The Story of My Life | Page 7

head and
had a very beaky nose! How I admired and loved and feared her! Later
on the fear was replaced by gratitude, for no woman ever gave herself
more trouble to train a young actress than did Mrs. Kean. The love and
admiration, I am glad to say, remained and grew. It is rare that it falls to
the lot of anyone to have such an accomplished teacher. Her patience
and industry were splendid.
It was Mrs. Kean who chose me out of five or six other children to play
my first part. We were all tried in it, and when we had finished, she
said the same thing to us all: "That's very nice! Thank you, my dear.
That will do."
We none of us knew at the time which of us had pleased her most.
At this time we were living in the upper part of a house in the Gower
Street region. That first home in London I remember chiefly by its fine
brass knocker, which mother kept beautifully bright, and by its being
the place to which I was sent my first part! Bound in green American
cloth, it looked to me more marvelous than the most priceless book has

ever looked since! I was so proud and pleased and delighted that I
danced a hornpipe for joy!
Why was I chosen, and not one of the other children, for the part of
Mamilius? some one may ask. It was not mere luck, I think. Perhaps I
was a born actress, but that would have served me little if I had not
been able to speak! It must be remembered that both my sister Kate and
I had been trained almost from our birth for the stage, and particularly
in the important branch of clear articulation. Father, as I have already
said, was a very charming elocutionist, and my mother read
Shakespeare beautifully. They were both very fond of us and saw our
faults with eyes of love, though they were unsparing in their corrections.
In these early days they had need of all their patience, for I was a most
troublesome, wayward pupil. However, "the labor we delight in physics
pain," and I hope, too, that my more staid sister made it up to them!
The rehearsals for "A Winter's Tale" were a lesson in fortitude. They
taught me once and for all that an actress's life (even when the actress is
only eight) is not all beer and skittles, or cakes and ale, or fame and
glory. I was cast for the part of Mamilius in the way I have described,
and my heart swelled with pride when I was told what I had to do,
when I realized that I had a real Shakespeare part--a possession that
father had taught me to consider the pride of life!
But many weary hours were to pass before the first night. If a company
has to rehearse four hours a day now, it is considered a great hardship,
and players must lunch and dine like other folk. But this was not Kean's
way! Rehearsals lasted all day, Sundays included, and when there was
no play running at night, until four or five the next morning! I don't
think any actor in those days dreamed of luncheon. (Tennyson, by the
way, told me to say "luncheon"--not "lunch.") How my poor little legs
used to ache! Sometimes I could hardly keep my eyes open when I was
on the stage, and often when my scene was over, I used to creep into
the greenroom and forget my troubles and my art (if you can talk of art
in connection with a child of eight) in a delicious sleep.
At the dress-rehearsals I did not want to sleep. All the members of the
company were allowed to sit and watch the scenes in which they were

not concerned, from the back of the dress-circle. This, by the way, is an
excellent plan, and in theaters where it is followed the young actress
has reason to be grateful. In these days of greater publicity when the
press attend rehearsals, there may be strong reasons against the
company being "in front," but the perfect loyalty of all concerned
would dispose of these reasons. Now, for the first time, the beginner is
able to see the effect of the weeks of thought and labor which have
been given to the production. She can watch from the front the
fulfillment of what she has only seen as intention and promise during
the other rehearsals. But I am afraid that beginners now are not so keen
as they used to be. The first wicked thing I did in a theater sprang from
excess of keenness. I borrowed a knife from a carpenter and made a