That he did not mean to be unkind, and that if he felt he had made a mistake or had gone too far he was deeply penitent and anxious to make any atonement in his power, I, who knew him so intimately, can asseverate. But if he saw the chance of a "sell" he could hardly resist temptation, and many of those associated with him on the stage, and who did not understand his bewildering sense of humour, suffered in silence, and were secretly tortured by his odd and incessant pranks. I have no doubt this was poor Ellen Terry's position when she complains that he teased her--made her forget her part, and "look like an idiot." The following anecdote concerning the way in which he treated me (his personal friend!) and a little company of actors and actresses, working their hardest to gain a word of approbation from the great star of the period, will illustrate my meaning.
In the days of many years ago he accepted a comedietta from my pen wildly called (Sothern gave it its title) "My Wife's Father's Sister," and the little piece was produced at the Theatre Royal, Brighton. He was anxious that I should be present at its first night, but I was unable to join him until its second representation. I was to be his guest, but when I entered his room at the Grand Hotel he seemed amazed and discomforted to see me.
"What on earth brings _you_ here?" he exclaimed. "Why, to see you and my piece," I replied. "Then you didn't get my telegram last night?" he inquired. I told him that I had received no telegram and should be glad to know its purport. "Well," he said, in a vexed tone of voice, "I wired to beg you as a personal favour to me not to come to Brighton, but as you _are_ here, we'll say no more about it."
Of course this did not satisfy me, and on being very hard pressed, he reluctantly told me that my poor little play had been a dead failure, and that he had telegraphed to me to stay away because he wanted to spare me humiliation.
"But," I said, in an agony of disappointment, "the newspapers speak well of it!"
"Yes," replied Sothern, "the critics here are good friends of mine, and I persuaded them that it was a sorry task to break a butterfly on a wheel. It was impossible for me at a moment's notice to get another after-piece ready to put in its place, but to-night 'My Wife's Father's Sister' will be played for the second and last time. Don't shirk seeing it, it will be a useful, if painful, lesson to you, and at supper to-night we'll try and find out where the fatal kink in it lies, for, as you know, I felt certain that it was going to be a hit."