Naturally I am not inclined to criticize my son’s methods.  I think there is a great deal to be said for the views that he has expressed in his pamphlet on “The Art of the Theater,” and when I worked with him I found him far from unpractical.  It was the modern theater which was unpractical when he was in it!  It was wrongly designed, wrongly built.  We had to disembowel the Imperial behind scenes before he could even start, and then the great height of the proscenium made his lighting lose all its value.  He always considered the pictorial side of the scene before its dramatic significance, arguing that this significance lay in the picture and in movement—­the drama having originated not with the poet but with the dancer.

When his idea of dramatic significance clashed with Ibsen’s, strange things would happen.

Mr. Bernard Shaw, though impressed by my son’s work and the beauty that he brought on to the stage of the Imperial, wrote to me that the symbolism of the first act according to Ibsen should be Dawn, youth rising with the morning sun, reconciliation, rich gifts, brightness, lightness, pleasant feelings, peace.  On to this sunlit scene stalks Hiordis, a figure of gloom, revenge, of feud eternal, of relentless hatred and uncompromising unforgetfulness of wrong.  At the Imperial, said Mr. Shaw, the curtain rose on profound gloom.  When you could see anything you saw eld and severity—­old men with white hair impersonating the gallant young sons of Ornulf—­everywhere murky cliffs and shadowy spears, melancholy—­darkness!

Into this symbolic night enter, in a blaze of limelight, a fair figure robed in complete fluffy white fur, a gay and bright Hiordis with a timid manner and hesitating utterance.

The last items in the topsy-turviness of my son’s practical significance were entirely my fault!  Mr. Shaw was again moved to compliments when I revived “Much Ado about Nothing” under my son’s direction at the Imperial.  “The dance was delightful, but I would suggest the substitution of trained dancers for untrained athletes,” he wrote.

I singed my wings a good deal in the Imperial limelight, which, although our audience complained of the darkness on the stage, was the most serious drain on my purse.  But a few provincial tours did something towards restoring some of the money that I had lost in management.

On one of these tours I produced “The Good Hope,” a play by the Dutch dramatist, Heijermans, dealing with life in a fishing village.  Done into simple and vigorous English by Christopher St. John, the play proved a great success in the provinces.  This was almost as new a departure for me as my season at the Imperial.  The play was essentially modern in construction and development—­full of action, but the action of incident rather than the action of stage situation.  It had no “star” parts, but every part was good, and the gloom of the story was made bearable by the beauty of the atmosphere—­of the sea, which played a bigger part in it than any of the visible characters.