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Behind the Footlights

<h2 id="CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII WHY A NOVELIST BECOMES A DRAMATIST Novels and Plays—<cite>Little Lord Fauntleroy</cite> and his Origin—Mr. Hall Caine—Preference for Books to Plays—John Oliver Hobbes—J. M. Barrie’s Diffidence—Anthony Hope—A London Bachelor—A Pretty Wedding—A Tidy Author—A First Night—Dramatic Critics—How Notices are Written—The Critics Criticised—Distribution of Paper—“Stalls Full”—Black Monday—Do Royalty pay for their Seats?—Wild Pursuit of the Owner of the Royal Box—The Queen at the Opera.</h2> IT is a surprise to the public that so many novelists are becoming dramatists. The reason is simple enough: it is the natural evolution of romance. In the good old days of three-volume novels, works of fiction brought considerable grist to the mill of both author and publisher; after all it only cost a fraction more to print and bind a three-volume work which sold at thirty-one shillings and sixpence than it does to-day to produce a book of almost as many words at six shillings. Then again, half, even a quarter of, a century ago there were not anything like so many novelists, and those who wrote had naturally less competition; but all this is changed. Novels pour forth on every side to-day, and money does not always pour in, in proportion. One of the[Pg 241] first novelists to make a large sum by a play was Mrs. Hodgson Burnett. She wrote <cite>Little Lord Fauntleroy</cite> about 1885, it proved successful, and the book contained the element of an actable play. She dramatised the story, and she has probably made as many thousands of pounds by the play as hundreds by the book, in spite of its enormous circulation. I believe I am right in saying that <cite>Little Lord Fauntleroy</cite> has brought more money to its originator than any other combined novel and play, and the next most lucrative has probably been J. M. Barrie’s <cite>Little Minister</cite>. Herein lies a moral lesson. Both are simple as books and plays, and both owe their success to that very simplicity and charm. They contain no problem, no sex question, nothing but a little story of human life and interest, and they have succeeded in English-speaking lands, and had almost a wider influence than the more elaborate physiological work and ideas of Ibsen, Maeterlinck, Sudermann, or Pinero. For twenty years <cite>Little Lord Fauntleroy</cite> has stirred all hearts, both on the stage and off, in England and America, adored by children and loved by grown-ups. Being anxious to know how the idea of the play came about, I wrote to Mrs. Burnett, and below is her reply in a most characteristically modest letter: <div class="blockquote"> “New York,      “November 26th, 1902. “Dear Mrs. Alec-Tweedie, “I hope it is as agreeable as it sounds to be ’a-roaming in Spain.’ It gives one dreams of[Pg 242] finding one’s lost castles there. Concerning the play of <cite>Fauntleroy</cite>; after the publication of the book it struck me one day that if a real child could be found who could play naturally and ingenuously the leading part, a very unique little drama might be made of the story. I have since found that almost any child can play Fauntleroy, the reason being, I suppose, that only child emotions are concerned in the representation of the character. At that time, however, I did not realise what small persons could do, and by way of proving to myself that it could—or could not—be done with sufficient simplicity and convincingness, I asked my own little boy to pretend for me that he was Fauntleroy making his speech of thanks to the tenants on his birthday. The little boy in question was the one whose ingenuous characteristics had suggested to me the writing of the story, so I thought if it could be done he could do it. He had, of course, not been allowed to suspect that he himself had any personal connection with the character of Cedric. He was greatly interested in saying the speech for me, and he did it with such delightful warm-hearted naturalness that he removed my doubts as to whether a child-actor could say the lines without any air of sophistication—which was of course the point. Shortly afterwards we went to Italy, and in Florence I began the dramatisation. I had, I think, about completed the first act when I received news from England that a Mr. Seebohm had made a dramatisation and was producing it. I travelled to London at once and consulted my lawyer, Mr. Guadella, who[Pg 243] began a suit for me. I felt very strongly on the subject, not only because I was unfairly treated, but because it had been the custom to treat all writers in like manner, and it seemed a good idea to endeavour to find a defence. I was frightened because I could not have afforded to lose and pay costs—but I felt rather fierce, and made up my mind to face the risk. Fortunately Mr. Guadella won the case for me. Mr. Seebohm’s version was withdrawn and mine produced with success both in England and America—and, in fact, in various other countries. I never know dates, but I think it was produced in London in ’88. It has been played ever since, and is played for short engagements on both sides of the Atlantic every year. I have not the least idea how many times it has been given. It is a queer little dear, that story—‘plays may come and books may go, but little Fauntleroy stays on for ever.’ I am glad I wrote it—I always loved it. I should have loved it if it had not brought me a penny. I am afraid I am not very satisfactory as a recorder of detail of a business nature. I never remember dates or figures. If we were talking together I should doubtless begin to recall incidents. It is the stimulating meanderings of conversation which stir the pools of memory.” </div> Mrs. Hodgson Burnett may indeed be proud of her success, although she writes of it in such a simple, unaffected manner. ’Twas well for her she faced the lawsuit, for ruin scowled on one side while fortune smiled on the other. [Pg 244] No novelist’s works have sold more freely than those of Hall Caine and Miss Marie Corelli. Both are highly dramatic in style, but Miss Corelli has not taken to play-writing, preferring the novel as a means of expression. Hall Caine, on the other hand, has been tempted by the allurements of the stage. When I asked him why he took up literature as a profession, he replied: “I write a novel because I love the motive, or the story, or the characters, or the scene, or all four, and I dramatise it because I like to see my subject on the stage. If more material considerations sometimes influence me, more spiritual ones are, I trust, not always absent. I don’t think the time occupied in writing a book or a play has ever entered into my calculations, nor do I quite know which gives me most trouble.” Continuing the subject, I ventured to ask him whether he thought drama or fiction the higher art. “I like both the narrative and the dramatic forms of art, but perhaps I think the art of fiction is a higher and better art than the art of a drama, inasmuch as it is more natural, more free, and more various, and yet capable of equal unity. On the other hand, I think the art of the drama is in some respects more difficult, because it is more artificial and more limited, and always hampered by material conditions which concern the stage, the scenery, the actors, and even the audience. I think,” he continued, “the novel and the drama have their separate joys for the[Pg 245] novelist and dramatist, and also their separate pains and penalties. “On the whole, I find it difficult to compare things so different, and all I can say for myself is that, notwithstanding my great love of the theatre, I find it so trying in various ways—owing, perhaps, to my limitations—that I do not grudge any one the success he achieves as a dramatist, and I deeply sympathise with the man who fails in that character.” How true that is! By far the most lenient critics are the workers. It is the man who never wrote a book who criticises most severely, the man who never painted a picture who is the hardest to please. Speaking about the dramatic element of the modern novel, Mr. Caine continued: “But then the novel, since the days of Scott, has so encroached upon the domain of the drama, and become so dramatic in form that the author who has ‘the sense of the theatre’ may express himself fairly well without tempting his fate in that most fascinating but often most fatal little world.” Such was Mr. Caine’s opinion on the novelist as dramatist. Hall Caine’s personality is too well known to need describing; but his handwriting is a marvel. He gets more into a page than any one I know, unless it be Whistler, Sydney Lee, or Zangwill. Mr. Caine’s calligraphy at a little distance looks like Chinese, it is beautifully neat and tidy—but most difficult to read. Like Frankfort Moore, Richard Le Gallienne, and a host of others, he scribbles with a small pad in his[Pg 246] hand, or on his knee. Some people prefer writing in queer positions, cramped for room—others, on the contrary, require huge tables and vast space. “John Oliver Hobbes” is the uneuphonious pseudonym chosen by Pearl Teresa Craigie, another of our novel-dramatists. She has hardly been as successful with her plays as with her brilliant books, and therefore it seems unlikely that she will discard the latter for the former. The world has smiled on Mrs. Craigie, for she was born of rich parents. Although an American she lives in London (Lancaster Gate), and has a charming house in the Isle of Wight. She has only one son, so is more or less independent, can travel about and do as she likes, therefore her thoughtful work and industry are all the more praiseworthy. Ability will out. Mrs. Craigie is an extremely good-looking woman. She is petite, with chestnut hair and eyes; is always dressed in the latest gowns from Paris; has a charming voice; is musical and devoted to chess. J. M. Barrie, one of the most successful of our novel dramatists, is most reticent about his work. He is a shy, retiring little man with a big brain and a charitable heart; but he dislikes publicity in every form. He seems almost ashamed to own that he writes, and he cannot bear his plays to be discussed—so when he says, “Please excuse me. I have such a distaste for saying or writing anything about my books or plays for publication; if it were not so I should do as you suggest with pleasure,” one’s hand is tied, and Mr. Barrie’s valuable opinion on the novel and the drama is lost. [Pg 247] It was a difficult problem to decide. Naturally the public expect much mention of J. M. Barrie among the playwrights of the day, for had he not four pieces running at London theatres at the same moment? But to make mention means to offend Mr. Barrie and lose a friend. This famous author creates and writes, but no one must write about him. Whether his simple childhood, passed in a quaint little Scotch village, is the source of this reticence, or whether it is caused by the oppression of the fortune he has accumulated by his plays, no one discourses upon Mr. Barrie except at the risk of earning his grave displeasure. He is probably the most fantastic writer of the day, and most of the accounts of him have been as fantastic as his work. Thus the curtain cannot be lifted, while he smokes and dreams delicately pitiless sentiment behind the scenes so far as this volume is concerned. “Anthony Hope” is another dramatic novelist. He began his career as a barrister, tried for Parliamentary honours, and failed; took to writing novels and succeeded, and now seems likely to end his days in the forefront of British dramatists. He was educated at Marlborough, became a scholar of Balliol College, Oxford, where he gained first-class Mods. and first-class Lit. Hum., so he has gone through the educational mill with distinction, and is now inclined to turn aside from novels of pure romance to more psychological studies. This is particularly noticeable in <cite>Quisanté</cite> and <cite>Tristram of Blent</cite>. [Pg 248] The author of <cite>The Prisoner of Zenda</cite> is one of the best-known men in London society. He loves our great city. Mr. Hope is most sociable by nature; not only does he dine out incessantly, but as a bachelor was one of those delightful men who took the trouble to entertain his lady friends. Charming little dinners and luncheons were given by this man of letters, and as he had chambers near one of our largest hotels, he generally took the guests over to his flat after the meal for coffee and cigars. Many can vouch what pleasant evenings those were; the geniality of the host, the frequent beauty of his guests, and the generally brilliant conversation made those bachelor entertainments things to be remembered. His charming sister-in-law often played the rôle of hostess for him; she is a Norwegian by birth, and an intimate friend of the Scandinavian writer Björnstjerne-Björnson, whose personality impressed me more than that of any other author I ever met. The bachelor life has come to an end. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/i_248fp.jpg" width-obs="486" height-obs="600" alt="" /> From a painting by Hugh de T. Glazebrook. MR. ANTHONY HOPE. </div> Nearly twenty years ago Anthony Hope began to write novels with red-haired heroines—<cite>The Prisoner of Zenda</cite> is perhaps the best-known of the series. No one could doubt that he admired warm-coloured hair, for auburns and reds appeared in all his books. One fine day an auburn-haired goddess crossed his path. She was young and beautiful, and just the living girl he had described so often in fiction. Anthony Hope, the well-known bachelor of London, was conquered by the American maid. A very short engagement was followed by a beautiful wedding in the [Pg 249]summer of 1903, at that quaint old city church, St. Bride’s, where his father has been Rector so long. It was a lovely hot day as we drove along the Embankment, through a labyrinth of printing offices and early newspaper carts, to the door of the church. All the bustle and heat of the city outside was forgotten in the cool shade of the handsome old building, decorated for the occasion with stately palms. Never was there a prettier wedding or a more lovely bride, and all the most beautiful women in London seemed to be present. The bridegroom, who was wearing a red rosebud which blossomed somewhat alarmingly during the ceremony, looked very proud and happy as he led the realisation of twenty years’ romance down the aisle. “Anthony Hope” is not his real name, and yet it is, which may appear paradoxical. He was born a Hawkins, being the second son of the Rev. E. C. Hawkins, and nephew of Mr. Justice Hawkins, now known as Baron Brampton. The child was christened Anthony Hope, and when he took to literature to fill in the gaps in his legal income, he apparently thought it better for the struggling barrister not to be identified with the budding journalist, and consequently dropped the latter part of his name. Thus it was he won his spurs as Anthony Hope, and many people know him by no other title, although he always signs himself Hawkins, and calls himself by that nomenclature in private life. Rather amusing incidents have been the result. People when first[Pg 250] introduced seldom realise the connection, and discuss “Lady Ursula,” or other books, very frankly with their new acquaintance. Their consequent embarrassment or amusement may be better imagined than described! Aliases often lead to awkward moments. Literary men are not, as a rule, famed for “speechifying,” but Mr. Hawkins is an exception. He went to America a few years ago an indifferent orator, and returned a good one. This was the result of a lecturing tour—one of those expeditions of many thousand miles of travel and daily discourse in different towns. Literary men are not generally more orderly at their writing-tables than they are good at delivering a speech, but here again Anthony Hope is an exception. His desk is so neat and precise it reminds one irresistibly of a punctilious old maid (I trust he will forgive the simile?), so methodical are his arrangements. He writes everything with his own hand, and replies to letters almost by return of post, although he is a busy man, for he not only writes for four or five hours a day, but attends endless charity meetings, and takes an energetic part among other things in the working of the Society of Authors, of which he is chairman. He does nothing by halves; everything he undertakes he is sure to see through, being most conscientious in all his work. In many ways Anthony Hope often reminds one of the late Sir Walter Besant, both alike ever ready to help a colleague in distress, ever willing to aid by council or advice those in need, and untiring so far as[Pg 251] literary work for themselves, or helping others, is concerned. Mr. Hawkins is generally calm and collected, but I remember an occasion when he was quite the reverse. It was the first performance of one of his plays, and he stood behind me in a box, well screened from public gaze by the curtain. First he rested on one foot, then on the other, always to the accompaniment of rattling coins. Oh, how he turned those pennies over and over in his pockets, until at last I entreated to be allowed to “hold the bank” until the fall of the curtain. First nights affect playwrights differently, but although they generally disown it, they seem to suffer tortures, poor creatures. For an important production there are as many as two or three thousand applications for seats on a “first night,” but to a great extent each theatre has its own audience. The critics are of course the most important element. As matters stand they know nothing of what they are going to see, they have not studied or even read the play beforehand, and yet are expected to sum up the whole drama and criticise the acting an hour or two later. The idea is preposterous. If serious dramas are to be considered seriously, time must be given for the purpose, and the premiers must begin a couple of hours earlier, or a dress rehearsal for the critics arranged the night before, just as a “press view” is organised at a picture gallery. As it is, all the critics go in the first night. [Pg 252] That is why the bulk of those in the stalls are men. Some take notes throughout the acts, others jot down pungent lines during the dialogue; but all are working at high pressure, and however clear the slate of their mind may be on entering the theatre, it is well covered with impressions when they leave. From that jumble of ideas they have to unravel the play, criticise the dramatist’s work, and make a study of the suitability of the actors to their parts. This unreflecting impression must be quickly put together, for a critic has no time for leisurely philosophic judgments. The critics, or, rather, “the representatives of the papers,” are given their seats; but the rest of the house pays. Only people of eminence, or personal friends of the management, are permitted the honour of a seat. Their names are on the “first-night list,” and if they apply they receive, the outside public rarely getting a chance. The entrance to a theatre on a first night is an interesting scene. Many of the best-known men and women of London are chatting to friends in the hall; but they never forget their manners, and are always in their places in good time. Between the acts those who are near the end of a row get up and move about; in any case the critics leave their seats, and many of them begin their “copy” during the entr’acte. Other men not professionally engaged wander round the boxes and talk to their friends, and a general air of happy expectation pervades the auditorium. [Pg 253] “Stuffed with obesity or anæmia,” exclaimed a well-known dramatist when describing the dramatic critics. However that may be the dramatic critic is an important person, and his post no sinecure. It is all very well when first night representations are given on Saturday, because then only the handful of Sunday paper writers have to scramble through their work—but when Wednesday or Thursday is chosen, as sometimes happens, dozens of poor unfortunate men and women have to work far into the night over their column—they have no time to consider the comedy or tragedy from any standpoint beyond the first impression. No doubt a play should make an impression at once, and that is why the drama cannot be criticised in the same way as books. The playwright must make an immediate effect, or he will not make one at all; while the poet or novelist can be contemplated with serenity and commented on at leisure. There are so many problem plays nowadays, however, that it is often difficult for the critic to make his decision between the close of the theatre at midnight and his arrival at the nearest telegraph office (if he be on a provincial paper), or at the London newspaper office, a quarter of an hour later, when that impression has to be reduced to paper and ink. Only those who have written at this nervous pressure know its terrors. To have a “devil” (the printer’s boy) standing at one’s elbow waiting for “copy” is horrible—the ink is not dry on the paper as sheet after sheet goes off to the compositor waiting its arrival. By the time the writer reaches his last sentences the first pages are[Pg 254] all in type waiting his corrections. At 2 a.m. the notice must be out of his hands for good or ill, because the final “make-up” of the paper necessitates his “copy” filling the exact space allotted to him by the editor, and two hours later that selfsame newspaper, printed and machined, is on its way to the provinces by the “newspaper trains,” and on sale in Liverpool, Birmingham, or Sheffield, a few hours only after the latest theatrical criticism has been added to its columns. The stage is necessarily intimately connected with the press, and a free hand is imperative if the well-reasoned essay, and not merely a reporter’s account, is to be of value. Wise critics refuse to know personally the objects of their criticism, and so avoid many troubles, for many actors are hyper-sensitive by nature. The press is naturally a great factor, but it cannot make or mar a play any more than it can make or mar a book; it can fan the flame, but it cannot make the blaze. At the O.P. Club Alfred Robbins recently delivered an address on “Dramatic Critics: Are they any use?” He pertinently remarked: “A play is like a cigar—if it is bad no amount of puffing will make it draw; but if good then every one wants a box.” He held that the great danger was that the critic should lack pluck to protest against a revolting play on a well-advertised stage, and follow the lead of the applause of programme-sellers in a fashionable house; while making up for it by hunting for faults with a microscope in the case of a young author or manager. The critic should[Pg 255] tell not so much how the play affected him as how it affected the audience. Critics were always useful when they were interesting, but not when they tried to instruct. E. F. Spence, as a critic himself, pointed out that some critics had no words that were not red and yellow, while others wrote entirely in grey. When one man said a play was “not half bad,” and another described it as an “unparalleled masterpiece,” they meant often the same thing. And the readers of each, accustomed to their tone and style, knew what to expect from their words. Mrs. Kendal thought “criticism would be better after three weeks, when the actor had learnt to know his points.” All agreed that the critics of to-day are scrupulously conscientious. G. Bernard Shaw wrote: “A dramatic criticism is a work of literary art, useful only to the people who enjoy reading dramatic criticisms, and generally more or less hurtful to everybody else concerned.” Clement Shorter’s opinion was: “I do not in the least believe in the utility of dramatic critics. The whole sincerity of the game has been spoilt. The hand of the dramatic critic is stayed because the dramatist and the important actor have a wide influence with the proprietors of newspapers.” An anonymous manager wrote: “The few independent critics are of great use, but the critic who turns his attention to play-writing should not be allowed to criticise, for he is never fair to any author’s work except his own. It has paid managers[Pg 256] to accept plays from critics even if they don’t produce them.” Apart from criticism the theatre is in daily touch with the papers, for one of the greatest expenses in connection with a theatre is the “Press Bill.” From four to six thousand pounds a year is paid regularly for newspaper advertising, just for those advertisements that appear “under the clock,” and in those columns announcing plays, players, and hours. The distribution of “paper” is a curious custom, some managers prefer to fill their houses by such means, others disdain the practice, especially the Kendals, who are as adverse to “free passes” as they are to dress rehearsals, and who always insist on paying for their own tickets to see their friends act. An empty house is nevertheless dispiriting—dispiriting to the audience and dispiriting to the performers—so a little paper judiciously used may often bolster up a play in momentary danger of collapse. “Stalls full.” “Dress Circle full.” “House full.” Such notices are often put outside the playhouse during a performance, and in London they generally mean what they say. In the provinces, however, a gentleman arrived at an hotel, and after dinner went off to the theatre as he had no club. He saw the placards, but boldly marched up to the box office in the hope that perchance he might obtain an odd seat somewhere. “A stall, please.” “Yes, sir, which row?” When he got inside he[Pg 257] found the place half empty, in spite of the legend before the doors. A well-known singer wired for a box in London one night—it being an understood thing that professional people may have seats free if they are not already sold. She prepaid the answer to the telegram as usual. It ran: “So sorry, no boxes left to-night.” The next day she met a friend at luncheon who had been to that particular theatre the night before. He remarked: “It was a most depressing performance: the house was half empty, and the actors dull in consequence.” Then the singer told her story, and both had a good laugh over the telegram. There are certain bad weeks which appear with strict regularity in the theatrical world. Bank-holiday time means empty houses in the West End. Just before Easter or Christmas are always “off” nights. Royal mourning reduces the takings, and one night’s London fog half empties the house. Lent does not make anything like so great a difference as formerly; indeed, in some theatres its advent is hardly noticed at all. Saturday always yields the biggest house. Whether this is because Sunday being a day of rest people need not get up so early, or because Saturday is pay day, or because it is either a half or whole holiday, no one knows; but it always produces the largest takings of the week, just as Monday is invariably the fattest booking-day. This may possibly be due to Sunday callers discussing the best performances, and recommending[Pg 258] their friends to go to this or that piece. The good booking of Monday is more often than not followed by a bad house on Monday night, which is the “off” day of the week. A play will run successfully for weeks, suddenly Black Monday arrives, and at once down, down, down goes the sale, until the play is taken off; no one can tell why it declines any more than they can predict the success or failure of a play until after its first two or three performances. It seems to be generally imagined that Royalty do not pay for their seats; but this is a mistake. One fine day a message comes from one of the ticket agents to the theatres to say that the King and Queen, or Prince and Princess of Wales, will go to that theatre on a certain night. Generally a couple of days’ notice is given. Consternation often ensues, for it sometimes happens the Royal box has been sold. The purchaser has to be called upon to explain that by Royal command his box is required for the night in question, and will he graciously take it some other evening instead? or he is offered other seats. People are generally charming about the matter and ready to meet the manager at once—but sometimes there are difficulties. Wild pursuit of the owner of the box occasionally occurs; indeed, he sometimes has not been traceable at all, and has even arrived at the theatre, only to be told the situation. The box is duly paid for by the library; Royalty never accept their seats, and are most punctilious about paying for them. [Pg 259] At the back of the Royal box there is generally a retiring-room, where the gentlemen smoke, and sometimes coffee is served. The King, who is so noted for his cordiality, usually sends for the leading actor and actress during an entr’acte, and chats with them for a few minutes in the ante-room; but the Queen rarely leaves her seat. After the death of Queen Victoria it was a long time, a year in fact, before the King went to the theatre at all. After that he visited most of the chief houses in quick succession, but he did not send for the players for at least six months, not, in fact, till the Royal mourning was at an end. His Majesty is probably the warmest and most frequent supporter of the drama in Britain, as the Queen is of the opera. In olden days Royal visits were treated with much ceremony. Cyril Maude in his excellent book on the Haymarket Theatre tells how old Buckstone was a great favourite with Queen Victoria. The Royal entrance in those days was through the door of “Bucky’s” house which adjoined the back of the theatre in Suffolk Street. At the street door the manager waited whenever the Royal box had been commanded. In either hand he carried a massive silver candlestick, and, walking backwards, escorted the Royal party with monstrous pomp to their seats. As soon as he had shown them to their box, however, the amiable comedian had to hurry off to take his place upon the stage. Nothing of that kind is done nowadays, although the manager generally goes to meet them; but if the[Pg 260] manager be the chief actor too, he sends his stage manager just to see that everything is in order—Royal folk like to come and go as unostentatiously as possible. Many theatres have a private door for Royalty to enter by. As a rule they are punctual, and if not the curtain gives them a few minutes’ grace before rising. If they are not in their seats within ten minutes, the play begins, and they just slip quietly into their places. At the Opera on gala nights it is different—the play waits. When they enter, the band strikes up “God Save the King,” and every one stands up. It is a very interesting sight to see the huge mass of humanity at Covent Garden rise together, and see them all stand during the first verse in respect to Royalty. The Queen on ordinary occasions occupies the Royal box on the right facing the stage on the grand tier, and three back from the stage itself, so there are tiers of boxes above and one below; the Queen sits in the corner the farthest from the stage; the King often joins her during the performance, otherwise he sits in the omnibus box below with his men friends. So devoted is Her Majesty to music she sometimes spends three evenings a week at the Opera. She often has a book of the score before her, and follows the music with the greatest interest. On ordinary operatic nights the Queen dresses very quietly; generally her bodice is cut square back and front with elbow-sleeves, and not off the shoulders as it is at Court. More often than not she wears[Pg 261] black with a bunch of pink malmaisons—of course the usual heavy collar composed of many rows of pearls is worn, and generally some hanging chains of pearls. No tiara, but diamond wings or hair combs of that description. In fact, at the Opera our Queen is one of the least conspicuously dressed among the many duchesses and millionairesses who don tiaras and gorgeous gowns. No Opera-house in the world contains so many beautiful women and jewels as may nightly be seen in London. In front is a number above each box, and at the back of the box is the duplicate number with the name of the person to whom it belongs. They are hired for a season, and cost seven and a half to eight guineas a night on the grand tier. These boxes hold four people, and are usually let for ten or twelve weeks: generally for two nights a weeks to each set of people. Thus the total cost of one of the best boxes for the season is, roughly speaking, from one hundred and fifty, to one hundred and eighty guineas for two nights a week. At the theatre Queen Alexandra dresses even more simply than at the opera. In winter her gown is often filled in with lace to the neck. She is always a quiet, but a perfect dresser. Never in the fashion, yet always of the fashion, she avoids all exaggerations, moderates her skirts and her sleeves, and yet has just enough of the dernier cri about them to make them up to date. She probably never wore a big picture hat in her life, and prefers a small bonnet with strings, to a toque. [Pg 262] Royalty thoroughly enjoy themselves at the play. They laugh and chat between the acts, and no one applauds more enthusiastically than King Edward VII. and his beautiful Queen. They use their opera-glasses freely, nod to their friends, and thoroughly enter into the spirit of the evening’s entertainment. <hr class="chap" /> [Pg 263] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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