a theatrical watchdog

from british library flickr 

English actor/manager Cyril Maude wrote a book of theater reminisces in 1928.  Here's what he recalls about working with Sir Charles Wyndham  - and his well-trained sidekick - in the play "Money."

. . . We rehearsed day after day for a month. Wyndham always brought a tiresome little dog to rehearsal. It kept running about all over the place and getting in people's way, and generally annoying everybody. One day (Sir Herbert) Tree, Irene Vanbrugh and I were standing watching the little dog and I said to them, "I suppose you know that little dog has been trained by Lady Wyndham to watch over Sir Charles, and in case he speaks longer to any particular lady than he ought to the little dog gets hold of him by the ankle just to remind him of Lady Wyndham!" They both laughed at the idea, and then Irene looked up sweetly in Sir Herbert's face and said, "And do tell me, Sir Herbert, has Lady Tree trained a little dog to watch over your goings on?" Tree gazed up at the ceiling of Drury Lane Theater and, stroking his locks, said, "Ah—it died from want of sleep!"

-- from Cyril Maude (1928) Lest I forget: being the reminiscences of social & dramatic life in England & America. New York: J. H. Sears & company, inc.. 228-9

theatre luck, courtesy of a black cat and a pug

In her autobiography, the English actress Mrs. Patrick Campbell (Beatrice Stella Tanner) tells how a dreamed black kitten and her her pug's open sympathy helped her confidence.  She was portraying the challenging role of "Paula" in The Second Mrs. Tanqueray, and in great need of self-assurance after a subpar rehearsal:

. . . When I went back to my rooms in Devonshire Street I slipped into bed in misery, knowing that everyone was disappointed in me,. . .Towards morning I fell asleep and had a childish dream. There was a door opposite my bed, and I dreamed it was pushed slowly open, and, up near the top, a little black kitten put in its head. I awoke laughing, and when my two children came into my bed, I told them about my lucky dream. And, indeed, if a black cat walking across the stage, entirely ruining a scene, can be regarded by all actors as a most lucky event, how much more should a black kitten poking its head high up through a door in a dream on the morning of a "first night" augur success.
One other sign of good fortune had also come to me from my pet dog. I had a pug at the time called "She," a devoted creature. One day—while I was studying the part of the play, where "Paula" bursts into a fit of weeping, I could get neither shape nor form into my sobbing. . . After much striving I thought of "breaking up" the sounds by a natural blowing of my nose. This so affected poor "She" that she howled and howled, and I could not stop her for quite a long time—I felt perhaps I might move a human audience. Then came the first night. I put my children to bed, leaving them in the care of the landlady. They had covered me with their hugs and kisses and wishes for success, and remembering the black kitten and the pug's tribute, I went down to the theatre with "She" in my arms, and my nerves strung up with that glorious sense of a battle to fight.

-- Campbell, P. (1922). My life and some letters. New York: Dodd, Mead. 93-94.