The Sun MONDAY, JULY 23, 1928 A GRACIOUS FIGURE

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 413, 23 July 1928, Page 8

The Sun MONDAY, JULY 23, 1928 A GRACIOUS FIGURE

AS a radiant star fades and must retire in the radiance of the morning sun, so Dame Ellen Terry has passed from the ken of the world that loved her first for the influence and beauty of her genius in the art of the theatre, and then loved her always for the grace of her womanhood. But the memory of her name and fame, which were synonymous,, will live on in history and shine with a fixed lustre. The end of a beneficent life was beautiful. Peace in a Kentish cottage set about with the fragrant flowers of Eng-. land’s summer, and death no more than the sigh of a brave soul in tranquil resignation. And her farewell message was the true expression of the happy nohility of character which endeareci her not only to her own nation, hut to the people of other nations. “No funeral gloom, my dears. When lam gone, think of me as withdrawn into the dimness, yours still and you mine. Remember all the best and forget the rest.” Such was the wise instruction written by the lovable old woman on the fly-leaf of that book of inspiration and comfort for the human spirit, “Imitation of Christ,” and Thomas a K’empis himself never wrote anything more cheerfully courageous. It is of a piece with her philosophy of life, both in the' heyday and in the twilight of her long life. Hear the winsome voice speak again!: “I was always more proud of making an audience laugh than of making it weep. This is rather a solemn occasion. Perhaps—who knows ?—a real farewell performance. Let the curtain come down on a smile—on fourscore smiles: one for every year of a life which has been made happy by. the devotion of friends.” And what did the devotion of friendship) mean in association with the art of Dame Ellen Terry? It meant admiration of true merit and true love of beautiful character. She was among the last of the great dramatic players, and won distinction and an Empire’s honour by the virtue of intellectual entertainment, and never by the artifice of commonplace cleverness and vulgar comedy. Her fame was earned, not merely acquired bjj theatrical tricks and the braying of cheap publicists. It is only in retrospect that one can recall the glory of her captivating genius. This generation was born too late to enjoy the magic of her name on a playbill, and to rejoice over the fulfilment of its promise of delight. As Portia, as Juliet, as Viola, as Nance Oldfield, and as Madame Sans Gene, the Corsican washerwoman, with Irving as Napoleon stalking a boyish love in the laundry of the Versailles Palace, Ellen Terry was supreme in chax'acterisation. Unlike the pert minxes playgoers must applaud nowadays, she was the character she portrayed at the moment, won her admirers, and then next day became the Ellen Terry who was loved for herself alone. Has not Barrie, in one of his exquisite compliments, said that there was a time in England when young men, proposing to their sweethearts, used to write in despair: “If-1 can’t have Ellen Terry, may I have you?” In this country and in Australia the older generation only saw Dame Ellen'Terry when the burden of years pressed upon her, but did not bend her art. Her eyesight was dimmed with years, but though she could not be the Juliet or Portia of other times, she could read their parts and make each character a lovesome thing. And who, privileged to see and enjoy the thrill of the beneficial farewell to her in Sydney, will ever forget the wonder of that triumph? Gone, all gone, are the first and last nights of the great players. But the memory of sheer achievement lives and will not perish so long as. men and women appreciate the real art of the theatre and, in their hearts, scorn the rubbish and spurious cleverness that is foisted upon them by a money-grabbing age. As Wilde sang in his sane mood:— No woman Veronese look ed upon Was half so fair as thou whom 1 behold. Yet fairer when with wisdom as your shield The sober-suited lawyer's gown you donned., And toould not let the laws of Venice yield Antonio’s heart to that accursed Jew — O Portia! take my heart: it is thy due; . I think I will- not quarrel with the Bond.