Ellen Terry has told me that it was one of the most nervous and anxious first nights she had experienced, and it might well be so, for the task of all concerned in this great production was a heavy one. But though critical opinion differed as to some points in the representation--though sapient playgoers shook their heads, and, quoting Charles Lamb, declared that "King Lear" should never be acted, there was no argument as to the merits of the new Cordelia. Her maidenly simplicity and delicately expressed, though manifestly intense, love for her father touched the right chord, and once more she won all our hearts. Her initial popularity in the character continued throughout the long and, I believe, unprecedented run of the play.
No wonder that Ellen Terry is fond of saying that she is a "useful" actress to her manager. That, she declares, has always been her desire, and while under an engagement she considers it her duty to play any part that is offered to her and to do her best with it. Though she will not say so, I believe I am right in feeling that she is justifiably proud of having, in quick succession, succeeded in such widely divergent Shakespearean characters as the imperious Queen Katherine (a part in which I am inclined to think she actually satisfied that fastidious critic--_herself_) and the gentle Cordelia.
And here let me emphasise the fact that she repudiates the suggestion that it was her ambition to play Lady Macbeth. She had no desire for the part, but when called upon to take it she did not shirk the task.
Her next original impersonation was that of Fair Rosamund in Lord Tennyson's beautiful play, "Becket," which was brought out at the Lyceum on February 6, 1893. It did not tax her strength very much, but no one who witnessed the impersonation will forget its exquisite tenderness or her perfect delivery of such lines as--
"Rainbow, stay, Gleam upon gloom, Bright as my dream, Rainbow, stay! But it passes away, Gloom upon gleam, Dark as my doom-- O rainbow, stay."
It is a delightful thing to read Tennyson. To hear his words interpreted by Ellen Terry is a revelation.
In connection with "Becket," I have another little story to tell indicative of my heroine's never-ending unselfishness. Geneviève Ward, who, it will be remembered, played most magnificently as Queen Eleanor, has told me how, in that strong and stormy scene between the jealous Queen and the luckless Rosamund, the stage moon was wont to show a little undue favouritism towards the fair denizen of the bower, flooding her with radiance and leaving her vindictive visitor in comparative obscurity. "This," to quote my friend's own words, "hurt Ellen Terry's sense of justice, and more than once she has turned her back upon the audience, and gently rebuked the too partial moon by a tragic line thrown into the wings--'Take it off me and turn it on Miss Ward.'" Such anecdotes could be told by all the artists who have appeared with her, but this one will suffice.