CHAPTER XIII
Alexander’s aims — The Memorial Theatre — The censorship of plays — War work His domestic life — Its happiness
THERE ARE DREAMERS the very intensity of whose dreams brings the imagined object nearer. George Alexander was a man of immediate and definite aims rather than of dreams. Far-off things, misty things, things to be one day but not to-morrow, were for other people. The idea of a great Shakespeare Memorial Theatre in the heart of London which should be the centre-piece of a free new drama was making a good deal of noise in a small circle. But the circle was widening. One large sum and some smaller sums were collected; sites for the theatre were debated; a treasurer was appointed; I have heard one of the enthusiasts, Harley Granville-Barker, suggest that the first Director should be George Alexander, so sure did it seem to them that the idea would soon become a fact. Alexander himself was lukewarm. He was not hostile, but the idea was not near enough. On the other hand, when the Shakespeare Tercentenary Commemoration Performance was proposed to take place in 1916, at Drury Lane Theatre, no one strove more devotedly to make it a success. For the presence of Their Majesties the King and Queen, for an unequalled entertainment, a souvenir programme illustrated by famous artists, for all that could grace and make memorable the occasion he gave untiring labour and thought. Here was something immediate and good, something notably worth while, to be done. He was as earnest as any enthusiast for the Memorial Theatre in a desire to make the drama a national possession of which a cultured people could be proud; and he did his best towards that end. But he did it in his own way, seeking a present and a visible advance. He used the St. James’ Theatre. He threw open its doors to any kind of play. He never insisted that his part should be the best. He was willing to stand out of the cast altogether, and would have done so more often, had the authors of the plays been willing. He had confronted and overthrown a good deal of Puritanical hypocrisy when he staged The Second Mrs Tanqueray, and had by that act so raised the credit of the English stage abroad that the great actresses of France and Italy for the first time in many years turned their eyes towards England. For it should not be forgotten that in that year of 1893, when The Second Mrs Tanqueray was first produced, George Bernard Shaw was still with his name very much in the making.
Alexander was with his first London chief, Henry Irving, in upholding the dignity of the theatre, and brought to the work of upholding it the practical acumen which served him so well as a manager. The dignity of the theatre demanded that actors and actresses of experience and talent should not end in a poverty-stricken old age. He served for years on the Council of the Royal General Theatrical Fund, spoke or presided at its dinners, and became its President. He became President, too, of King
George’s Pension Fund. When it seemed to him helpful, he became Vice-President of the Actors’ Association. And when the West End Managers’ Association seemed to be beating the air in 1914, he resigned from it.
In one respect he disagreed altogether with the forward school; and since he disagreed he fought. He was strongly for the retention of the censorship of plays. There had been cases in New York when the police had invaded a theatre and carted off the whole of the cast to the police station. He was afraid that if the censorship of plays were abolished, this might happen in some theatre, where a manager without a reputation and at his wits’ end to keep going, had put on some noxious piece to obtain a success of scandal. There were more censorious people in those pre-war times. The good name of the stage would suffer, and it would not be saved because another author was treating somewhere else with an extreme bluntness of words and the most moral intention some difficult problem or malady of sex. The censorship was a protection, in Alexander’s judgment, against both the scandal of an invading police and the scandal of a pornographic manager. The censorship of plays has ceased to be a subject of bitter controversy. It is used with a greater tact, a wider discretion. Plays once banned were seen not to be menaces to decency and sometimes were discovered to be of no great interest in themselves. The daring word became in time merely a vulgarity. It won’t make a good play out of a bad play. If it’s in keeping with the character represented, it is accepted. But as an audacity it cuts no ice. In those days bishops were mobilised to uphold the censorship; a Select Committee of the Houses of Parliament deliberated upon it; whether a spoken excess was more deleterious than a written one exercised this and that Association or Society. But out of the war there has come a greater liberality of thought due to a greater confidence that the inhabitants of the country may not know very much but are healthily sound in their judgments.
When the war came, therefore, it found in the chief actor of the St. James’ Theatre a man trained by inclination and experience to do exceedingly well what was to his hand. He was fifty-six years of age with a wearing malady, a theatre upon his hands, and the theatrical industry looking to him for the mitigation of the difficulties which beset it. He did not spare himself. Through that first distracted year, he carried on the planned programme of his theatre at a heavy loss. Spy plays and revues ending with spectacular defeats of the Germans had it their own way. I remember seeing one in which the wife of the Governor of Gibraltar wandering casually in evening dress into a bar in Gibraltar at once unearthed a spy. Nothing was too ludicrous to be accepted, so long as it ended with the defeat of the Germans. Any other play must, in Pinero’s phrase, be a play to scale mountains, if it was to succeed, and Alexander had no such play within his reach at the moment. He did what he could. He produced five plays between the autumn of 1914 and the summer of 1915, lost money on them all and acted in them all. Meanwhile, with the energetic assistance of Lady Alexander, he was continually organising matinées, arranging concerts, fixing up fêtes and garden parties, at the Temple, at the Albert Hall, anywhere, for the League of Mercy, for the provision of Homes for Officers’ Widows, for the British Red Cross Society.
He had been President of the South Saint Paneras section of the League of Mercy, ever since his municipal connection with that constituency; his widow now holds that position, and between them they consistently supported it. But their chief endeavours were now given to furthering the work of the British Red Cross Society and of the Order of St. John of Jerusalem in England. He was elected, on the proposal of Her Royal Highness the Princess Christian seconded by the Hon. Charles Russell, a Member of the War Executive Committee, on May 19th, 1915, and immediately afterwards was appointed to the new Headquarters Collections Committee. He was one of the three members who attended the first meeting of that Committee which before the war was over had by the private efforts of its members collected £10,000,000 for the families of wounded and fallen soldiers. Whether sick or well, whether on holiday or at work, he devoted his time and his thoughts to it; and I have a note at my elbow from the chairman of the Committee informing him that as a result of an appeal which he had suggested to Executors of Estates, £10,000 had been given in one cheque.
By the autumn of 1915 the country had settled down methodically to see the war through. Pinero finished a comedy at which he had been working for the best part of two years, and Alexander was spared the constant rehearsal of new plays. The Big Drum, though not one of its author’s sweeping successes, ran for sixteen weeks and was succeeded by a comedy called The Basket by Clifford Mills, which lasted for seventeen weeks and brought him to April of 1916. It was followed by Pen, a comedy by H. A. Vachell in which Alexander himself did not appear. A strong cast with Allan Aynesworth at the head of it interpreted the play, but it did not win the favour of the public, and once more no doubt the absence of the actor whose name was linked with the theatre in the minds of all playgoers prejudiced the chances of success. A revival of Bella Donna, however, in spite of a bitter attack upon the play in one newspaper, gave to his season a successful ending.
Alexander let the theatre for the autumn months, took a cure at Harrogate, and appeared at the Coliseum during the months of August and September. On January 25 th, 1917, he produced his last pla
y, The Aristocrat, by Louis N. Parker. It was a story of The Terror, that favourite subject of dramatists. Miss Genevieve Ward had in the course of it a startling moment, when, an old woman, she whimpered as she was led to the guillotine and then, recovering her pride, swept out to face the crowd. Alexander himself played brilliantly an exacting part, and the two young lovers of the play, the late Dennis Neilson-Terry and Mary Glynne, before the run was over made a reality of their impersonation.
The play caught on, and it was well that it did. For difficulties were now arising from Labour Restrictions and the needs of National Service all over the country, and Alexander’s tact in mediation was being continually called upon and as continually lent.
The entertainment industry had somehow to be kept upon its legs. It was necessary to the spirit and the good cheer of the country for one thing, the chief thing. For another, the entertainment tax was a climbing asset in the resources of the Exchequer. But the loss of men in the great battles of Passchendaele and the Somme, and the vast increase in the output of munitions, made more and more demands upon the man-power of the country. Women and wounded men who had been discharged and men who were altogether unfit were in the main employed, but companies, like the Morecambe Town and Estates Company, Limited, which catered for the summer resorts needed a certain proportion of able-bodied men if they were to carry on at all. Compromises had to be reached. Men employed during the day on national work were allowed to work in theatres and pleasure-grounds after six. Men enrolled for national service were conceded the permission to engage without restriction in private work until the moment came when they were wanted. But these adjustments were not easy to make, so many needs must be co-ordinated, so many kinds of men brought to see the same thing with the same eyes. Meanwhile the Red Cross work went on. Meanwhile the theatre must be kept open.
After the summer of 1914 I saw very little of my friend. I was far away, and the mere fact that I could give myself leave hindered me from taking it. Once a year I came back for a few days to the Admiralty, and I was able to seek him out in the long room at the front of his theatre or pass the end of a week with him and his wife at his house of Little Court at Chorley Wood. I saw him play the part of the Duke of Chastelfranc early in the run of The Aristocrat, and though he looked too finely drawn, he was buoyant and content, and happy in the work he did, whether in his theatre or on his many committees. He certainly needed a long holiday, but there were no signs of that fatigue or of that gradual narrowing of interests which are so often the prelude to the last illness. In the autumn, however, he was forced to resign his activities. Consumption saps the vitality secretly and at the end invades its weakened victim with an irresistible swiftness. The Bishop of London, an old friend, saw him in his bed at Chorley Wood on the afternoon of March 15 th, 1918. Alexander recognised him and was even able to speak a few words of gratitude for his visit. But between midnight and 1 o’clock of the morning of the 16th he died peacefully at the age of fifty-nine.
He had lived a full, happy, enviable life. His wife was a constant helpmate and a good companion, watchful of his moods without appearing to be watchful, proud of him, clever in her management of his social affairs, and untiring. It was his habit to dine at half-past six in the evening before he went down to his theatre, and she always dined with him even though two hours later she had to dine again, or to have the appearance of dining again, in a house of their friends. If he was away from her on tour, he wrote to her each day, not a formal letter, but such letters as only people can write who are always in each other’s thoughts. They were scribbled off anywhere on odd pieces of paper, in his dressing-room in the theatre, in the train. How he amused himself, what “the business” was like, who was playing against him in the particular town. If he had had a good dinner he told her so; when he won a round of golf — which was rarely — that went down too. A picture-postcard would be sent with the windows of his rooms marked with a cross. She would be told what the Mayor had said to him, and when he had a pint of champagne with his supper. She would be given commissions to carry out. The commissions might be simple, but it needed a lifelong devotion to decipher them. All trifles, no doubt, but trifles which mean a lovely and a pleasant companionship, inviolable by the years.
Alexander’s pride and devotion were given to his theatre and its art and its growing importance in the eyes of thoughtful people. But he had a wealth of outside interests which kept his judgment sane, his sense of proportion as level as a compass-card. For instance, he was a Justice of the Peace of London; when he died he was Upper Warden of the Worshipful Company of Turners, and had he lived until May 9th he would have become its Master. As we have seen, politics municipal and imperial so engaged his mind that he took what part in them his strenuous busy life enabled him to do. But nothing, I think, did so much to make his life pleasant as his quick appreciation of the merits of others. He could squabble and quarrel and bluster on occasion like the rest of us, but of that brooding envy which cramps and disfigures so many natures there was never a sign. He was a warm and generous friend, doing his benefactions quietly, and writing them off as soon as they were done. The messages of condolence which were sent to his widow came from every quarter, from the Department of National Service to the Executive Council of the National Orchestral Association, from his old associates on the London County Council to the actors and actresses who served under him and with him. Of his private friends it is enough to say that all were made emptier of heart by his going and many of them emptier of hand. He carved out for himself a distinguished place in a crowded world and stood out as an example of the dignity of that calling which he was always swift to defend. On the completion of his twenty-fifth year of management, his comrades of the theatre presented to him a beautiful album in which had been mounted their tributes of admiration and love. Dame Madge Kendal made the presentation in a felicitous speech. It was the crowning moment of his career, and he treasured that book through the rest of his life as his widow treasures it now.
I feel a little shy at writing about myself as it is difficult to divide our interests — we did everything together. It is especially difficult to follow the brilliant survey of my husband’s work and character by Mr Mason. I find that there is very little for me to add to this wonderful book.
We had our ups and downs. All artistic natures are easily depressed, but we had a great many ups and very few downs. Mine is a sunny nature, and I always tried to keep Alec happy if possible. He always thought that I did not understand business and that I only thought of him and never of the future. He used to say, “Florence would be just as happy in a third-floor back with bread and cheese”. Of course that was not true; I did care most awfully.
Our really great venture was going into management. We had not much money, so I made most of the dresses at home and I trimmed all the hats myself and I really think they were quite nice.
First nights at the St. James’ Theatre were great events. It was very nervy work for Alec with all the responsibilities he had in addition to acting his new part and remembering his words. I sat in my box sick with anxiety, and between the acts I used to put on an apron and go behind the scenes to place all the little things on the stage myself until the men got used to it. I arranged the flowers; in those days we had so much detail, and I loved to make things look real. I ordered the gowns to suit the decorations of the scene so that nothing clashed or was ugly. Alec gave me the large sum of a week for my work, and I think I was very cheap at the price.
Our first nights at the St. James’ Theatre were like brilliant parties. Everybody knew everybody, everybody put on their best clothes, everybody wished us success. When I entered my box on a first night I always had a reception from the gallery. I do not know why, but I did. They were always so pleased and so kind to me.
When Alec first went to Irving as his leading man he was what they call a matinée idol, and Irving was too funny in trying to make him play costume parts. Alec was the smart young man about town. Irving once said to
him, “Speak up, speak up to the little boy in the gallery who’s paid his sixpence and probably got very wet waiting for his seat. Never mind the stalls, they can look after themselves, but never forget the little boy in the gallery.” On another occasion Irving said, “Now, Alexander, not quite so much Piccadilly.”
One night in America Irving was playing Hamlet, and in the play scene the gauze caught fire on the stage and blamed up. The whole of the enormous audience rose and cried “Fire!” I was so frightened that I stood up and shrieked in a loud voice, “This always happens, it’s part of the play”. They did not know Hamlet in those days so well as they know it now in America, and my cry saved the situation. Everybody sat down and said, “Part of the play”. Irving went on acting the whole time and was very grateful to me for doing this. But when the curtain fell I had to creep out, as everybody was looking for me.
Ellen Terry was a great help and a great friend to Alec. She taught him a great deal. He was quite a boy when he went to Irving, and Ellen Terry used to try and cure him of his nervousness. Her method was to drop things about the stage for him to pick up. He was terribly nervous and he used to get very upset, so he told Irving about it; but Ellen Terry would not listen, and I really think it was a great help to Alec later on.
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 855