All “calls” were made from the greenroom in those days, and its atmosphere was, I think, better than that of the dressing-room in which nowadays actors and actresses spend their time during the waits.  The greenroom at the Princess’s was often visited by distinguished people, among them Planche, the archaeologist, who did so much for Charles Kean’s productions, and Macready.  One night, as with my usual impetuosity I was rushing back to my room to change my dress, I ran right into the white waistcoat of an old gentleman!  Looking up with alarm, I found that I had nearly knocked over the great Mr. Macready.

“Oh, I beg your pardon!” I exclaimed in eager tones.  I had always heard from father that Macready was the greatest actor of all, and this was our first meeting.  I was utterly abashed, but Mr. Macready, looking down with a very kindly smile, only answered:  “Never mind!  You are a very polite little girl, and you act very earnestly and speak very nicely.”

I was too much agitated to do anything but continue my headlong course to my dressing-room, but even in those short moments the strange attractiveness of his face impressed itself on my imagination.  I remember distinctly his curling hair, his oddly colored eyes full of fire, and his beautiful, wavy mouth.

When I first described this meeting with Macready, a disagreeable person wrote to the papers and said that he did not wish to question my veracity, but that it was utterly impossible that Macready could ever have brought himself to go to the Princess’s at this time, because of the rivalry between him and Charles Kean.  I know that the two actors were not on speaking terms, but very likely Macready had come to see my father or Mr. Harley or one of the many members of Kean’s company who had once served under him.

The period when I was as vain as a little peacock had come to an end before this.  I think my part in “Pizarro” saw the last of it.  I was a Worshiper of the Sun, and in a pink feather, pink swathings of muslin, and black arms, I was again struck by my own beauty.  I grew quite attached to the looking-glass which reflected that feather!  Then suddenly there came a change. I began to see the whole thing. My attentive watching of other people began to bear fruit, and the labor and perseverance, care and intelligence which had gone to make these enormous productions dawned on my young mind. One must see things for oneself. Up to this time I had loved acting because it was great fun, but I had not loved the grind.  After I began to rehearse Prince Arthur in “King John,” a part in which my sister Kate had already made a great success six years earlier, I understood that if I did not work, I could not act.  And I wanted to work.  I used to get up in the middle of the night and watch my gestures in the glass.  I used to try my voice and bring it down and up in the right places.  And all vanity fell away from me.  At the first rehearsals of “King John” I could not do anything right.  Mrs. Kean stormed at me, slapped me.  I broke down and cried, and then, with all the mortification and grief in my voice, managed to express what Mrs. Kean wanted and what she could not teach me by doing it herself.