“That’s right, that’s right!” she cried excitedly, “you’ve got it!  Now remember what you did with your voice, reproduce it, remember everything, and do it!”

When the rehearsal was over, she gave me a vigorous kiss.  “You’ve done very well,” she said.  “That’s what I want.  You’re a very tired little girl.  Now run home to bed.”  I shall never forget the relief of those kind words after so much misery, and the little incident often comes back to me now when I hear a young actress say, “I can’t do it!” If only she can cry with vexation, I feel sure that she will then be able to make a good attempt at doing it!

There were oppositions and jealousies in the Keans’ camp, as in most theaters, but they were never brought to my notice until I played Prince Arthur.  Then I saw a great deal of Mr. Ryder, who was the Hubert of the production, and discovered that there was some soreness between him and his manager.  Ryder was a very pugnacious man—­an admirable actor, and in appearance like an old tree that has been struck by lightning, or a greenless, barren rock; and he was very strong in his likes and dislikes, and in his manner of expressing them.

“D’ye suppose he engaged me for my powers as an actor?” he used to say of Mr. Kean.  “Not a bit of it!  He engaged me for my d——­d archaeological figure!”

One night during the run of “King John,” a notice was put up that no curtain calls would be allowed at the end of a scene.  At the end of my scene with Hubert there was tremendous applause, and when we did not appear, the audience began to shout and yell and cheer.  I went off to the greenroom, but even from there I could still hear the voices:  “Hubert!  Arthur!” Mr. Kean began the next scene, but it was of no use.  He had to give in and send for us.  Meanwhile old Ryder had been striding up and down the greenroom in a perfect fury.  “Never mind, ducky!” he kept on saying to me; and it was really quite unnecessary, for “ducky” was just enjoying the noise and thinking it all capital fun.  “Never mind!  When other people are rotting in their graves, ducky, you’ll be up there!” (with a terrific gesture indicative of the dizzy heights of fame).  When the message came to the greenroom that we were to take the call, he strode across the stage to the entrance, I running after him and quite unable to keep up with his long steps.

In “Macbeth” I was again associated with Ryder, who was the Banquo when I was Fleance, and I remember that after we had been dismissed by Macbeth:  “Good repose the while,” we had to go off up a flight of steps.  I always stayed at the top until the end of the scene, but Mr. Ryder used to go down the other side rather heavily, and Mr. Kean, who wanted perfect quiet for the dagger speech, had to keep on saying:  “Ssh! ssh!” all through it.

“Those carpenters at the side are enough to ruin any acting,” he said one night when he came off.

“I’m a heavy man, and I can’t help it,” said Ryder.