me. When I made my entrance during the first act I was received in silence. During a moment of fatal self-conscious-ness I felt every glass go up and scan me curiously, a little resentfully. But after I had spoken my first line all was torgotten. f I was no longer Helen Macgregor. I wa6 simply the character in the play — the play which seemed no longer a play, but life. I went through the evening like this. My self-consciousness did not return until the curtain on my big scene at the ! end of the third act. As I stood on the stage, shaken with the emotion of the woman I was portraying I began to hear an incessant uproar or cheers and ap~ Flause. The curtain rose upon me, and was nearly deafened. The curtain fell again. But the cheers went on unabated. Again the curtain rose. I fell in line with the rest of the company. I heard my name cried out from all parts of the house. The leading man led me forward and bowed to me. And as the curtain fell again, the author rushed on and seized both my hands and said things which were too kind to repeat. There was still another act, at the end of which the enthusiasm was repeated. I shall never forget the joy of that evening as long as I live. I lived over again the deliehts of that far away evening at the little Hall at Horsham, when as a raw amateur the townspeople and personal friends had called me and che-pred me in " Sweet Lavender." I lived them over again, but with a dif- * feronce. This was my reward for hard 1 work and years of discomfort. And + next morning I woke to find myself famous. , 1 1

— c; "Hallo, hallo," called the irate b houeeh-lder, putting his head out ot g the bedroom window at 2, a.m. " What; ti are you banging at the dfeor like that I B] for? You'll break it down. Is it fire, p murder, or what?" "Nothing at all, i nothing at all," was the calm reply of ? the man at the door. " Sorry to have • awakeftt*d you. I want to wake the a! people next door, wneae 1 live. Tiieyj ( have no knocker; you have." oi