βLANGTRY!β One word heralded the cultural event of 19th-century San Diego. Local ads shouted: βLillie Langtry, The Most Beautiful Woman in the World, will perform at the Louis Opera House May 4 and 5. Tickets on sale May 1 at 10:00 a.m. sharp at Wells Drug Store.β
The Jersey Lily was coming to town! The news incited imaginations and raised eyebrows. They said the British actress never did things by halves. But was half the gossip about her epic love affairs, the Prince of Wales among them, even half true? And was she, as Oscar Wilde claimed, βthe new Helen of Troyβ?
Langtry had a vague local connection. San Diegoβs first mayor, Joshua Bean, served one year in 1850. He tried to sell city hall β illegally β to himself and Cave Couts. He fled north, shortly thereafter. His brother Roy, who ran a saloon, went east to Texas and became judge Roy Bean, βthe law west of the Pecos.β
Bean saw Lillie in Chicago on her first American tour, in 1882. He fell in such bug-eyed, bottomless love he renamed his saloon/courtroom in the coincidentally named Langtry, Texas, the βJersey Lilyβ (the painter got the spelling wrong) and his home across the street βthe Opera House,β in hopes sheβd perform there some day. He even trimmed his porcupine-spiked beard to resemble the Prince of Wales.
Bean wrote her often. She replied at least once with an offer. Since Langtry, Texas, was so barren, she wanted to donate a drinking fountain. The judge regretfully declined. βIf thereβs one thing folks donβt drink in Langtry, itβs water.β
So, Lillie Langtry was coming to San Diego in 1888. What did the worldβs most beautiful woman look like? Could she match her image in paintings, magazines, and penny postcards? And, for those who fretted about such niceties, could the goddess on loan from Mt. Olympus act? Or was she just the latest P.B. (βprofessional beautyβ), famous for gracing Victorian salons, up-market social occasions, and private boudoirs?
Born Ellie Charlotte Le Breton October 13, 1853, on the Isle of Jersey, a British possession off the coast of France in the English Channel, Langtry started out expecting neither fame nor fortune. Her six brothers βlost no opportunity of impressing on me what a miserable handicap it was to be a girl, a silly creature, given to weeping at the slightest provocation.β So she learned to βsteady my nerves, control my tears, and look at things from a boyβs point of view.β
She married Edward βNedβ Langtry when she was 20. She fell in love with his 80-foot yacht, The Red Gauntlet, she said. βTo become mistress of the yacht, I married the ownerβ against her parentsβ wishes.
In April 1877, the Langtrys received an unexpected invitation from Lord and Lady Seabright to βa Sunday evening at home.β The reason: Lord Ranelagh swore she was the most beautiful woman heβd ever seen. She must take part in the London Season.
βLondon society,β Langtry wrote, βhas a high and holy mission to amuse itself. And the only amusement it has yet discovered is that of meeting itself.β Thus, the months-long London Season, during which debutantes came out in high style and sought husbands. The βmarriage marketβ brought βtogether people who know each other, in order that they may say, βHow do you do?β as many times as possible within an hour.β
Young debs changed outfits at least four times a day. The entire wardrobe had to be bought at La Maison Worth in Paris. The cost: around $20,000 β almost half a million dollars by todayβs standards. A deb spent over an hour changing clothes. One of her gravest worries, a wag said, was βwhere to put the ruby.β
That and having to stuff herself into constricting corsets. Beauty at that time meant hourglass waists and a look of complete uselessness for doing any task. Lady Violet Bonham-Carter recalled her coming out: βOvernight, in the twinkling of an eye, one was magically transformed from a child into a grown-up person. Eager as I was to be grown up, I found the rite bewildering and painful.β
Overnight, Lillie Langtry became a goddess. Not to the manner born: corsets baffled her, as did more than one fork in a table setting. She and Ned rode to the Seabrightsβ in a straw-strewn four-wheeler dwarfed by regal state carriages and bewigged coachmen. Nedβs wasp-waist coat barely equaled the servantsβ livery. Lillie swore she looked βlike a sewing maid.β
She was in mourning. Her favorite brother Reggie had passed away. She wore a simple, square-cut dress; no jewels or ornaments (βI had noneβ); no corset or hoops or whalebone stays; no folds to her skirt; auburn hair twisted in a bun.
At the drawing-room entrance, Lady Seabright announced the couple. Feeling βvery un-smart and countrified,β Langtry tried to slither to a chair in a corner. Chatter ceased. Everyone fixed on the newcomer. Some stood on chairs for a better view. Then eager grandees demanded introductions. Lady Seabright led βone distinguished person after another to my corner.β Dozens of invitations came on little cards drawn from slim silver cases. Of the occasion, Oscar Wilde wrote, βMrs. Langtry rose from Jersey like Venus from the foam.β
Overnight, her βunruly twistβ of hair became the βLangtry Knotβ and all the rage. Tiaras and sequins went out of style, as did satin pads, petticoats, and brocaded velvet. Black became the color du jour, which made the rest of the 1877 season look funereal.
βI thought London had gone mad,β she wrote, βfor there can be nothing about me to warrant this extraordinary excitement.β From that moment, wrote an admirer, βeverything she touched became history.β
βWhat woman would not want to be beautiful if she had the chance?β But, Langtry wrote decades later, βLife has taught me that beauty can have its tragic side.
βIt is like great wealth in that respect. It promotes insincerity, and it breeds enemies. A really beautiful woman, like a very rich man, can be the loneliest person in the world. She is lucky if she knows her friends.β
Langtryβs reign lasted two years. Long before, she grew tired of being mobbed and treated as a βbreathing canvas.β In 1879, Sarah Bernhardt became her official rival. Sharing the pedestal with the famous French actress, and eventually having to step down, came as a relief: βIβm so tired,β Langtry wrote, βof being made love to.β Not to mention constantly hearing the expression βutter utter!β
Langtry said of Bernhardt: βlike all great beauty, it did not blaze upon the vision but grew upon acquaintance. And hers being a combination of intelligence of feature and of soul remained with her until the end of her life.β
Langtryβs private life became as legendary as her beauty. When she had an extended affair with the Prince of Wales (later King Edward VII), she was Londonβs first βpublic mistress.β He gave her daily gifts, always quite expensive. He even built the Red House at Bournemouth for their seaside retreat. They say he once complained, βIβve spent enough on you to build a battleship.β To which she replied, βAnd youβve spent enough in me to float one.β
βLillieβs involvements were not consecutive but simultaneous,β writes a biographer. During these and other affairs, Ned looked the other way, went fishing, and took to drink.
When she ceased to be the rage and bills came due for her βcolossal extravagances,β Langtry needed to earn a living. She was accustomed to the spotlight and apparently unhurt by slanderous gossip β βWhat does it matter what people say,β she asked late in life, βso long as they donβt actually know?β Her next step, in hindsight, was obvious, since sheβd been doing it for several years: she took Oscar Wildeβs advice and became an actor.
βWhy shouldnβt I? I donβt mean without hard study, for I should love it as an art and should wish to excel.β After all, she added, [Laura] Nelson makes 100 a night in America, and youβll admit she isnβt overburdened with intellect.β
Except for ancient Greece and the Age of Shakespeare, theater had never been more popular than in mid-to-late 19th-century England. Audiences were so intensely passionate they even broke into riots β as when several London companies raised ticket prices and thousands protested for 67 straight nights, often shutting down a performance.
And they had their idols. When the great actor Henry Irving began touring the United States, fans worried that contact with barbarians abroad would impair the βpurity of his accent.β They much preferred he stayed home and drank βfrom the well of English undefiled.β
Although she didnβt fancy the idea of βexhibiting myself on the boardsβ for people she had charmed by standing still, Langtry chose to βwalk the new and thorny path of the actor.β But what kind? Bernhardt was flamboyant. Slim, and never wearing make-up, she relished grand entrances and could sling-shoot arias of emotions. She made anguish Anguished, they said, and could project her large, dark eyes through the back row. (Bernhardt was just as flamboyant off-stage: she demanded payment in gold and slept in a coffin.)
Her rival, Eleanora Duse, abandoned the βGrand Style.β She acted from inside-out in the βreserved forceβ β also called the βrepressedβ β style of acting that later became realism.
Langtry opted for neither. Only years of study and devotion to craft would determine that. She took lessons from Henrietta Hodson at the poet Alexander Popeβs former villa near Twickenham. Her husband, Henry βLabbyβ Labouchere, was a member of Parliament. Since the legislature was not in session, he became a self-appointed theater critic.
An avid reader, Langtry had no problem memorizing. Her first difficulty was βinflectionβ: how to βget behindβ the meaning and phrasing of someone elseβs words. βThis was such a constant worry, I began to wonder if it could be my native language I was speaking.β
On the few occasions when he watched rehearsals, Labouchere always corrected her. βWhy do you do this?β heβd shout, then gather himself, as if recovering from a blow to his portly mid-section, and enunciate the line syllable by precious syllable.
They said one of Langtryβs best features was her regal bearing. Labouchere didnβt think so. When she tried to move a certain way or adopt a certain pose, she grew stiff and affected. She was βnaturally self-conscious,β she said, but not like this. Now she was not Lillie Langtry. Someone else was in her body; her gestures were stagey, Grand Style imitations; her every step, as if testing for thin ice.
To prove his points, Labouchere waved his arms like swords in grotesque imitations. βConsider yourself a beautiful hound,β they say he told her, βand proceed accordingly.β
All this to play Lady Clara in A Fair Encounter, a two-character, 20-minute comedy, opposite Henrietta Hodson. The piece was just a curtain-raiser for a full-length play to follow. After βmore hard work in a fortnight than I had believed possible,β she debuted at the Twickenham Town Hall, November 19, 1881.
Standing in the wings, clutching a dozen roses, she couldnβt remember a word of her first speech. Instead, βevery criticism of both my host and hostess flitted through my brain.β She minced onto the tiny stage βwithout the vestige of what would happen next.β After Hodson prompted her several times, βI recovered my wits and my words, and the encounter proceeded to a languid finish without further incident.β Throughout the piece, however, Langtry feared mental lapses with βsuch nervous dreadβ she βresolved never again to tempt Fate on the stage.β
Hodson, convinced Langtry had un-tapped talent, talked her back. In fact, Langtry would play Kate Hardcastle in She Stoops to Conquer in London β next month!
In Oliver Goldsmithβs comedy, aristocratic Kate falls for Sir Charles Marlow. Since he can only relax among the lower classes, she disguises herself as a sultry barmaid and wins his heart. Knowing Langtryβs reputation and how she unknowingly βstoopedβ to conquer London society, Hodson cast her perfectly.
They rehearsed on the lawn at Twickenham, pacing back and forth, scripts in hand or safely nearby: Langtry as the two Kates, Hodson as everyone else. βIt was harder work than I had ever thought strong enough for,β she recalled. βIt made me devoutly wish that I was sitting comfortably in the auditorium looking on, rather than taking part in the play.β They paced so much, Labouchere complained they were ruining his lawn.
It was also hard work because Langtry had never been stage-struck. The dream of fame didnβt buoy her spirits. She already knew stardom like few others, ever. βOne advantage,β she wrote later, βI suffered no pang of disillusionment.β
Langtry recalled the grueling rehearsals at Twickenham with a positive eye. They taught her the βrough sideβ of theater, which she called, possibly in Labouchereβs honor, βthe mutton chop of adversity.β They also prepared her for the grind of appearing βon the stage in the same play, speaking the same words, wearing the same gowns at the same time every evening.β
Unlike the society she was leaving, she wanted to become a βworker.β This was the most all-encompassing work sheβd ever found.
On December 15, 1881, Langtry made her London debut at the Haymarket Theatre in a matinee, a one-performance-only benefit gala. Hodson surrounded her with some of Englandβs finest talents and packed the house with Englandβs most famous faces.
This was the Seabrightsβ βSunday evening at homeβ in reverse. Instead of an unknown in a frumpy black dress, everyone at the 900-seat theater, including the Prince of Wales and his wife in the royal box, knew her. βMy best friends, too, with their attendant swains, crowded into the front rows of stalls, all more or less tittering and amused and not at all inclined to take me seriously.β
She was risking, she said, βthe fame of beautyβ for the βfame of achievement.β
But though she acquired some basics of acting, she had not yet βlearned that most necessary accomplishment which only comes by practice: the habit of looking into the auditorium without seeing the audience.β She recognized faces everywhere.
When she went on, Langtry had only one thought: to please Hodson for all her efforts. βI forgot everything else, and it was, doubtless, this feeling which carried me through that performance credibly and without stage-fright.β
Looking back, she realized what an undertaking it was βfor one who had no previous experience of the stage to get through a part like Kate and hold the audience. Happily, the afternoon passed without a hitch.β Bouquets piled at her feet. Things became dreamlike, and she vowed to devote all her energy to βthe pleasurable striving after the unattainableβ β to acting.
When she made the decision, her friend William Gladstone gave her advice: βHe said: βIn your professional career, you will receive attacks, personal and critical, just and unjust. Bear them, never reply, and, above all, never rush into print to explain or defend yourself.β And I never have.β
Next time: Langtry Comes to San Diego.
Beatty, Laura, Lillie Langtry: Manners, Masks and Morals (London, 1999).
Clayton, Merle, βLillie Langtryβs Westward Tilt,β San Diego Magazine (February, 1975).
Dudley, Earnest, The Gilded Lily (London, 1958).
Earnest, Sue Wolfer, An Historical Study of the Growth of the Theatre in Southern California (1848-1894), doctoral dissertation, University of Southern California, 1947.
Hillsdon, Sonia, The Jersey Lilly: The Life and Times of Lillie Langtry (Jersey, 1993).
Langtry, Lillie, The Days I Knew (New York, 1925).
MacMullen, Jerry, βGorgeous Lillie Langtry,β Historical Sketches Appearing in the Sunday Edition of the San Diego Union (San Diego, 1961).
Sichel, Peter, The Jersey Lily (London, 1958).
Articles in San Diego Union, San Diego Bee, San Diego Herald, San Diego Sun, and others.
βLANGTRY!β One word heralded the cultural event of 19th-century San Diego. Local ads shouted: βLillie Langtry, The Most Beautiful Woman in the World, will perform at the Louis Opera House May 4 and 5. Tickets on sale May 1 at 10:00 a.m. sharp at Wells Drug Store.β
The Jersey Lily was coming to town! The news incited imaginations and raised eyebrows. They said the British actress never did things by halves. But was half the gossip about her epic love affairs, the Prince of Wales among them, even half true? And was she, as Oscar Wilde claimed, βthe new Helen of Troyβ?
Langtry had a vague local connection. San Diegoβs first mayor, Joshua Bean, served one year in 1850. He tried to sell city hall β illegally β to himself and Cave Couts. He fled north, shortly thereafter. His brother Roy, who ran a saloon, went east to Texas and became judge Roy Bean, βthe law west of the Pecos.β
Bean saw Lillie in Chicago on her first American tour, in 1882. He fell in such bug-eyed, bottomless love he renamed his saloon/courtroom in the coincidentally named Langtry, Texas, the βJersey Lilyβ (the painter got the spelling wrong) and his home across the street βthe Opera House,β in hopes sheβd perform there some day. He even trimmed his porcupine-spiked beard to resemble the Prince of Wales.
Bean wrote her often. She replied at least once with an offer. Since Langtry, Texas, was so barren, she wanted to donate a drinking fountain. The judge regretfully declined. βIf thereβs one thing folks donβt drink in Langtry, itβs water.β
So, Lillie Langtry was coming to San Diego in 1888. What did the worldβs most beautiful woman look like? Could she match her image in paintings, magazines, and penny postcards? And, for those who fretted about such niceties, could the goddess on loan from Mt. Olympus act? Or was she just the latest P.B. (βprofessional beautyβ), famous for gracing Victorian salons, up-market social occasions, and private boudoirs?
Born Ellie Charlotte Le Breton October 13, 1853, on the Isle of Jersey, a British possession off the coast of France in the English Channel, Langtry started out expecting neither fame nor fortune. Her six brothers βlost no opportunity of impressing on me what a miserable handicap it was to be a girl, a silly creature, given to weeping at the slightest provocation.β So she learned to βsteady my nerves, control my tears, and look at things from a boyβs point of view.β
She married Edward βNedβ Langtry when she was 20. She fell in love with his 80-foot yacht, The Red Gauntlet, she said. βTo become mistress of the yacht, I married the ownerβ against her parentsβ wishes.
In April 1877, the Langtrys received an unexpected invitation from Lord and Lady Seabright to βa Sunday evening at home.β The reason: Lord Ranelagh swore she was the most beautiful woman heβd ever seen. She must take part in the London Season.
βLondon society,β Langtry wrote, βhas a high and holy mission to amuse itself. And the only amusement it has yet discovered is that of meeting itself.β Thus, the months-long London Season, during which debutantes came out in high style and sought husbands. The βmarriage marketβ brought βtogether people who know each other, in order that they may say, βHow do you do?β as many times as possible within an hour.β
Young debs changed outfits at least four times a day. The entire wardrobe had to be bought at La Maison Worth in Paris. The cost: around $20,000 β almost half a million dollars by todayβs standards. A deb spent over an hour changing clothes. One of her gravest worries, a wag said, was βwhere to put the ruby.β
That and having to stuff herself into constricting corsets. Beauty at that time meant hourglass waists and a look of complete uselessness for doing any task. Lady Violet Bonham-Carter recalled her coming out: βOvernight, in the twinkling of an eye, one was magically transformed from a child into a grown-up person. Eager as I was to be grown up, I found the rite bewildering and painful.β
Overnight, Lillie Langtry became a goddess. Not to the manner born: corsets baffled her, as did more than one fork in a table setting. She and Ned rode to the Seabrightsβ in a straw-strewn four-wheeler dwarfed by regal state carriages and bewigged coachmen. Nedβs wasp-waist coat barely equaled the servantsβ livery. Lillie swore she looked βlike a sewing maid.β
She was in mourning. Her favorite brother Reggie had passed away. She wore a simple, square-cut dress; no jewels or ornaments (βI had noneβ); no corset or hoops or whalebone stays; no folds to her skirt; auburn hair twisted in a bun.
At the drawing-room entrance, Lady Seabright announced the couple. Feeling βvery un-smart and countrified,β Langtry tried to slither to a chair in a corner. Chatter ceased. Everyone fixed on the newcomer. Some stood on chairs for a better view. Then eager grandees demanded introductions. Lady Seabright led βone distinguished person after another to my corner.β Dozens of invitations came on little cards drawn from slim silver cases. Of the occasion, Oscar Wilde wrote, βMrs. Langtry rose from Jersey like Venus from the foam.β
Overnight, her βunruly twistβ of hair became the βLangtry Knotβ and all the rage. Tiaras and sequins went out of style, as did satin pads, petticoats, and brocaded velvet. Black became the color du jour, which made the rest of the 1877 season look funereal.
βI thought London had gone mad,β she wrote, βfor there can be nothing about me to warrant this extraordinary excitement.β From that moment, wrote an admirer, βeverything she touched became history.β
βWhat woman would not want to be beautiful if she had the chance?β But, Langtry wrote decades later, βLife has taught me that beauty can have its tragic side.
βIt is like great wealth in that respect. It promotes insincerity, and it breeds enemies. A really beautiful woman, like a very rich man, can be the loneliest person in the world. She is lucky if she knows her friends.β
Langtryβs reign lasted two years. Long before, she grew tired of being mobbed and treated as a βbreathing canvas.β In 1879, Sarah Bernhardt became her official rival. Sharing the pedestal with the famous French actress, and eventually having to step down, came as a relief: βIβm so tired,β Langtry wrote, βof being made love to.β Not to mention constantly hearing the expression βutter utter!β
Langtry said of Bernhardt: βlike all great beauty, it did not blaze upon the vision but grew upon acquaintance. And hers being a combination of intelligence of feature and of soul remained with her until the end of her life.β
Langtryβs private life became as legendary as her beauty. When she had an extended affair with the Prince of Wales (later King Edward VII), she was Londonβs first βpublic mistress.β He gave her daily gifts, always quite expensive. He even built the Red House at Bournemouth for their seaside retreat. They say he once complained, βIβve spent enough on you to build a battleship.β To which she replied, βAnd youβve spent enough in me to float one.β
βLillieβs involvements were not consecutive but simultaneous,β writes a biographer. During these and other affairs, Ned looked the other way, went fishing, and took to drink.
When she ceased to be the rage and bills came due for her βcolossal extravagances,β Langtry needed to earn a living. She was accustomed to the spotlight and apparently unhurt by slanderous gossip β βWhat does it matter what people say,β she asked late in life, βso long as they donβt actually know?β Her next step, in hindsight, was obvious, since sheβd been doing it for several years: she took Oscar Wildeβs advice and became an actor.
βWhy shouldnβt I? I donβt mean without hard study, for I should love it as an art and should wish to excel.β After all, she added, [Laura] Nelson makes 100 a night in America, and youβll admit she isnβt overburdened with intellect.β
Except for ancient Greece and the Age of Shakespeare, theater had never been more popular than in mid-to-late 19th-century England. Audiences were so intensely passionate they even broke into riots β as when several London companies raised ticket prices and thousands protested for 67 straight nights, often shutting down a performance.
And they had their idols. When the great actor Henry Irving began touring the United States, fans worried that contact with barbarians abroad would impair the βpurity of his accent.β They much preferred he stayed home and drank βfrom the well of English undefiled.β
Although she didnβt fancy the idea of βexhibiting myself on the boardsβ for people she had charmed by standing still, Langtry chose to βwalk the new and thorny path of the actor.β But what kind? Bernhardt was flamboyant. Slim, and never wearing make-up, she relished grand entrances and could sling-shoot arias of emotions. She made anguish Anguished, they said, and could project her large, dark eyes through the back row. (Bernhardt was just as flamboyant off-stage: she demanded payment in gold and slept in a coffin.)
Her rival, Eleanora Duse, abandoned the βGrand Style.β She acted from inside-out in the βreserved forceβ β also called the βrepressedβ β style of acting that later became realism.
Langtry opted for neither. Only years of study and devotion to craft would determine that. She took lessons from Henrietta Hodson at the poet Alexander Popeβs former villa near Twickenham. Her husband, Henry βLabbyβ Labouchere, was a member of Parliament. Since the legislature was not in session, he became a self-appointed theater critic.
An avid reader, Langtry had no problem memorizing. Her first difficulty was βinflectionβ: how to βget behindβ the meaning and phrasing of someone elseβs words. βThis was such a constant worry, I began to wonder if it could be my native language I was speaking.β
On the few occasions when he watched rehearsals, Labouchere always corrected her. βWhy do you do this?β heβd shout, then gather himself, as if recovering from a blow to his portly mid-section, and enunciate the line syllable by precious syllable.
They said one of Langtryβs best features was her regal bearing. Labouchere didnβt think so. When she tried to move a certain way or adopt a certain pose, she grew stiff and affected. She was βnaturally self-conscious,β she said, but not like this. Now she was not Lillie Langtry. Someone else was in her body; her gestures were stagey, Grand Style imitations; her every step, as if testing for thin ice.
To prove his points, Labouchere waved his arms like swords in grotesque imitations. βConsider yourself a beautiful hound,β they say he told her, βand proceed accordingly.β
All this to play Lady Clara in A Fair Encounter, a two-character, 20-minute comedy, opposite Henrietta Hodson. The piece was just a curtain-raiser for a full-length play to follow. After βmore hard work in a fortnight than I had believed possible,β she debuted at the Twickenham Town Hall, November 19, 1881.
Standing in the wings, clutching a dozen roses, she couldnβt remember a word of her first speech. Instead, βevery criticism of both my host and hostess flitted through my brain.β She minced onto the tiny stage βwithout the vestige of what would happen next.β After Hodson prompted her several times, βI recovered my wits and my words, and the encounter proceeded to a languid finish without further incident.β Throughout the piece, however, Langtry feared mental lapses with βsuch nervous dreadβ she βresolved never again to tempt Fate on the stage.β
Hodson, convinced Langtry had un-tapped talent, talked her back. In fact, Langtry would play Kate Hardcastle in She Stoops to Conquer in London β next month!
In Oliver Goldsmithβs comedy, aristocratic Kate falls for Sir Charles Marlow. Since he can only relax among the lower classes, she disguises herself as a sultry barmaid and wins his heart. Knowing Langtryβs reputation and how she unknowingly βstoopedβ to conquer London society, Hodson cast her perfectly.
They rehearsed on the lawn at Twickenham, pacing back and forth, scripts in hand or safely nearby: Langtry as the two Kates, Hodson as everyone else. βIt was harder work than I had ever thought strong enough for,β she recalled. βIt made me devoutly wish that I was sitting comfortably in the auditorium looking on, rather than taking part in the play.β They paced so much, Labouchere complained they were ruining his lawn.
It was also hard work because Langtry had never been stage-struck. The dream of fame didnβt buoy her spirits. She already knew stardom like few others, ever. βOne advantage,β she wrote later, βI suffered no pang of disillusionment.β
Langtry recalled the grueling rehearsals at Twickenham with a positive eye. They taught her the βrough sideβ of theater, which she called, possibly in Labouchereβs honor, βthe mutton chop of adversity.β They also prepared her for the grind of appearing βon the stage in the same play, speaking the same words, wearing the same gowns at the same time every evening.β
Unlike the society she was leaving, she wanted to become a βworker.β This was the most all-encompassing work sheβd ever found.
On December 15, 1881, Langtry made her London debut at the Haymarket Theatre in a matinee, a one-performance-only benefit gala. Hodson surrounded her with some of Englandβs finest talents and packed the house with Englandβs most famous faces.
This was the Seabrightsβ βSunday evening at homeβ in reverse. Instead of an unknown in a frumpy black dress, everyone at the 900-seat theater, including the Prince of Wales and his wife in the royal box, knew her. βMy best friends, too, with their attendant swains, crowded into the front rows of stalls, all more or less tittering and amused and not at all inclined to take me seriously.β
She was risking, she said, βthe fame of beautyβ for the βfame of achievement.β
But though she acquired some basics of acting, she had not yet βlearned that most necessary accomplishment which only comes by practice: the habit of looking into the auditorium without seeing the audience.β She recognized faces everywhere.
When she went on, Langtry had only one thought: to please Hodson for all her efforts. βI forgot everything else, and it was, doubtless, this feeling which carried me through that performance credibly and without stage-fright.β
Looking back, she realized what an undertaking it was βfor one who had no previous experience of the stage to get through a part like Kate and hold the audience. Happily, the afternoon passed without a hitch.β Bouquets piled at her feet. Things became dreamlike, and she vowed to devote all her energy to βthe pleasurable striving after the unattainableβ β to acting.
When she made the decision, her friend William Gladstone gave her advice: βHe said: βIn your professional career, you will receive attacks, personal and critical, just and unjust. Bear them, never reply, and, above all, never rush into print to explain or defend yourself.β And I never have.β
Next time: Langtry Comes to San Diego.
Beatty, Laura, Lillie Langtry: Manners, Masks and Morals (London, 1999).
Clayton, Merle, βLillie Langtryβs Westward Tilt,β San Diego Magazine (February, 1975).
Dudley, Earnest, The Gilded Lily (London, 1958).
Earnest, Sue Wolfer, An Historical Study of the Growth of the Theatre in Southern California (1848-1894), doctoral dissertation, University of Southern California, 1947.
Hillsdon, Sonia, The Jersey Lilly: The Life and Times of Lillie Langtry (Jersey, 1993).
Langtry, Lillie, The Days I Knew (New York, 1925).
MacMullen, Jerry, βGorgeous Lillie Langtry,β Historical Sketches Appearing in the Sunday Edition of the San Diego Union (San Diego, 1961).
Sichel, Peter, The Jersey Lily (London, 1958).
Articles in San Diego Union, San Diego Bee, San Diego Herald, San Diego Sun, and others.
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