Bernard Shaw - Candida & Selected Correspondence Relating to the Play

So Janet really “loves” you! What do I do? Goodbye. Dont get a cold crossing the silly bit of water. I wish I were coming.

Yours very truly,

sweet sir, E.

46/ Ellen Terry to Bernard Shaw

29th October 1896

Just back home from your doorstep (from the young painter’s—Nellie Heath’s—doorstep). I couldnt help going there, and when I got there I could not go in. Felt such a fool, and felt so very ill. Went up the third flight of steps, got shy, and ran back to my shay. I had Candida with me, so sent up one act of her by a rum little boy who stood staring at me and longing to earn pennies.

Oh I’m ill. I’ll just go back to bed, and if you ever dare write me another unkind letter I promise you it shall not draw me out again into the cold and the hateful fog. I generally go and see Burne-Jones when there’s a fog. He looks so angelic, painting away there by candlelight. I’m studying Richard III. Whilst they are slaving at the Lyceum [Theatre] at that, I’m going to (will you come too?) to, to—of all places in the world, Monte Carlo! I never was there. Edy would like the fun, and I may chance to, or loathe it.

I’ve ghastly aches all over me, a cold in every inch of my body, and oh, I’m acting so badly. The Americans call you Mr Shore . Goodbye.

[Ellen Terry]

47/ To Ellen Terry

30th November 1896

. . . I am the centre of a boiling whirlpool of furious enquiries from insulted editors, indignant secretaries of public bodies (wanting orations) all over the country, the management of the Haymarket [Theatre], & innumerable private persons, who have written me letters upon letters, enclosing stamped envelopes, reply paid telegram forms, and every other engine for extracting instant replies in desperate emergencies. For months I haven’t answered one of them. Why? Because I could write to no one but Ellen, Ellen, Ellen: all other correspondence was intolerable when I could write to her instead. And what is the result? Why, that I am not killed with lecturing and with the writing of magazine articles. (What the pecuniary result will be presently I decline to think; but now that the play [The Devil’s Disciple] is finished (in the rough) I shall try to earn a little supplemental money—not that I really want it; but I have always been so poor as to coin that nothing can persuade me now that I am not on the verge of bankruptcy.) I am saved these last inches of fatigue which kept me chronically overworked for ten years. The Socialist papers denounce me bitterly—my very devotees call me aristocrat, Tory, capitalist scribe & so on; but it is really all Ellen, Ellen, Ellen, Ellen, Ellen, the happiness, the rest, the peace, the refuge, the consolation of loving (oh, dearest Ellen, add “and being loved by”—a lie costs so little) my great treasure Ellen.

What did I want so particularly to say?—oh yes: it was this. I have written to [William] Terriss to tell him that I have kept my promise to him & have “a strong drama” with a part for him; but I want your opinion; for I have never tried melodrama before; and this thing, with its heroic sacrifice, its impossible court martial, its execution (imagine W. T. hanged before the eyes of the Adelphi!), its sobbings & speeches & declamations, may possibly be the most monstrous piece of farcical absurdity that ever made an audience shriek with laughter. And yet I have honestly tried for dramatic effect. I think you could give me a really dry opinion on it; for it will not tickle you, like “Arms & The Man” & “You Never Can Tell,” nor get at your sympathetic side, like Candida (the heroine is not the hero of the piece this time); and you will have to drudge conscientiously through it like a stage carpenter & tell me whether it is a burlesque or not. . . .

GBS

48/ To Ellen Terry

7th March 1897

. . . Does H. I. [Henry Irving] really say that you are in love with me? For that be all his sins forgiven him! I will go to the Lyceum again and write an article proving him to be the greatest Richard [III] ever dreamed of. I am also touched by his refusing to believe that we have never met. No man of feeling could believe such heartlessness. . . .

G. B. S.

49/ To Ellen Terry

8th March 1897

Just time for three lines. Get anyone but me to read that play to you if you dare . What do they know about it? I dont believe all the brutal environment of that little story is real to you; but it is to me. Ted isnt brutal enough for Richard’s outbursts of savagery. Candida —a play which you’ve forgotten, but which you once read —has the part for him. The woman’s part is not so difficult where she has anything to say; but the listening to the court martial—the holding on to the horror through all the laughing—that will be the difficulty. No: I wont rewrite that last act unless you tell me exactly how: I’d rather write you another play.

Mrs Webb and Miss P. T. [Payne-Townshend] want to know whether you would really come to Woking and, if so, whom you’d like to have to meet you—a bishop or a politician or a philosopher. I can be sent up to town if necessary (I fancy I see myself going— just ). They want to watch our embarrassment when we meet.

What ought I to do with that play? That is, if Forbes [Johnston Forbes-Robertson] wont have it?

Take care of your, reviving strength. I presumed on mine the other evening to ride eight or nine miles at wild speed on the bike; and next morning I was again a wreck.

Post hour—ever dearest—

G. B. S.

50/ Ellen Terry to Bernard Shaw

13th March 1897

. . . “Gentleman!” Oh that word! Some day define the term, not for me privately, but for your readers.

To me “Gentleman” has always meant the highest and best. I think it must mean differently to different people. . .

I’m back from Margate. Still not well. Isnt it maddening? And I’m longing to get my work by the throat. When do you go to Woking? Soft Woking, so sweetly smelling. I very nearly wrote and thanked those ladies for their kindness in wishing me to share the rest and quiet of the place. Then I remembered how once before I was idiot enough to simply believe you serious when you put your sad and distracted condition before me and how I so nearly ran round to Fitzroy Square, and actually did get as far as writing you a most heartshaken blithering idiot’s letter. Oh, I’ll never forgive myself nor will you ever forgive me for being so dull.

Only, only I dont in the least mind being laughed at by you ! Oh, did you think I meant Ted when I said I thought T. would make a great effect in Richard? I meant [William] Terriss! He would not understand all the things he had to say (!) but (with the last act disciplined into shape) the Play and he together would be a frantic success. No, Master Bernie, I have not forgotten Candida, and you know it!

It appears to me your Haymarket Play is splendidly cast. (You told me if you remember.) That will be a great success. It must be.

Darling! I havent said that yet! And now I’ll say it again. Good-bye,

Darling!

[Ellen Terry]

51/ To an American stage actress Mrs Richard Mansfield née Beatrice Cameron

26th March 1897

My dear Mrs Mansfield

. . . As you say, I have no faith in anything or anybody. I am savage about “Candida” because it was Richard’s business to have made a good deal out of that play and out of Miss Achurch, instead of letting her make a good deal out of him, giving him nothing for it, and having grievance against him into the bargain. It was a mere matter of management, including the management of me. He should never let himself be associated with a breakdown of any kind. He should establish himself as the maker of success—other people’s success; the founder of reputations—other people’s reputations; the Bank of England of the whole profession. Then he wont have to fight his way to the centre: he will be the centre. But he doesn’t see this: he thinks that anybody can manage but that only a genius can act; whereas the truth is that anybody can act, but that only an able man can manage. . . .