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 slit in the canvas to watch Mrs. Kean as Hermione!