In Hallam Tennyson’s life of his father, I find that I described “The Cup” as a “great little play.”  After thirty years (nearly) I stick to that.  Its chief fault was that it was not long enough, for it involved a tremendous production, tremendous acting, had all the heroic size of tragedy, and yet was all over so quickly that we could play a long play like “The Corsican Brothers” with it in a single evening.

Tennyson read the play to us at Eaton Place.  There were present Henry Irving, Ellen Terry, William Terriss, Mr. Knowles, who had arranged the reading, my daughter Edy, who was then about nine, Hallam Tennyson, and a dog—­I think Charlie, for the days of Fussie were not yet.

Tennyson, like most poets, read in a monotone, rumbling on a low note in much the same way that Shelley is said to have screamed in a high one.  For the women’s parts he changed his voice suddenly, climbed up into a key which he could not sustain.  In spite of this I was beginning to think how impressive it all was, when I looked up and saw Edy, who was sitting on Henry’s knee, looking over his shoulder at young Hallam and laughing, and Henry, instead of reproaching her, on the broad grin.  There was much discussion as to what the play should be called, and as to whether the names “Synorix” and “Sinnatus” would be confused.

“I don’t think they will,” I said, for I thought this was a very small matter for the poet to worry about.

“I do!” said Edy in a loud clear voice, “I haven’t known one from the other all the time!”

“Edy, be good!” I whispered.

Henry, mischievous as usual, was delighted at Edy’s independence, but her mother was unutterably ashamed.

“Leave her alone,” said Henry, “she’s all right.”

Tennyson at first wanted to call the play “The Senator’s Wife,” then thought of “Sinnatus and Synorix,” and finally agreed with us that “The Cup” was the best as it was the simplest title.

The production was one of the most beautiful things that Henry Irving ever accomplished.  It has been described again and again, but none of the descriptions are very successful.  There was a vastness, a spaciousness of proportion about the scene in the Temple of Artemis which I never saw again upon the stage until my own son attempted something like it in the Church Scene that he designed for my production of “Much Ado About Nothing” in 1903.

A great deal of the effect was due to the lighting.  The gigantic figure of the many-breasted Artemis, placed far back in the scene-dock, loomed through a blue mist, while the foreground of the picture was in yellow light.  The thrilling effect always to be gained on the stage by the simple expedient of a great number of people doing the same thing in the same way at the same moment, was seen in “The Cup,” when the stage was covered with a crowd of women who raised their arms above their heads with a large, rhythmic, sweeping movement and then bowed to the goddess with the regularity of a regiment saluting.