A Knight of the Realm

Today marks the hundredth anniversary of the Shakespeare Tercentenary Matinee at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane.

On the afternoon of May 2^nd 1916  a star-studded cast, the pick of the  London stage, assembled to perform Julius Caesar to an audience of over 3000, including the King and Queen.  Caesar had been chosen as the matinee play because of the crowd scenes which enabled huge numbers of actors to take part. It was to be followed by a series of tableaux depicting scenes from other Shakespeare plays.

Inevitably, the assembled company that day contained a very large number of old Bensonians  and Benson himself had been asked to play Caesar - a first for him.  However, the Bensons were rather on edge. At eleven o’clock that morning, three hours before the curtain was due to rise at Drury Lane, FRB had  received a letter offering him the honour of a knighthood.  There had been some hints of this in the preceeding weeks (and even some premature telegrams of congratulation!)  but when nothing 'official' had been heard, it had been dismissed as just a rumour. The letter had  arrived several weeks after it had been posted, having apparently followed the Company round the country from venue to venue, and Benson was anxious that not replying looked ungrateful and indifferent to the honour.

When the Royal Party arrived at the theatre, Arthur Collins, manager of Drury Lane, hastily explained the situation to one of the King’s aides and then, boldly, asked if it would be possible for FRB to be knighted there, at the theatre, after the performance.  

When the aide told him that His Majesty had no sword with him. Collins rushed out to buy one that would fit the occasion, and the King consented to knight Benson in an ante-room to the Royal Box. At the end of the performance FRB, still wearing the bloodstained robes, half-bald cap and ashen make-up of the ghostly Caesar, was dubbed ‘Sir Frank’.

As Constance Benson wrote  in her autobiography: ‘Could any knighthood, except on the field of battle, have been conferred in a more romantic setting? The day of Shakespeare’s tercentenary, among hosts of fellow actors, in historic Drury Lane, the house packed from Gallery to Pit, a day to remember, a scene never to forget!’

As Sir George Alexander, actor-manager and contemporary of Benson, announced the news from the stage the theatre audience erupted in enthusiastic roar: when Alexander led Benson down to the footlights at the end of the tableaux, they were greeted with a standing ovation and a volume of cheering which left FRB visibly moved and -  for once - entirely speechless.

Otho Stuart, Benson’s sometime partner, manager and Company member, had hurried off to Stratford upon Avon as soon as the matinee had started, to oversee the remainder of the Company’s Festival performances.  At dinner, he received Lady Benson’s wire telling him the news and rushed round to the Memorial Theatre where Company were just reaching the end of the second act of Midsummer Night’s Dream.  He went on stage and before he could finish speaking, the announcement  was drowned out by wild cheering and applause from the audience, the actors and the stage hands.

When Sir Frank and Lady Constance arrived at the station the following day, a flower-covered carriage awaited them, pulled by members of the Company. They were drawn through the streets of Stratford, streets lined with well-wishers who threw more flowers into the carriage as it passed, and then finally  taken to the Memorial Theatre where they were to perform All’s Well that Ends Well that evening.

On May 5^th it was Stratford's turn to celebrate with a –by now traditional – ‘Old Bensonian’ matinee of speeches and scenes presented by some of the London ‘names’ who had started their careers with FRB and who never forgot their debt to him.  As Henry Ainley said at a banquet in Benson’s honour a week later: “We have barnacled our souls to his doormat. He can never get rid of us and we can never get rid of him. He is our blessed ‘Pa’ and we love him.’

 from the Souvenir Brochure

This was the high point for Benson's career: things would never be as good again. He and Constance were about to head to the Western Front to do Voluntary work: by September, news would reach them that their son, Eric, had been killed in action.  There would be only one more Bensonian season at Stratford in 1919 before a new broom would sweep in to stir up tradition and Benson would find himself, rootless and anchorless, treading the familiar provincial paths without the financial security which Stratford had provided over the years.

However, for one brief magical moment, Benson stood firmly centre stage, in the capital city which had sometimes seemed indifferent - even hostile - to him, sharing the limelight with the playwright he'd worked tirelessly to serve. Recognised by the establishment, hailed by his peers, revered by those he'd supported and nurtured, loved by an audience which extended the length and breadth of the nation: what other actor of his generation could claim as much?