(The Theatre [USA] - Vol XXI, January 1915)
ELLEN TERRY'S NIECE UPHOLDS THE FAMILY TRADITIONS

"There's a line in 'Much Ado About Nothing' that exactly describes Aunt Ellen," said the gifted niece of the celebrated Ellen Terry. "It was written of Beatrice. It tells us that when she was born the stars danced."

"Have you learned much of acting from Ellen Terry?" I asked Phyllis Neilson-Terry.

The distinguished English actress' niece had made her American debut at the Liberty a few days before as Shakespeare's Viola. The critics praised her highly, hailing her as upholding the traditions of the famous Terry family, but for some reason the public proved indifferent, and at the end of two weeks the engagement was closed. It was, perhaps, poor managerial policy to present a newcomer in classic repertoire at a moment when the theatrical business is so notoriously bad, but certainly other and more favorable opportunities will present themselves to establish this charming and talented young actress in the favor of the American theatre-going public.

"I think I have," she replied, with the usual English temperateness of speech. "But it has been by the inspiration of her example, rather than by direct tuition. I doubt whether Aunt Ellen could teach much in any other way. I first saw her when I was four years old. She was Olivia in 'The Vicar of Wakefield.' That memory is - can you understand such vague speech? - a lovely blur. It has no distinctness. I recall that seeing her and hearing her left me warm and happy, that her voice and her laughter haunted me, and that as I was led home I looked proudly at my father because he had so splendid a sister.

"I did not see her often because, you see, I was at school in the country and in Paris until I was sixteen, and she was usually on tour during my vacations. But after I left school - by the way, I wasn't graduated, as you say in this country, because I was always very lazy about my studies and very anxious to begin playing at fifteen - I saw her again on the stage. That was five years ago. It was in 'The Merry Wives of Windsor.' I forget whether she was Mistress Ford or Mistress Page, but I can never forget her delicious laughter. What most particularly impressed me was the way she read the letter, how she poked fun at Falstaff, and how much real joy she seemed to get out of tricking him. It's odd, but I never analyze a performance. I don't pick it to bits. I remember it as a whole, either as good or bad. That performance of my aunt's in 'The Merry Wives of Windsor' I remember as one of the perfect things of this world.

"If I were to attempt to analyze her performances I should say that there are three qualities never absent from any of her portrayals. They are beauty, inspiration and buoyancy. If you have seen her you know she never seems to glide quietly on the stage, or be discovered after several minutes occupancy of it. There isn't a minute that you don't know she is there. She always dances on.

"While I firmly believe that she is an actress of no school nor time, but an inspired player, I doubt not that she learned something of technique through her long association with Sir Henry Irving. One could not be associated with so great a man without learning something from him. Don't you think so? I have a little blue enamel ring she gave me and which was given to her by Sir Henry Irving. It once belonged to Mme. Vestris. If I possess a talisman, it is that. Two letters my aunt wrote me I treasure as priceless possessions. One was written about my Viola. After she had seen me in 'Twelfth Night' she wrote me:

'Dearest Child : At last I am happy. There is one who will carry forward the traditions of the Terry family on the stage. That one is you.'

"That made me very happy. But what my aunt did for me that helped me most was the advice she gave in a note she wrote me before she sailed for Australia. She said,

'Put a very great deal of beauty into all your work.'

"At every performance I remember her words and try to obey the command from one whom I consider one of the great artists of all the ages."

"You looked like her when you said that."

"Do you think so?" Miss Terry's usually classic face beamed with a new vivacity. "I am very glad and, of course, proud. But I cannot expect often to suggest my Aunt Ellen. If there were no other reason, you see, she is a comedienne and I a tragedienne. I have played comedy now and then, but not often. I enjoyed playing Viola in 'Twelfth Night.' She is a fine example of normal, radiant girlhood. And I have done Rosalind in 'As You Like It.' But I don't care for Rosalind. I don't feel when I am playing comedy as I did on the two occasions when I saw my aunt on the stage. While I did not laugh outwardly, she filled me with an inner chuckle."

"What have your father and mother taught you about acting?"

"Like my Aunt Ellen's, their teaching was indirect. None of the Terrys believe greatly in teaching acting. I had only two rehearsals before my first stage appearance. I went on with them in a small part in 'Henry of Navarre.' I was just thrown on. Their reasoning was that if I could act, I could act without teaching. And they were right. One could not help being an actress in that family. The germ is in us all. I was with my father and mother only for six weeks. But then and in our home life I absorbed from them what might be called the merits and demerits of the old school of acting. I hope I have gained the good points of the romantic and classic style of acting.

"Six weeks after my debut I was presented as Viola. I have had the good fortune to be a star all the while except the six weeks I was with father and mother. I was with Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree two years. At first I used the name Phyllis Terson. That was from sheer cowardice, also from loyalty to my family. I did not want by the name Terry to draw attention to my crudities and learn from the critics that I was an unworthy daughter of a famous house. I combined the first syllable of my father's name with the last syllabic of my mother's. When I had, as you say in America, 'arrived,' I adopted my real name as my stage name, but I still wished to use mother's name.

"What remains for you to do since you have been a star since you were sixteen? Aren't you in the plight of one Alexander?"

"There is Lady Macbeth left. And I hope some one will write a strong, modern play for me."

I told the calm-faced, long-limbed blonde whom George Tyler said, when he first saw her in London, is the "most gloriously beautiful woman in the world," that a clever American actress declined to play Juliet because she thought her an abnormal type. Phyllis Neilson-Terry's English calm nearly forsook her.

"Juliet was a daughter of the South," she said, hastily for her. "Girls mature early in her country. In her country they are old at thirty. She might be abnormal in America, but certainly not in Italy. Besides, she lived in the middle ages when life was more savage and elemental. No, she was a true daughter of her time and country. I love to play her."

"Is your Juliet the traditional one?"

"No, they tell me there is nothing traditional about my performance. But I do not know wherein it differs."

"Your balcony and potion scenes? Are they different?"

"My potion scene they tell me is my best work. But I do not know how it is different from the portrayals of the Juliets who have gone before me. I can act but I'm afraid I cannot talk well. I am glad to be in America and will it surprise you when I say I am not afraid? I do not feel as though I were in a strange country and among a strange people. Americans have been so sweet to all my family that I believe they will be good to me, and I hope they will like me."

"Why did you not come to us sooner?"

"Because I wanted first to get my British public. I wanted to acquire playgoing friends in my own country."

"Miss Terry is one of the human sunbeams. Has she taught you to extract all the joy there is from life?"

The niece of Ellen and the daughter of Fred Terry and Julia Neilson flung back her head and laughed.

"I did not need to be taught that," she said. Her chuckle was an outward one. "I would do that on my own."

ADA PATTERSON.

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