VII

One night, Wednesday, November 17, 1880, the sixty-first performance of the play, Lord Beaconsfield came to a box with some friends. I saw him coming up the stairs to the vestibule of the theatre. This was the only time I ever saw him, except on the floor of the House of Commons. He was then a good deal bent and walked feebly, leaning on the arm of his friend. He stayed to the end of the play and I believe expressed himself very pleased with it. His friend, “Monty” Corry—afterwards Lord Rowton—who was with him, told Irving that it seemed to revive old memories. As an instance, when he was coming away he asked:

“Do you think we could have supper somewhere, and ask some of the coryphées to join us, as we used to do in Paris in the fifties?”

The poor dear man little imagined how such a suggestion would have fluttered the theatrical dovecote. These coryphées, minor parts of course in the play, were supposed to be very “fast” young persons, and the difficulty of getting them properly played seemed for a long time insurmountable. The young ladies to whom the parts were allotted were all charming-looking young ladies of naturally bright appearance and manner. But they would not act as was required of them. One and all they seemed to set their faces against the histrionic levity demanded of them. It almost seemed that they felt that their personal characters were at stake. Did they act with their usual charm and brightness and nerve somebody might to their detriment mix up the real and the simulated characters. The result was that never in the history of choregraphic art was there so fine an example of the natural demureness of the corps de ballet. They would have set an example to a Confirmation class.