The Funeral of Ellen Terry

THE CONTRIBUTORS’ CLUB

THE present interest in the letters of Ellen Terry and G. B. Shaw reminds me of an exquisite experience and of the letter which follows, which I wrote to a friend on the occasion of Ellen Terry’s funeral at Small Hythe in Kent.

THE WHITE LION INN TENTERDEN, July 24, 1928

I have just come from Dame Ellen Terry’s funeral and must write you about it while the mood is on, though I despair of doing it justice. Nothing like it could have happened outside of England, or a storybook. I count it as one of the exquisite experiences of my life.

I came on a char-à-bancs early this morning through this beautiful bit of Kent

— a fresh garden, in a sort of glimmering morning atmosphere that you find only in England, before the sun comes out strong. Tenterden alone is worth a letter, but I must get on to Small Hythe, a tiny village of slumbering Tudor farmhouses, only about six in all, and a church, and a tollhouse over the Rother, opposite which is Ellen Terry’s house.

We stood in the road outside the church

— just a handful of people — no crowd at all, and no chattering, you may be sure. A few motor cars in a field were the only sign of modem stir; but presently the camera men arrived and a car full of reporters, and we all chatted in subdued tones. At eleven o’clock the little church bell began to ring cheerfully — not toll, and the vicar and surpliced choir (about five in all) came out to the door, where they stood waiting. The country folk and neighbors and a few distinguished persons wandered into the church or stood in the little lane leading up to the door. Then Dame Ellen’s farmers and haymakers and shepherds lined up on each side of the path. They were in smocks, and carried their rakes, scythes, and shepherd’s crooks at ‘Shoulder Arms.’ Such fine old English faces! One shepherd was a picture out of the National Gallery, with far-gazing blue eyes that had looked into ‘the heart of many thousand mists.’ Two enormous and noble sheep dogs stood by their masters at attention also — Dame Ellen’s dogs, much beloved by her, they told me in the village.

The church is about as big as your apartment, and it was fragrant with lavender and garden flowers. The floor of the aisle was strewn with laurel and bay leaves, and only two simple bouquets stood on each side of the entrance. On the altar were a few lilies and in the homely glass bottles on the window ledges were bunches of sweet peas. Six tall candles indicated the position of the bier. I asked hesitatingly of the verger if I might come in, and he invited me very simply and kindly to do so; but I decided to wait outside until the cortège arrived.

The lane winds from the cottage to the church, and presently along came two tall policemen; then the simple procession, walking slowly up the green path sweet with roses and hay from the fields adjoining. The honorary pallbearers were Gordon Craig (Ellen Terry’s son), the son of ForbesRobertson (who lives near by), and others I do not know about. Bernard Shaw was not there. The coffin was of unpainted pine boards and was covered with a pall of cloth of gold made from one of her old costumes. Her daughter and friends and the neighboring farmers all followed, the women in light dresses and bright hats — and no tears! Such fine faces among them! Several, I felt sure, were old actors. One dignified and somewhat jaunty but shabby old man looked like nothing so much as one of that immortal company in Nicholas Nickleby that stormed the Kentish provinces.

The church service was as simple as could be — just the beautiful prayer-book ritual, and an anthem, ‘Alleluia,’ sung by Lady Maud Warrender, who, they tell me, is a very famous person indeed. She wore a red hat and a bright dress too. After a hymn, ‘On the Resurrection Morning,’ they all came quietly out, placed the casket with its few garden flowers in a waiting carriage, the villagers coming up with little bouquets and laying them along the sides, with a few tears but not much weeping, and in about ten minutes the whole thing was over. On the casket lay only one little wreath of laurel and roses — no profusion of hothouse flowers anywhere about.

I wandered down the lane to her house, a wonderful, ancient-timbered Tudor building of Henry VII’s time, covered with climbing roses and surrounded by a lovely simple garden and bordered by hayfields and meadows full of sheep. At the gate stood the housekeeper to answer any questions, very courteous and quiet. All the windows stood open, and in each was a bowl of garden flowers. I could see everything within the rooms — old, homely, and simple things, the furniture shining from many polishings. On the outside of the garden gate was a card bearing this message, found in Ellen Terry’s copy of The Imitation of Christ: —

The vicar in his surplice stood about talking to the lingering country folk; the bent old toll keeper opened the bridge gates across the Rother for the few cars. I spoke to his daughter, who took the toll. She was weeping. She said, ‘I’ll always feel she’s abate here; she was a wonderful friend to me.’ I came down to Tenterden in the bus next to a woman in a long purple veil who I felt was interesting. She was indeed — an old actress, much reduced, I fancied, who had known Ellen Terry in her youth and adored her. This was an added bit of picturesqueness, and we walked about together and rode back w ith a polite youth who picked us up in his car for a shilling.

I forgot to tell a lovely thing that we discussed on the way back. The sun had not come out until the little funeral procession rounded the lane to the church. Just then it broke gloriously through the clouds, and everyone drew a long breath. ‘It is just as she’d have wanted it to be,’ they said. As I write this, the bells across the way at the church of Tenterden have been pealing — not tolling — for almost half an hour in honor of their illustrious neighbor. It has all been so joyous and sweet! A hay wagon came up the lane as we started back, and I recognized one of the men who had stood at attention outside the church; they lost no time in getting to work again.

I said to the landlord of this old inn, ‘I must write home about Ellen Terry’s funeral while the impression is fresh.’ ‘Oh, quite!’ was the inevitable reply, as he hustled me out this paper and pen. So now I’ll send it off at the post office opposite, after I have had a cup of tea, and get the next bus for Hastings through the drowsy afternoon in these dreaming Kent and Sussex lanes.

P. S. I copied a few directions from a card posted just inside the door of the little church: —

Hearts of oak! No one will ever conquer ‘these English.’ They are too deeply rooted in the essentials of living and the conduct of life.

KATHERTNE MORSE