Both sides of the curtain

Contents

CHAPTER

PAGE 1

LIST OF PLATES

Chapter I

THE great professions, especially Literature, Art and tjie Stage, delight to honour their senior members — the Stage most of all. This is more to my present purpose, as the Stage admits of a doyenne. At this moment its place of honour is held by an American, Miss Genevieve Ward.

Towards the end of March, year by year, and in London where she lives, she has what may be described as a virulent attack of birthday. Her faithful Press trumpets the news of the seizure. The morning mail brings its interviews, its sheaves of letters, and its bouquets by command or otherwise, from both hemispheres. The caller calls — usually to assure her that in her honour Time has performed his favourite " trick act" of running back, and that she looks younger than ever. This was the even course of the ritual of 1916, when she entered her eightieth year ; and the completion of the term was duly celebrated in the same way in 1917.

As almost her oldest living friend in years, as in the period of our intimacy, I took care on the former occasion to be the first to arrive at her villa in the neighbourhood of Regent's Park.

This gave her plenty of time to await the others, and I was invited to join her in her morning walk.

Why not a turn round the garden," I said, with its promise of spring? It will serve to remind me of your old Quaker city of Philadelphia, or, better still in the circumstances, of some scene out of a well-mounted play. That cosy little church closing the view from the drawing-room may come in so handv for the fourth act. Besides, I have had my walk on the way here."

" I don't call that exercise; it's philandering — and at our age ! I wouldn't ask you, but my maids are busy this morning."

" What have they to do with it? "

" I take them with me by turns; I hate walking alone."

"But why?' I protested, as we crossed the canal bridge into Regent's Park.

"Each is my Moliere's housekeeper! I make a point of letting her see all the new pieces, and in return get many a new point in the course of our rambles."

"A sort of supplement to the Gallery Club? "

" And a better one, as being a club without a snarl to live up to. She goes to the play just for one thing, to have a good time. Not a theory in her pocket — only to be made to laugh, cry, or get into a rage with the villain, and to nibble a chocolate for her recovery between the acts."

We were making the circuit of one of those dwarf lakes that are to be found in every self-respecting park, a thing which a giant of the prime might have covered with his palm, yet with suggestions of infinitude in every cunning curve.

I mused.

<; Out of breath? " she laughed.

" Something much more serious, I assure you."

I was thinking of her extraordinary career in many fields of art, sometimes only with the prentice hand, as in painting and sculpture, at others in full achievement, as in opera and drama. Her whole education, by the luck of circumstance, the best of all preparations for life. Transferred at six years oi age from New York, where she was born, to Texas, an excellent substitute for the riding school, and where the horse to mount was also a horse to conquer from the start. Her father's cousin, Colonel George Ward, a venerable survival of the regular army and the Texan war, was her mentor here, with "up you get and on you go" for his simple plan. She learned to gallop before she knew how to fall off. Her father was in business — what self-respecting father of that time was not? Her mother set her the good example of living to eighty-four, and took all the children betimes to Europe to see the world. It was topography, manners, customs — all without tears, and, incidentally, with song as a plaything before it was an art. She saw France and Italy at a very early age, prattled in their idioms as to the manner born, and picked up Spanish without going to the country. Her good angel, she says, spared her Germany. England came later on. But there came a time when the mother had to insist on her settling down to one thing, and more or less to one place, for a career as well as for a living ; and music in Italy was her choice.

The omens were favourable. She was built for opera in face and form, fine expressive features of the brunette cast, eyes of particular brilliancy, and a figure that was just so between short and tall. Her voice was another asset, a soprano, but with the register of three in voice control that included the mezzo, and enabled her to sing in parts of varied range. This was in a manner unfortunate, as being rather too much of a good thing, since it tempted her to achievements which in the end strained the vocal cords. However, it was so promising that Rossini consented to guide her studies. It was hard work, of course, with its incidents of dramatic effect that were not exactly in the curriculum. Once, in mid- winter, on the summit of the Col di Tenda, and in a hurry to get through from Turin to Nice, her mother and herself were stopped by the snow. The diligence had given it up as a bad job. The local postmaster offered them mules that might be trusted to slide or hobble down the pass. They were accordingly strapped on, feet facing the sky, and it was done. A far from amiable-looking wolf in attendance gave needless zest to the adventure by incessantly baying news to the pack.

She made a first appearance in Lucrezia at Milan, but that was only to get rid of the stage fright ; and the real debut came afterwards in Bergamo. Then it was Paris, at the Italiens, in Don Giovanni, with Mario, Frezzolini and Persiani; Bucharest; London, in English opera at Covent Garden as Maid Marian in Macfarren's Robin Hood; Elvira in the Puritani at Her Majesty's — all as incidents of a six years' operatic career, closing with New York and Cuba.

There would have been much more to recall, but by this time we had reached her gate.

" Gyp ! Gyp ! Gyp ! That dog ! Oh, there he is. Have I scared you? What did you think I was crying over the housetops ? ' '

" A sort of coronach, perhaps, for the failure of your voice in Cuba. One of the sharpest of your trials till you turned it into a triumph by seeing it through. All know you as a star of the stage : fewT remember you as a star of opera. In each case you bridge two epochs of an art : the old Italian school of music and the double Dutch one of to-day — the drama from the French and the classic revival of the Shakespearean school."

"Oh, that is very ancient history now; and, you see, all the dog's history is still to write. I wouldn't lose him for the world. Such a dance, though, sometimes. Besides, he is one of us : he has been on the stage, and not even as a mere walking gentleman, for I carried him in my arms. He's simply the dearest — but never mind. You won't come in? Well, be sure you come to luncheon to-morrow. I want you to try a new risotto — perfection! "

" Where's the use of going to luncheon with you? You set such a bad example. Brillat-Savarin himself couldn't have been a more exasperating host."

And what was his offence, pray? " A meal fit for a banquet in Olympus, and for his share of it a morsel of bread dipped in a spoonful of gravy. You may not be aware of it, but such Spartan severity is not exactly an appetiser for your friends. It makes them feel they are eating to satisfy the wants of nature, which is gross. Many a second helping have I forgone on this chilling consideration— ' what must she be thinking of me now ? ' "

" That she hopes you are having a good time. Woman, you know, is — or was, for the fashions change so — by nature a ministrant being. It flatters her to think she is indispensable to the happiness of others. I did not cast her for the part or she would have had a stronger one. It was you, I think, who first called my attention to my favourite text : ' Set on the great pot, and seethe the pottage for the sons of the prophets.' A very woman-hater might hold her harmless in that capacity, though some, I'm afraid, think the only way of finding a use for her is to have her made up in tabloids. Poor fellows ! gormandising is about their only chance in the deadly sins. Au revoir! Remember, half -past one. Don't come in the morning : I shall be going for my exercises to Sandow."

The voice in opera had failed gradually, not exactly with a snap. It had been worn out with the fatigues of the tremendous repertory. At this period, too, the father had fallen upon evil times with some of his speculations : so, the family luck having given out, she had at once to set about making a fresh supply of it on her own behalf. The mischance, of course, betokened the ruin of one part at least of a career, and many would have taken it as decisive in regard to all hope of public distinction. But she was made of stouter stuff; and she had known, as we shall presently see, an even greater sorrow and a greater trial, and conquered it by her indomitable will. There was still the stage, as another way. But, as elsewhere Miss Ellen Terry has told us, at this period there was no living American drama as there is now ; and Shakespeare in adequate production, or even romantic plays in a setting on the grand scale, were still unknown in the States. On the other hand, her speaking voice was still a perfect instrument, capable of all the modulations of passion and feeling ; and her wide familiarity with the masterpieces of dramatic literature gave her some assurance on that point. But hitherto she had read only for delight, and she had now to face the colossal task of the creation of another repertory. So she settled down in New York as a teacher of singing, while, incidentally, keeping house for her father. It was done by working out a Daylight Saving Bill on her own account, rising at six and keeping it up till midnight. In this way she contrived to master fourteen parts in drama, among them Lady Macbeth, Beatrice,

Hermione, Portia, and Queen Katharine, with Adrien Lecouvreur, and the Lucrece, for Lucrezia, of Hugo's play.

This, while biding her time for an opening, generally the last and worst impediment of that curious obstacle course, a public career. England was hardly more encouraging in the outlook than America, but she crossed the ocean for a nearer view. It was still far from inviting. London was all for Gaiety burlesque, Old Drury was fumbling with all sorts of unholy ventures in the line of ' ' may our endeavours to please be crowned with success." Sala, soundest of counsellors when he was not his own client, was taken into consultation ; and his suggestion was to try one of the great provincial theatres — at Manchester by preference — for a bit of serious work : " You will get your hearing there, and if you succeed you will have London on the rebound." So, in due season, the Manchester Theatre Royal announced the debut of Miss Genevieve Ward in Lady Macbeth, and the allpowerful Guardian of next day chronicled the perfect success of the experiment. This was in 1873, and it marked another turning point by giving the new career a triumphant start which was made good in all that followed. Subsequent performances in England and in America were but stages of a final tour round the world. But the full story of these great ventures and of the dignified leisure of her retirement in the plenitude of her powers, without one farewell performance — still less of a series — is not for this place.

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For all that, the life of the player in retirement is a trying thing. The greater the triumphs the heavier the miss of them when all is done ; nothing to compare with it in the sharpness of the contrast between past and present. Applause for your daily breath, as well as for your daily bread, and that " hot and hot " as payment on delivery. Here and now is the word : you can hardly afford to give credit till to-morrow's notice. It positively unsexes the meaner sort of men like shipwreck or the cry of "Fire!" and makes them ready to hack their way to it through the scrum over the bodies of their mates, petticoated or not. To all others — the statesman, soldier, man of affairs — glory comes with a more halting pace. The soldier's mention in dispatches has yet to be — to say nothing of his monument. The statesman's reward is a mere undated draft on history. The poor business man has never had and never looked for anything of the kind. But for the actor every night and every minute of the night is his triumph or his despair. Coolness in the house, the moment it has passed the footlights, is chill to the bone. Add to this the intense excitations of the whole medium in which he moves — mighty passions, great actions, the glitter of pageantry, the whole personality wrought up to the achievement of the highest in human conception. The proudest monarch in the world knows nothing to match it in realities or in dreams. Think of all this for a farewell performance that keeps the promise of its title, and then of the too immediate drop to "the rest is silence" of the night that follows, with all the others in its train, cheered by nothing more exciting than an evening party, or in actual practice often only a quiet rubber, or even a "patience," and so to bed. In the midst of all this maybe the pitiless clock tells you that the brilliant house is rilling with celebrities for a debut of somebody else, that the orchestra is in full blast, and the sudden hush that heralds the rise of the curtain marks the expectation of a new heirship to these intoxicating joys. " Macbeth does murder sleep," indeed, when the part is in the hands of the other man. No wonder my good friend must still be doing something, if it is only knitting stockings for the soldiers, or, in spite of all her vows to the contrary, occasionally allowing herself to be wheedled into the acceptance of another engagement— just to quicken the pulse. What funny scenes of this sort I have seen in her own drawing-room, manager and even manager's wife plying her with delicate flatteries, as the sole Arabian bird of omen for the success of the piece.

The date of the Manchester performance is of import in another way. It marked the disappearance from the bills, as it had long disappeared from private use, of the Madame Guerrabella of opera, and the resumption of her maiden name of Genevieve Ward.

Yet she was Madame Guerrabella after all, though in strict right she was entitled to sign Countess Constantine de Guerbel, by virtue of her early marriage with a Russian nobleman. The story has to be told if only because it has been told so

IO often and nearly always wrongly. Its embellishments add nothing to the poignancy of its interest : the plain unvarnished tale best suits the nature of the subject and the self-respect of the principal character. She was still in her teens and in the plenitude of her grace and charm, when she accepted an offer of marriage from de Guerbel, a member of an old Swiss family which had migrated to Russia in the time of Peter the Great. This, in its nature, if not altogether in its results, was a tragedy which reduces the subsequent disaster of the failure of the voice to the proportions of melodrama. She may well say, when she cares to say anything about it, that the greatest drama of her life has been one in which she never played. It had the strongest situations, the most momentous decisions, at very short notice indeed, and the most thrilling curtains act by act, and yet no audiences, and no limelight. At the time of her first meeting with de Guerbel she was travelling with her mother in southern Italy, and he gave out that he was carrying dispatches for the Tsar. Then, and subsequently at Nice, where there was nothing against his name, he became what Victorian chaperons used to call exceedingly attentive to both mother and daughter, and eventually made his offer of marriage in due form.

The offer was accepted. There was then no Russo-Greek church either in Nice or Turin, so the pair were married by civil contract at the American Consulate. This was on the understanding that the daughter should return to her mother's home until

ii all the parties could set out for Paris together for the completion of the ceremony in the Russian church. It was based on the ordinary practice in many countries in which civil marriage is in use. Where such a marriage is the only one recognised by law, as in France to this day, Roman Catholics regard it as merely a kind of betrothal, and the pair, though already man and wife according to the code, separate at the door of the Mayoralty to meet again for the church ceremony the next day. In this instance it was first arranged that all the parties should travel to Paris by land, but de Guerbel, on the plea that Genevieve was already his wife, tried to persuade her to make the journey with him, leaving her relatives to follow by another route which he knew they preferred. The mother objected, and she had her way. The daughter remained in her care, and, though de Guerbel reached Paris in due course, he contrived, on all sorts of frivolous excuses, to defer his appearance at the Russian church, and finally left for the south.

Months passed without news of him, until it was discovered that he was making arrangements for his marriage with a Russian heiress, a daughter of the Russian Ambassador at Naples.

Mother and daughter at once set out, in the depth of winter, to lay the whole matter before the Tsar. It was a trying journey : from Konigsberg to Riga they travelled by sledge, changing every two hours in the snow.

At Petersburg they stayed with the American Minister, Governor Seymour, a distant relative of the Wards, and had his help in drafting a petition to the Autocrat. The matter had now got wind. General Gabriel de Guerbel, elder brother of Constantine and head of the family, called on the Minister for particulars, and was constrained to plead for some compromise that might save what he was pleased to call the honour of his name. The Wards were inexorable on this point : they had been angered to exasperation by his brother's attempt to treat even the civil marriage as an entire fabrication. Meanwhile they had nothing to do but wait ; the girl quietly keeping up her heart — and her music, and on one occasion appearing at a reception leaning on the arm of her husband's brother, who had chivalrously left the honour of the name to take care of itself.

One day, at length, their host had a visit from Count Adlerberg, a man high in the confidence of the Court. The diplomatist guessed his friend's errand in a moment : it was a prudent operation in " soundings " on the question of the hour. He accordingly led Madame Constantine de Guerbel into the room, and left the pair together. The courtier was urbanity itself. He gave a patient hearing to the whole story, while carefully holding his peace on the merits of the case, and withdrew, ' after compliments ' ' worthy of a complete letterwriter in Chinese. He was speedily followed by an aide-de-camp from the Palace who, without further beating about the bush, wished to know when the daughter of Mrs. Ward could receive Prince Dolgouriki, a member of one of the great historic

*3 families of Russia, and high in the confidence of the Autocrat. There could be but one answer — as soon as he liked. The Prince came, was extremely amiable, and went away in full possession of the thrice-told tale, and with the generous and altogether hopeful admission : " He's not good for much, I'm afraid." Caution still prevailed when he came once more and stood on the threshold : ' ' But what is it you want the Tsar to do ? '

The lady was ready with her answer : " To have my marriage sanctioned by the Russian Church."

"I will tell His Majesty exactly what you say," was his parting word.

Meantime the sad hero of the adventure had been wandering about the Continent, while still giving his country a wide berth. He was at last overtaken by an Imperial order to report himself at Warsaw for the religious ceremony. Mother and daughter had been already told to await him there ; and they were looking for news when they received a telegram announcing his arrival, requesting an interview, and rashly signed as from "your affectionate husband." It came in time to be shown to Mr. Ward, who had now "joined" in this crisis of the family affairs. It is needless to say that it completely gave away the writer's case, since he had hitherto denied the fact of the marriage in any form.

The meeting took place at first between the parents and the sorry bridegroom, and then between him and the bride. It ended on both occasions in nothing but idle protestations of his readincss for the ceremony and of his hopes of a happy life ever after on his estates in Little Russia — vaguely understood, on their part, to be somewhere out of the world. It would probably have been more consonant with the wife's feelings if the conversation could have been confined to observations about the weather. The thing rankling in her heart was that he had not only deceived her, but dragged her in the mire by persistently alluding to her as 1 ' Miss Ward ' ' ; ' ' Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned."

The gruesome bridal took place next day in the cathedral at Warsaw. At eleven o'clock the lady, in black from head to foot, and her party entered the crowded church. The bridegroom was at hand ; the Archbishop officiated by command. The contracting parties held lighted candles, one of which — not that of the bride — was observed to gutter without the aid of a breeze. When it was all over the Archbishop offered his congratulations to the happy pair! The bride thanked him in a low voice, bowed to her husband, leaving him where he stood, took her father's arm, and, with her party, made for their carriage and drove away. Another carriage, packed with their luggage, stood ready in the courtyard of their hotel. In a few minutes they were at the railway station ; in a few more, on their way to the frontier.

All had been foreseen, including the possibility that the lady's master, under Russian law, might collect his wits sufficiently to claim t\e custody of her person. The travellers carried a special pass-

*5 port permitting them to leave the country at their pleasure.

They never met again. He subsequently followed her to France and ransacked her apartments, only to be warned that he would be deported on a repetition of the annoyance. Years after, when in New York, she heard of his death at the close of a sordid career.

She never sought for a divorce, as she had once thought of doing, for she had no desire to marry again. She made no claim to his estates. All that she took at his hands was all she wanted — the right to bear his name. This was subsequently modified into Guerrabella on her appearance in opera, and finally dropped altogether when she went upon the stage.

A plain tale is the best, and here it is, on authority. Most of the others belong to the region of fancy. One of them exhibits the heroine at the feet of Alexander II., and sobbing forth her woes. As a matter of fact she never sought speech of him. No doubt she had one powerful friend at court in the person of the American Minister. These were still the days of Russian hopes of an American Alliance against Europe — to avenge the Crimea.

It was a battle won for the whole sex. The marriage laws of the world, in their cruel perplexity, are still the scandal of the time. To take but one instance, thousands of English-speaking women are married by their own national rite in foreign countries, only to find, when it suits their partners to cast them off, that they are no wives at all. The foreign rite has naturally its claims in the foreign land, and where this has been omitted, in all or in one of its innumerable formalities, the woman is at the mercy of the man. Most women so betrayed wear out their lives in silent sorrow or in futile personal protest and personal appeal. Genevieve Ward was of another stamp.

I now leave her to speak for herself, mainly throughout the book.

R. W.

Chapter II

MY first voyage to Italy, where in after time I was to learn to sing, was made in 1840, when I was in my fourth year. We embarked on a wooden sailing ship, even at that period wholly devoid of a sense of the ridiculous as a mode of travel.

My mother kept a log of the voyage : she was thorough in everything ; and a mere diary would have been beneath her notice. Here it is now, in my hands, and in yellow ink that only once was black. It is ruled in columns, with the most mysterious headings — " H.K.F. Courses — Winds — Leeway — Air," and so on, and it affords evidence of a valiant attempt on her part to do justice to them in a seamanlike way. When this fails she takes a mean advantage under " Occurrences," to get in something about the baby and the two other children under her wing.

The entries begin with "3rd day of November, 1840." On this day : " The barque Marcelle, from New York towards Genoa," casts off from the wharf at 10 a.m. What an abyss of time between ! The Victorian era still in its infancy, to say nothing of the mid- Victorian, only a thing of prophecy and hope ! And what a voyage ! — an almost solid seven weeks of fair and foul, before wTe come to anchor inside the " new mole " at Genoa, on the 21st December. It was still, perhaps, a fair record of rapid travel in that remote age.

At the outset wre are favoured with a short explanation for the benefit of the landlubber : " A nautical day commences at 12 at noon, and ends next day at 12.'' It is the last he will get, and for the rest he has to shift for himself. " Variation f Pts. Sandy Hook, bearing by compass West by South, distant 6 miles. Took in top gallant sails at 1 a.m. and double reefed the top sails at 1^." The rather unworkmanlike " All of us sea-sick " ends the somewhat hurried account for next day. Worse is to follow on the morrow. At one moment we are " only 10 miles from the Capes — and in shoal water." But the discreet captain, though "he thought we wrould be lost," never breathed a word of it till they were safely anchored at Genoa. " Children only just commencing to eat," the day after that, and then but in half rations, for " The goat which I took for baby's milk is sick also and gives none." Poor baby, and, in a way, poorer goat! She dies a few days later — worse and worse ! Children on deck about this time: " Lee" — my elder brother — "frightened at first, but Jenny liked it."

Tuesday, a week out, " Baby doleful at sea when it rains, but Providence is over us : He that holds the winds in the hollow of His hand will save us." Ninth day: "Baby sick again; the rolling of the sea is horrible." Tenth day : "We find our apples delicious." Well, well, how many of us have not disdained the same confession on the ocean greyhounds of to-day ! ' 6 How terrible the thunder sounds at sea ; nothing to break its strength ; and the lightning as though the heavens opened." Quite so. Eleventh day : " Severe storm : and to be alone on the wide ocean with no one to speak to, not knowing what next moment will bring forth ! Children and nurse asleep ; I alone to keep watch. Capt. on deck." A little later that weather again and pumps busy. " What a shock it gave me when that jolly boat broke. Awful ! Awful ! Baby has a sore mouth and we have nothing to relieve him except some gum arabic. God keep him! " Full calendar month : all hardships forgotten, and quite an old salt now. " Set the top-gal-sails and spanker; at 11.30 set the gaff top sail." Then, in due course: " Cadiz lighthouse, distance 15 miles. Oh, what joy in the sight of land ! Passed Gibraltar Rock, dist. 5 miles."