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[Illustration]




                            SIR HENRY IRVING

                      A RECORD OF OVER TWENTY YEARS
                              AT THE LYCEUM

                                   BY
                         PERCY FITZGERALD, M.A.
                                AUTHOR OF
     “THE LIFE OF GARRICK,” “THE KEMBLES,” “ART OF THE STAGE,” ETC.

                 “As in a theatre the eyes of men,
                  After a well-grac’d actor leaves the stage,
                  Are idly bent on him that enters next.”

                         _A NEW EDITION, REVISED
                       WITH AN ADDITIONAL CHAPTER_

                                 LONDON
                       CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
                                  1895




PREFACE.


One attraction in the life of an actor who has fought his way, and
triumphed over many difficulties, in his struggles to eminence, is
found in the spirit of adventure which nearly always marks his course.
Such a story must be always gratifying and encouraging to read;
and we follow it now with sympathy, now with admiration. Nor is it
without gratification for the actor himself, who must look back with
complacency to troubles surmounted, and to habits of patience and
discipline acquired. In this severe and trying school he may acquire
the practical virtues of resignation, courage, perseverance, and the
art of confronting difficulties. Even at the present moment, when the
stage is presumed to be more flourishing than at any former period, the
element of precariousness is more present than ever. Everything seems a
lottery—theatres, pieces, actors. A theatre has gained a high reputation
with one or two successful pieces: of a sudden the newest play fails—or
“falls,” as the French have it—to be succeeded by another, and yet
another: each failing or “falling,” and seeming to prove that, if nothing
succeeds like success, nothing fails like failure.

There is a spectacle often witnessed in the manufacturing counties,
when we may be standing waiting in one of the great stations, which
leaves a melancholy impression. A huge theatrical train containing
one of the travelling companies comes up and thunders through. Here is
the “Pullman Car,” in which the performers are seen playing cards, or
chatting, or lunching. They have their pets with them—parrots, dogs, etc.
It suggests luxury and prosperity. But this ease is dearly purchased,
for we know that the performer has bound himself in a sort of slavery,
and has consented to forego all the legitimate methods of learning his
profession. He belongs to some peripatetic company, a “travelling”
one, or to one of the innumerable bands who take round a single play,
for years, it may be; and in it he must play his single character over
and over again. Hence, he must learn—nay, is compelled to play—every
character in the same fashion, for he knows no other method. His wage
is modest, but constant; but he can never rise higher, and if he lose
his place it will be difficult for him to find another. It will be
interesting to see what a contrast this system offers to the course of
our cultured actors, who have endured the iron training and discipline of
the old school; and in this view we shall follow the adventurous career
of the popular Henry Irving, admittedly the foremost of our performers.
In his instance we shall see how the struggle, so manfully sustained,
became an invariable _discipline_, slowly forming the character which has
made him an interesting figure on which the eyes of his countrymen rest
with pleasure: and developing, as I have said, the heroic qualities of
patience, resolution, and perseverance.

At the same time, I do not profess to set forth in these pages what
is called “a biography” of the actor. But this seems a fitting moment
for presenting a review of his artistic, laborious work at the Lyceum
Theatre, during a period of over twenty years. Having known the actor
from the very commencement of his career; having seen him in all
his characters; having written contemporaneous criticisms of these
performances—I may be thought to be at least fairly qualified for
undertaking such a task. I possess, moreover, a vast collection of what
may be called _pièces justificatifs_, which includes almost everything
that has been written of him. It will be seen that the tone adopted is
an independent one, and I have freely and fairly discussed Sir Henry
Irving’s merits, both real and imputed. Where praise is undiscriminating,
there is no praise. I have also dealt with many interesting “open
questions,” as they may be called, connected with theatrical management
and the “art of the stage.” I may add that in this new edition I have
added many particulars which will be found interesting, and have brought
the story down to the present moment.

    ATHENÆUM CLUB,
    _July, 1895_.




CONTENTS.


                                                                     PAGE

                               CHAPTER I.

    SCHOOL-DAYS—EARLY TASTE FOR THE STAGE—FIRST APPEARANCE
      (1838-1856)                                                        1

                               CHAPTER II.

    EDINBURGH AND THE SCOTTISH THEATRES (1857-1859)                      6

                              CHAPTER III.

    THE ST. JAMES’S THEATRE—‘HUNTED DOWN’—THE NEW VAUDEVILLE
      THEATRE—‘THE TWO ROSES’ (1866)                                    23

                               CHAPTER IV.

    ‘THE BELLS’—WILLS’S ‘CHARLES I.’ (1871)                             31

                               CHAPTER V.

    ‘HAMLET’—‘OTHELLO’—‘MACBETH’—DEATH OF ‘THE COLONEL’—‘QUEEN
      MARY’ (1874)                                                      38

                               CHAPTER VI.

    THE NEW MANAGER OF THE LYCEUM—MISS TERRY—HIS SYSTEM AND
      ASSISTANTS (1878)                                                 50

                              CHAPTER VII.

    ‘THE MERCHANT OF VENICE’ (1879)                                     64

                              CHAPTER VIII.

    ‘THE CORSICAN BROTHERS’ AND ‘THE CUP’ (1880)                        69

                               CHAPTER IX.

    ‘OTHELLO’ AND ‘THE TWO ROSES’ REVIVED (1881)                        76

                               CHAPTER X.

    ‘ROMEO AND JULIET’—THE BANQUET (1882)                               85

                               CHAPTER XI.

    ‘MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING’—AMERICAN VISIT ARRANGED (1882)             88

                              CHAPTER XII.

    ‘TWELFTH NIGHT’—‘THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD’—OXFORD HONOURS (1884)      96

                              CHAPTER XIII.

    ‘FAUST’—‘WERNER’—‘MACAIRE’—THE ACTOR’S SOCIAL GIFTS (1887)         111

                              CHAPTER XIV.

    ‘MACBETH’—‘THE DEAD HEART’—‘RAVENSWOOD’ (1888)                     119

                               CHAPTER XV.

    ‘KING LEAR’—‘BECKET’ (1892)                                        131

                              CHAPTER XVI.

    ‘KING ARTHUR’—CORPORAL BREWSTER—HONOURS (1893)                     138

                              CHAPTER XVII.

    L’ENVOI                                                            143




SIR HENRY IRVING




CHAPTER I.

1838-1856.

SCHOOL-DAYS—EARLY TASTE FOR THE STAGE—FIRST APPEARANCE.


Henry Irving was born at Keinton, near Glastonbury, in Somersetshire,
on February 6, 1838. His real name was John Henry Brodribb. “The
last place God made” has been the description given of this little
town—Keinton-Mandeville—which lies near Glastonbury. The house in which
the future actor was born is still pointed out—a small two-storied
dwelling, of a poorish sort.

Henry Irving’s mother was Sarah Behenna, a woman of strong, marked
character, who early took the child into Cornwall to her sister
Penberthy. Thus was he among the miners and mining captains in a district
“stern and wild,” where lessons of dogged toil and perseverance were to
be learned. The earliest books he read were his Bible, some old English
ballads, and “Don Quixote,” a character which he had long had a fancy
for performing. In an intimate _causerie_ with his and my friend Joseph
Hatton, he was induced to stray back to these early days of childhood,
when he called up some striking scenes of those old mining associations.
This aunt Penberthy was a resolute, striking woman, firm and even grim of
purpose, and the scenes in which she figured have a strong flavour, as
Mr. Hatton suggests, of Currer Bell’s stories.

He was early sent to a school then directed by Dr. Pinches, in George
Yard, Lombard Street, close by the George and Vulture, which still
happily stands, and where Mr. Pickwick always put up when he was in
town. At this academy, on some exhibition day, he proposed to recite a
rather gruesome piece called “The Uncle,” to which his preceptor strongly
objected, when he substituted the more orthodox “Defence of Hamilton
Rowan,” by Curran.

More than thirty years later, when the boy had become famous, and was
giving a benefit at his own theatre to a veteran player—Mr. Creswick—the
latter, coming before the curtain, related to the audience this little
anecdote. “I was once,” he said, “invited to hear some schoolboys recite
speeches previous to their breaking up for the holidays. The schoolmaster
was an old friend of mine, whom I very much respected. The room was
filled from wall to wall with the parents and friends of the pupils. I
was not much entertained with the first part: I must confess that I was
a little bored; but suddenly there came out a lad who at once struck me
as being rather uncommon, and he riveted my attention. The performance,
I think, was a scene from ‘Ion,’ in which he played Adrastus. I well saw
that he left his schoolfellows a long way behind. That schoolboy was
Master Henry Irving. Seeing that he had dramatic aptitude, I gave him
a word of encouragement, perhaps the first he had ever received, and
certainly the first he had received from one in the dramatic profession,
to which he is now a distinguished honour.” The late Solicitor-General,
Sir Edward Clarke, who was sent to the school after Irving left it,
long after made humorous complaint at a Theatrical Fund dinner that, on
exhibiting his own powers at the same school, he used to be regularly
told, “Very good—very fair; but you should have heard Irving do it.”

On leaving the school, it was determined that the future actor should
adopt a commercial career, and he was placed in the offices of Messrs.
Thacker, “Indian merchants in Newgate Street.” He was then about
fourteen, and remained in the house four years.

But his eyes were even now straying from his desk to the stage. He was
constantly reading plays and poetry, and seeking opportunity for practice
in the art in which he felt he was destined so to excel.

At this time, about 1853, the late Mr. Phelps’ intelligent efforts, and
the admirable style in which he presented classical dramas, excited
abundant interest and even enthusiasm among young men. Many now look back
with pleasure to their pilgrimages to the far-off Sadler’s Wells Theatre,
where such an intellectual entertainment was provided and sustained with
admirable taste for many seasons. What was called “The Elocution Class”
was one of the results. It was directed by Mr. Henry Thomas with much
intelligence; his system was to encourage his pupils to recite pieces
of their own selection, on which the criticisms of the listeners were
freely given and invited. “On one evening,” says one of Irving’s old
class-fellows, “a youth presented himself as a new member. He was rather
tall for his age, dressed in a black suit, with what is called a round
jacket, and a deep white linen collar turned over it. His face was very
handsome, with a mass of black hair, and eyes bright and flashing with
intelligence. He was called on for his first recitation, and fairly
electrified the audience with an unusual display of elocutionary and
dramatic intensity.” The new member was Henry Irving. By-and-by the
elocution class was moved to the Sussex Hall, in Leadenhall Street, when
something more ambitious was attempted in the shape of regular dramatic
performances. The pieces were chiefly farces, such as ‘Boots at the
Swan,’ or ‘Little Toddlekins,’ though more serious plays were performed.
It was remarked that the young performer was invariably perfect in his
“words.” In spite of his youth he gave great effect to such characters as
Wilford in ‘The Iron Chest,’ and others of a melodramatic cast. A still
more ambitious effort was Tobin’s ‘Honeymoon,’ given at the little Soho
Theatre with full accompaniments of scenery, dresses, and decoration; and
here the young aspirant won great applause.

It was to be expected that this success and these associations should
more and more encourage him in his desire of adopting a profession to
which he felt irresistibly drawn. He was, of course, a visitor to the
theatres, and still recalls the extraordinary impression left upon him
by Mr. Phelps’ performances. In everyone’s experience is found one of
these “epoch-making” incidents, which have an influence we are often
scarcely conscious of; and every thinking person knows the value of such
“turning-points” in music or literature. The young man’s taste was no
caprice, or stage-struck fancy; he tried his powers deliberately; and
before going to see a play would exercise himself in regular study of its
parts, attempting to lay out the action, business, etc., according to
his ideas. Many years later in America, he said that when he was a youth
he never went to a theatre except to see a Shakespearian play—except, in
fact, for instruction.

At Sadler’s Wells there was a painstaking actor called Hoskins, who was
attracted by the young fellow’s enthusiasm and conscientious spirit, and
who agreed to give him a few lessons in his art. These were fixed for
eight o’clock in the morning, so as not to interfere with commercial
business. Hoskins introduced him to Phelps, who listened to his efforts
with some of that gnarled impassibility which was characteristic of him;
then, in his blunt, good-natured way, gave him this advice: “Young man,
have nothing to do with the stage; _it is a bad profession_!”

Such, indeed, is the kindest counsel that could be given to nine-tenths
of the postulants of our time. Their wish is to “go on the stage”—a
different thing from the wish to become an actor. The manager had
nothing before him to show that there were here present the necessary
gifts of perseverance, study, and intelligence. Struck, however, by his
earnestness, he proposed to give him an engagement of a very trifling
kind, which the young man, after deliberation, declined, on the ground
that it would not afford him opportunities of thoroughly learning his
profession. The good-natured Hoskins, who was himself leaving the theatre
to go to Australia, gave him a letter to a manager, with these words:
“You will go on the stage; when you want an engagement present that
letter, and you will obtain one.” He, indeed, tried to induce him to join
him on his tours, but the offer was declined.

His mother, however, could not reconcile herself to his taking so
serious a step as “going on the stage.” “I used frequently,” writes his
companion at the elocution class, “to visit at her house to rehearse
the scenes in which John and I were to act together. I remember her as
being rather tall, somewhat stately, and very gentle. On one occasion she
begged me very earnestly to dissuade him from thinking of the stage as a
profession; and having read much of the vicissitudes of actors’ lives,
their hardships, and the precariousness of their work, I did my best to
impress this view upon him.” But it is ever idle thus striving to hinder
a child’s purpose when it has been deliberately adopted.

Having come to this resolution, he applied earnestly to the task of
preparing himself for his profession. He learned a vast number of
characters; studied, and practised; even took lessons in fencing,
attending twice a week at a school-of-arms in Chancery Lane. This
accomplishment, often thought trifling, was once an important branch of
an actor’s education; it supplies an elegance of movement and bearing.

“The die being now cast,” according to the accepted expression, John
Brodribb, who had now become Henry Irving, bade adieu to his desk, and
bethinking him of the Hoskins letter, applied to Mr. Davis, a country
manager, who had just completed the building of a new theatre at
Sunderland. With a slender stock of money he set off for that town. By
an odd coincidence the name of the new house was the Lyceum. The play
appointed was ‘Richelieu,’ and the opening night was fixed for September
29, 1856. The young actor was cast for the part of the Duke of Orleans,
and had to speak the opening words of the piece.

Mr. Alfred Davis, a well-known provincial actor, and son of the northern
manager, used often to recall the circumstances attending Irving’s “first
appearance on any stage.” “The new theatre,” he says, “was opened in
September, 1856, and on the 29th of that month we started. For months
previously a small army of scenic artists had been at work. Carpenters,
property-makers, and, of course, _costumiers_, had been working night and
day, and everything was, as far as could be foreseen, ready and perfect.
Among the names of a carefully-selected _corps dramatique_ were those of
our old friend Sam Johnson (now of the Lyceum Theatre, London); George
Orvell (real name, Frederick Kempster); Miss Ely Loveday (sister of H.
J. Loveday, the present genial and much-respected stage-manager of the
Lyceum), afterwards married to Mr. Kempster; and a youthful novice, just
eighteen, called Henry Irving. Making his first appearance, he spoke the
first word in the first piece (played for the first time in the town, I
believe), on the first or opening night of the new theatre. The words
of the speech itself, ‘_Here’s to our enterprise!_’ had in them almost
a prophetic tone of aspiration and success. So busy was I in front and
behind the scenes, that I was barely able to reach my place on the stage
in time for the rising of the curtain. I kept my back to the audience
till my cue to speak was given, all the while buttoning up, tying, and
finishing my dressing generally, so that scant attention would be given
to others. But even under these circumstances I was compelled to notice,
and with perfect appreciation, the great and most minute care which had
been bestowed by our aspirant on the completion of his costume. In those
days managers provided the mere dress. Accessories, or ‘properties’ as
they were called, were found by every actor. Henry Irving was, from his
splendid white hat and feathers to the tips of his shoes, a perfect
picture; and, no doubt, had borrowed his authority from some historical
picture of the Louis XIII. period.”

“The impersonation,” as the neophyte related it long afterwards, “was
not a success. I was nervous, and suffered from stage fright. My second
appearance as Cleomenes in ‘A Winter’s Tale’ was even more disheartening,
as in Act V. I entirely forgot my lines, and abruptly quitted the scene,
putting out all the other actors. My manager, however, put down my
failure to right causes, and instead of dispensing with my services, gave
me some strong and practical advice.”

All which is dramatic enough, and gives us a glimpse of the good old
provincial stage life. That touch of encouragement instead of dismissal
is significant of the fair, honest system which then obtained in this
useful training school.




CHAPTER II.

1857-1859.

EDINBURGH AND THE SCOTTISH THEATRES.


At the Sunderland Theatre he remained only four months, and though the
manager pressed him to stay with him, the young actor felt that here
he had not the opportunities he desired. He accordingly accepted an
engagement at the Edinburgh Theatre, which began on February 9, 1857.

Among the faces that used to be familiar at any “first night” at the
Lyceum were those of Mr. Robert Wyndham and his wife. There is something
romantic in the thought that these guests of the London manager and
actor in the height of his success and prosperity should have been the
early patrons of the unfriended provincial player. Mr. Wyndham was one
of the successors of that sagacious Murray to whom the Edinburgh stage
owes so much that is respectable. Here our actor remained for two years
and a half, enjoying the benefits of that admirable, useful discipline,
by which alone a knowledge of acting is to be acquired—viz., a varied
practice in a vast round of characters. This experience, though acquired
in a hurried and perfunctory fashion, is of enormous value in the way
of training. The player is thus introduced to every shade and form of
character, and can practise himself in all the methods of expression.
Now that provincial theatres are abolished, and have given place to the
“travelling companies,” the actor has few opportunities of learning his
business, and one result is a “thinness” or meagreness of interpretation.
In this Edinburgh school our actor performed “a round,” as it is called,
of no fewer than three hundred and fifty characters! This seems amazing.
It is, in truth, an extraordinary list, ranging over every sort of minor
character.

He here also enjoyed opportunities of performing with famous “stars” who
came round the provinces, Miss Ellen Faucit, Mrs. Stirling, Vandenhoff,
Charles Dillon, Madame Celeste, “Ben” Webster, Robson, the facetious
Wright, the buoyant Charles Mathews, his life-long friend Toole, of
“incompressible humour,” and the American, Miss Cushman.[1] This, it is
clear, was a period of useful drudgery, but in it he found his account.
The company visited various Scotch towns, which the actor has described
pleasantly enough in what might seem an extract from one of the old
theatrical memoirs. He had always a vein of quiet humour, the more
agreeable because it is unpretending and without effort.

It would be difficult to give an idea of the prodigious labour which this
earnest, resolute young man underwent while struggling to “learn his
profession” in the most thorough way. The iron discipline of the theatre
favoured his efforts, and its calls on the exertions of the actor
seem, nowadays, truly extraordinary. In another laborious profession,
the office of “deviling” for a counsel in full practice, which entails
painful gratuitous drudgery, is welcomed as a privilege by any young man
who wishes to rise. A few of these Edinburgh bills are now before me,
and present nights of singularly hard work for so young a man. We may
wonder, too, at the audience which could have stomach for so lengthy
a programme. Thus, one night, January 7, 1858, when the pantomime was
running, the performances began with the pantomime of ‘Little Bo-Peep,’
in which we find our hero as Scruncher, “the Captain of the Wolves.”
After the pantomime came ‘The Middy Ashore,’ in which he was Tonnish,
“an exquisite,” concluding with ‘The Wandering Boys,’ in which we again
find him as Gregoire, “confidential servant to the Countess Croissey.”
We find him nearly always in three pieces of a night, and he seems, in
pieces of a light sort, to have been “cast” for the gentlemanly captain
of the “walking” sort; in more serious ones, for the melodramatic and
dignified characters. In ‘Nicholas Nickleby’ he was the hero; and also
Jack Wind, the boatswain, the chief mutineer, in ‘Robinson Crusoe.’
In the course of this season Toole and Miss Louisa Keeley came to the
theatre, when Irving opened the night as the Marquis de Cevennes in ‘Plot
and Passion,’ next appearing in the “laughable farce” (and it _is_ one,
albeit old-fashioned), ‘The Loan of a Lover,’ in which he was Amersfort,
and finally playing Leeford, “Brownlow’s nephew,” in ‘Oliver Twist.’

The young man, full of hope and resolution, went cheerfully through
these labours, though “my name,” as he himself tells us, “continued
to occupy a useful but obscure position in the playbill, and nothing
occurred to suggest to the manager the propriety of doubling my salary,
though he took care to assure me I was ‘made to rise.’” This salary was
the modest one of thirty shillings a week, then the usual one for what
was termed “juvenile lead.” The old classification, “walking lady,”
“singing chambermaid,” “heavy father,” etc., will have soon altogether
disappeared, simply because the round of characters that engendered it
has disappeared. Now the manager selects, at his goodwill and pleasure,
anybody, in or out of his company, who he thinks will best suit the
character.

As Mr. Wyndham informs me: “During the short period he was under our
management, both Mrs. Wyndham and myself took a most lively interest in
his promotion, for he was always perfect, and any character, however
small, he might have been called upon to represent, was in itself a
study; and I believe he would have sacrificed a week’s salary—a small
affair, by the way—to exactly look like the character he was about to
portray.”

Of these old Edinburgh days Irving always thought fondly. At the Scottish
capital he is now welcomed with an affectionate sympathy; and the various
intellectual societies of the city—Philosophical and others—are ever glad
to receive instruction and entertainment from his lips. In November,
1891, when he was visiting the Students’ Union Dramatic Society, he
told them that some thirty years before “he was member of a University
there—the old Theatre Royal. There he had studied for two years and a
half his beautiful art, and there he learnt the lesson that they would
all learn, that—

    “‘Deep the oak must sink its roots in earth obscure,
    That hopes to lift its branches to the sky.’”

In some of his later speeches “of occasion” he has scattered little
autobiographical touches that are not without interest. On one occasion
he recalled how he was once summoned over to Dublin to supply the place
of another actor at the Queen’s Theatre, then under the direction of
two “manager-twins,” the Brothers Webb. The Queen’s was but a small
house, conducted on old-fashioned principles, and had a rather turbulent
audience. When the actor made his appearance he was, to his astonishment,
greeted with yells, general anger, and disapprobation. This was to be his
reception throughout the whole engagement, which was luckily not a long
one. He, however, stuck gallantly to his post, and sustained his part
with courage. He described the manager as perpetually making “alarums and
excursions” in front of the curtain to expostulate with the audience.
These “Brothers Webb, who had found their twinship profitable in playing
the ‘Dromios,’ were worthy actors enough, and much respected in their
profession; they had that marked individuality of character now so rarely
found on the boards. Having discovered, at last, what his offence was,
viz., the taking the place of a dismissed actor—an unconscious exercise
of a form of ‘land-grabbing’—his placid good-humour gradually made its
way, and before the close of the engagement he had, according to the
correct theatrical phrase, ‘won golden opinions.’”

At the close of the season—in May, 1859—the Edinburgh company set out
on its travels, visiting various Scotch provincial towns. During
this peregrination, when at Dundee, the idea occurred to him and a
brother-player of venturing “a reading” in the neighbouring town of
Linlithgow. This adventure he has himself related in print. Our actor has
an agreeable vein of narrative, marked by a quiet, rather placid humour,
which is also found in his occasional speeches. The charm and secret of
this is the absence of affectation or pretence; a talisman ever certain
to win listeners and readers. Taking his friend, who was Mr. Saker, into
his confidence, he proceeded to arrange the scheme. But he shall tell the
story himself:

“I had been about two years upon the stage, and was fulfilling my
first engagement at Edinburgh. Like all young men, I was full of hope.
It happened to be vacation time—‘preaching week,’ as it is called in
Scotland—and it struck me that I might turn my leisure to account by
giving a reading. I imparted this project to another member of the
company, who entered into it with enthusiasm. He, too, was young and
ambitious. I promised him half the profits.

“Having arranged the financial details, we came to the secondary
question—Where was the reading to be given? It would scarcely do in
Edinburgh; the public there had too many other matters to think about.
Linlithgow was a likely place. My friend accordingly paid several visits
to Linlithgow, engaged the town-hall, ordered the posters, and came back
every time full of confidence. Meanwhile, I was absorbed in the ‘Lady
of Lyons,’ which, being the play that most charmed the fancy of a young
actor, I had decided to read; and day after day, perched on Arthur’s
Seat, I worked myself into a romantic fever. The day came, and we arrived
at Linlithgow in high spirits. I felt a thrill of pride at seeing my
name for the first time in big capitals on the posters, which announced
that at ‘eight o’clock precisely Mr. Henry Irving would read the “Lady
of Lyons.”’ At the hotel we eagerly questioned our waiter as to the
probability of there being a great rush. He pondered some time; but we
could get no other answer out of him than ‘Nane can tell.’ ‘Did he think
there would be fifty people there?’ ‘_Nane can tell._’

“Eight o’clock drew near, and we sallied out to survey the scene of
operations. The crowd had not yet begun to collect in front of the
town-hall, and the man who had undertaken to be there with the key was
not visible. As it was getting late, we went in search of the doorkeeper.
He was quietly reposing in the bosom of his family, and to our
remonstrance replied, ‘Ou, ay, the reading! I forgot all aboot it.’ This
was not inspiriting.

“The door was opened, the gas was lighted, and my manager made the
most elaborate preparations for taking the money. While he was thus
energetically applying himself to business, I was strolling like a casual
spectator on the other side of the street, taking some last feverish
glances at the play, and anxiously watching for the first symptoms of
‘the rush.’

“The time wore on. The town clock struck eight, and still there was no
sign of ‘the rush.’ Half-past eight, and not a soul to be seen—not even a
small boy! I could not read the ‘Lady of Lyons’ to an audience consisting
of the manager, with a face as long as two tragedies, so there was
nothing for it but to beat a retreat. No one came out even to witness our
discomfiture. Linlithgow could not have taken the trouble to study the
posters, which now seemed such horrid mockeries in our eyes.

“We managed to scrape together enough money to pay the expenses, which
operation was a sore trial to my speculative manager, and a pretty severe
tax upon the emoluments of the ‘juvenile lead.’ We returned to Edinburgh
the same night, and on the journey, by way of showing that I was not at
all cast down, I favoured my manager with selections from the play, which
he good-humouredly tolerated.

“This incident was vividly revived last year, as I passed through
Linlithgow on my way from Edinburgh to Glasgow, in which cities I gave,
in conjunction with my friend Toole, two readings on behalf of the
sufferers by the bank failure, which produced a large sum of money. My
companion in the Linlithgow expedition was Mr. Edward Saker—now one of
the most popular managers in the provinces.”

In March, 1859, we find our actor at the old Surrey Theatre, playing
under Mr. Shepherd and Mr. Creswick, for a “grand week,” so it was
announced, “of Shakespeare, and first-class pieces; supported by Miss
Elsworthy and Mr. Creswick, whose immense success during the past week
has been _rapturously endorsed_ by crowded and enthusiastic audiences.”
“Rapturously endorsed” is good. In ‘Macbeth’ we find Irving fitted with
the modest part of Siward, and this only for the first three nights in
the week. There was an after-piece, in which he had no part, and ‘Money’
was given on the other nights.

But he had now determined to quit Edinburgh, lured by the prospect of
“a London engagement,” an _ignis fatuus_ for many an actor, who is too
soon to find out that a London engagement does not mean exactly a London
success. In 1859 he made his farewell appearance in ‘Claude Melnotte,’
and was received in very cordial fashion. As he told the people of
Glasgow many years later, he ever thought gratefully of the Scotch, as
they were the first who gave him encouragement.

Once when engaged at some country theatre in Scotland the company were
playing in ‘Cramond Brig,’ a good sound old melodrama—of excellent
humour, too. Years later, when the prosperous manager and actor was
directing the Lyceum, some of the audience were surprised to find him
disinterring this ancient drama, and placing it at the opening of the
night’s performance. But I fancy it was the associations of this little
adventure that had given it a corner in his memory, and secured for it a
sort of vitality. Thus he tells the story:

    “When the play was being rehearsed, our jolly manager
    said, ‘Now, boys, I shall stand a real supper to-night; no
    paste-board and parsley, but a real sheep’s head, and a little
    drop of real Scotch.’ A tumult of applause.

    “The manager was as good as his word, for at night there was
    a real head well equipped with turnips and carrots, and the
    ‘drop of real Scotch.’ The ‘neighbour’s bairn,’ an important
    character in the scene, came in and took her seat beside the
    miller’s chair. She was a pretty, sad-eyed, intelligent child
    of some nine years old. In the course of the meal, when Jock
    Howison was freely passing the whisky, she leaned over to
    him and said, ‘Please, will you give me a little?’ He looked
    surprised. She was so earnest in her request, that I whispered
    to her, ‘To-morrow, perhaps, if you want it very much, you
    shall have a thimbleful.’

    “To-morrow night came, and, as the piece was going on, to my
    amusement, she produced from the pocket of her little plaid
    frock a bright piece of brass, and held it out to me. I said,
    ‘What’s this?’ ‘A thimble, sir.’ ‘But what am I to do with it?’
    ‘You said that you would give me a thimbleful of whisky if I
    wanted it, and I do want it.’

    “This was said so naturally, that the audience laughed and
    applauded. I looked over to the miller, and found him with
    the butt-end of his knife and fork on the table, and his eyes
    wide open, gazing at us in astonishment. However, we were both
    experienced enough to pass off this unrehearsed effect as a
    part of the piece. I filled the thimble, and the child took
    it back carefully to her little ‘creepy’ stool beside the
    miller. I watched her, and presently saw her turn her back to
    the audience and pour it into a little halfpenny tin snuff-box.
    She covered the box with a bit of paper, and screwed on the
    lid, thus making the box pretty watertight, and put it into her
    pocket.

    “When the curtain fell, our manager came forward and patted the
    child’s head. ‘Why, my little girl,’ said he, ‘you are quite a
    genius. Your gag is the best thing in the piece. We must have
    it in every night. But, my child, you mustn’t drink the whisky.
    No, no! that would never do.’

    “‘Oh, sir, indeed I won’t; I give you my word I won’t!’ she
    said quite earnestly, and ran to her dressing-room.

    “‘Cramond Brig’ had an unprecedented run of six nights, and the
    little lady always got her thimbleful of whisky, and her round
    of applause. And each time I noticed that she corked up the
    former safely in the snuff-box. I was curious as to what she
    could possibly want with the spirit, and who she was, and where
    she came from. I asked her, but she seemed so unwilling to
    tell, and turned so red, that I did not press her; but I found
    out that it was the old story—no mother, and a drunken father.

    “I took a fancy to the little thing, and wished to fathom
    her secret, for a secret I felt sure there was. After the
    performance, I saw my little body come out. Poor little child!
    there was no mother or brother to see her to her home. She
    hurried up the street, and turning into the poorest quarter of
    the town, entered the common stair of a tumbledown old house. I
    followed, feeling my way as best I could. She went up and up,
    till in the very top flat she entered a little room. A handful
    of fire glimmering in the grate revealed a sickly boy, some two
    years her junior, who crawled towards her from where he was
    lying before the fire.

    “‘Cissy, I’m glad you’re home,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d never
    come.’

    “She put her arms round him, laid the poor little head on her
    thin shoulder, and took him over to the fire again, trying to
    comfort him as she went.

    “The girl leaned over and put her arms round him, and kissed
    him; she then put her hand into her pocket and took out the
    snuff-box.

    “‘Oh, Willie, I wish we had more, so that it might cure the
    pain.’

    “Having lighted a dip candle, she rubbed the child’s rheumatic
    shoulder with the few drops of spirit, and then covered up the
    little thin body, and, sitting before the fire, took the boy’s
    head on her knee, and began to sing him to sleep.

    “I took another look into the room through the half-open door;
    my foot creaked; the frightened eyes met mine. I put my finger
    on my lips and crept away.

    “But as I began to descend the stair I met a drunken man
    ascending—slipping and stumbling as he came. He slipped and
    stumbled by me, and entered the room. I followed to the landing
    unnoticed, and stood in the dark shadow of the half-open door.

    “A hoarse, brutal voice growled: ‘What are you doing there?—get
    up!’

    “‘I can’t, father; Willie’s head is on my knees.’

    “‘Get up!’

    “The girl bowed her head lower and lower.

    “I could not bear it. I entered the room. The brute was on
    the bed already in his besotted sleep. The child stole up to
    me, and in a half-frightened whisper said, ‘Oh, sir, oughtn’t
    people to keep secrets, if they know them? I think they ought,
    if they are other people’s.’ This with the dignity of a queen.

    “I could not gainsay her, so I said as gravely as I could to
    the little woman, ‘The secret shall be kept, but you must ask
    me if you want anything.’ She bent over, suddenly kissed my
    hand, and I went down the stair.

    “The next night she was shy in coming for the whisky, and I
    took care that she had good measure.

    “The last night of our long run of six nights she looked more
    happy than I had ever seen her. When she came for the whisky
    she held out the thimble, and whispered to me with her poor,
    pale lips trembling, ‘You need only pretend to-night.’

    “‘Why?’ I whispered.

    “‘Because—he doesn’t want it now. He’s dead.’”

The London engagement was offered him by the late Mr. A. Harris, then
managing the Princess’s Theatre. It was for three years. But when he
arrived he found that the only opening given him was a part of a few
lines in a play called ‘Ivy Hall.’ As this meagre employment promised
neither improvement nor fame, he went to the manager and begged his
release. This he obtained, and courageously quitted London, determined
not to return until he could claim a respectable and conspicuous
position. Thus we find him, with perhaps a heavy heart, once more
returning to the provinces, just as Mrs. Siddons had to return to the
same form of drudgery after her failure at Drury Lane. Before leaving
London, that wholesome taste for appealing to the appreciation of the
judicious and intellectual portion of the community, which has always
been “a note” of his character, prompted him to give two readings at the
old palace of Crosby Hall. In this he was encouraged by City friends and
old companions, who had faith in his powers. It was something to make
this exhibition under the roof-tree of that interesting old pile, not
yet “restored”; and the _locale_, we may imagine, was in harmony with
his own refined tastes. He read the ‘Lady of Lyons’ on December 19,
1859, and the somewhat artificial ‘Virginius’ on February 1, 1860. These
performances were received with favour, and were pronounced by the public
critics to show scholarly feeling and correct taste. “His conception was
good, his delivery clear and effective, and there was a gentlemanly ease
and grace in his manners which is exceedingly pleasing to an audience.”
One observer with some prescience detected “the indefinite something
which incontestably and instantaneously shows that the fire of genius
is present.” Another pronounced “that he was likely to make a name for
himself.” At the last scenes between the hero and Pauline, the listeners
were much affected, and “in some parts of the room sobs were heard.”
Another judge opined that “if he attempted a wider sphere of action,” he
would have a most successful career. This “wider sphere of action” he has
since “attempted,” but at that moment his eyes were strained, wearily
enough, looking for it. It lay before him in the weary round of work in
the provinces, to which, as we have seen, he had now to return.

I have before me a curious little criticism of this performance taken
from an old and long defunct journal that bore the name of _The Players_,
which will now be read with a curious interest:

“We all know the ‘Dramatic Reading.’ We have all—at least, all who
have served their apprenticeship to theatrical amusements—suffered
the terrible infliction of the Dramatic Reader; but then with equal
certainty we have all answered to the next gentleman’s call of a ‘Night
with Shakespeare, with Readings, etc.,’ and have again undergone the
insufferable bore of hearing our dear old poet murdered by the aspiring
genius. Thinking somewhat as we have above written the other evening,
we wended our editorial way towards Crosby Hall, where our informant
‘circular’ assured us Mr. Henry Irving was about to read Bulwer’s ‘Lady
of Lyons.’ We asked ourselves, Who is Mr. Henry Irving? and memory,
rushing to some hidden cave in our mental structure, answered—Henry
Irving, oh! yes, to be sure; how stupid! We at once recollected that Mr.
Irving was a gentleman of considerable talent, and a great favourite in
the provinces. We have often seen his name honourably figuring in the
columns of our provincial contemporaries. Now, we were most agreeably
disappointed on this present occasion; for instead of finding the
usual conventional respectable-looking ‘mediocrity,’ we were gratified
by hearing the poetical ‘Lady of Lyons’ poetically read by a most
accomplished elocutionist, who gave us not only words, but that finer
indefinite something which proves incontestably and instantaneously that
the fire of genius is present in the artist. It would be out of place
now to speak of the merits of the piece selected by this gentleman,
but the merits appeared as striking and the demerits as little so as
on any occasion of the kind in our recollection. Claude’s picture of
his imaginary home was given with such poetic feeling as to elicit a
loud burst of approval from his hearers, as also many other passages
occurring in the play. The characters were well marked, especially
Beauseant and Madame Deschappelles, whilst the little part of Glavis
was very pleasingly given. Mr. Irving was frequently interrupted by the
applause of his numerous and delighted audience, and at the conclusion
was unanimously called to receive their marks of approval.” It was at
this interesting performance that Mr. Toole, as he tells us, first met
his friend.

A very monotonous feature in too many of the dramatic memoirs is found
in the record of dates, engagements, and performances, which in many
instances are the essence of the whole. They are uninteresting to anyone
save perhaps to the hero himself. So in this record we shall summarize
such details as much as possible. Our actor went straight to Glasgow,
to Glover’s Theatre, whence he passed to the Theatre Royal, Manchester,
where he remained for some four years, till June, 1865. Here he met fresh
histrionic friends, who “came round” the circuit in succession—such as
Edwin Booth, Sothern, Charles Mathews, G.V. Brooke, Miss Heath, and
that versatile actor and dramatist and manager, Dion Boucicault. Here
he gradually gained a position of respect—respect for his unfailing
assiduity and scrupulous conscientiousness, qualities which the public
is never slow to note. In many points he offers a suggestion of Dickens,
as in his purpose of doing whatever he attempted in the very best way he
could. There are other points, too, in which the actor strongly recalls
the novelist; the sympathetic interest in all about him, the absence
of affectation combined with great talents, the aptitude for practical
business, the knowledge of character, the precious art of making friends,
and the being unspoiled by good fortune. Years later he recalled with
grateful pleasure the encouragement he had received here. And his
language is touching and betokens a sympathetic heart:

“I lived here for five years, and wherever I look—to the right or to the
left, to the north or the south—I always find some remembrance, some
memento of those five years. But there is one association connected with
my life here that probably is unknown to but a few in this room. That is
an association with a friend, which had much to do, I believe, with the
future course of our two lives. When I tell you that for months and years
we fought together and worked together to the best of our power, and with
the means we had then, to give effect to the art we were practising;
when I tell you we dreamt of what might be done, but was not then done,
and patted each other on the back and said, ‘Well, old fellow, perhaps
the day will come when you may have a little more than sixpence in your
pocket;’ when I tell you that that man was well known to you, and that
his name was Calvert, you will understand the nature of my associations
with Manchester. I have no doubt that you will be able to trace in my
own career, and the success I have had, the benefit of the communion I
had with him. When I was in Manchester I had very many friends. I needed
good advice at that time, for I found it a very difficult thing as an
actor to pursue my profession and to do justice to certain things that
I always had a deep, and perhaps rather an extravagant, idea of, on the
sum of £75 a year. I have been making a calculation within the last few
minutes of the amount of money that I did earn in those days, and I found
that it was about £75 a year. Perhaps one would be acting out of the
fifty-two weeks of the year some thirty-five. The other part of the year
one would probably be receiving nothing. Then an actor would be tempted
perhaps to take a benefit, by which he generally lost £20 or £30. I have
a very fond recollection, I have an affection for your city, for very
many reasons. The training I received here was a severe training; I must
say at first it was very severe. I found it a difficult thing to make my
way at all with the audience; and I believe the audience to a certain
extent was right; I think there was no reason that I _should_ make my way
with them. I don’t think I had learnt enough; I think I was too raw, too
unacceptable. But I am very proud to say that it was not long before,
with the firmness of the Manchester friendship which I have always found,
they got to like me; and I think before I parted with them they had an
affection for me. At all events, I remember when in this city as little
less—or little more—than a walking gentleman, I essayed the part of
Hamlet the Dane, I was looked upon as a sort of madman who ought to be
taken to some asylum and shut up; but I found in acting it before the
audience that their opinion was a very different one, and before the play
was half gone through I was received with a fervour and a kindness which
gave me hope and expectation that in the far and distant future I might
perhaps be able to benefit by their kindness. Perhaps they thought that
by encouraging me they might help me on in the future. I believe they
thought that, I believe that was in the thoughts of many of the audience,
for they received me with an enthusiasm and kindness which my merits did
not deserve.”

The man that could trace these faithful records of provincial stage life,
and speak in this natural heartfelt fashion of memories which many would
not perhaps wish to revive, must have a courageous and sympathetic nature.

Many years later, in his prosperity, he came to Bolton to lay the first
stone of a new theatre, on which occasion other old memories recurred to
him. “I once played here,” he said, “for a week, I am afraid to say how
many years ago, and a very good time we had with a little sharing company
from Manchester, headed by an actor, Charles Calvert. The piece we acted
was called ‘Playing with Fire’; and though we did not play with too much
money, we enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. I always look back to that week
with very great pleasure. The theatre then had not certainly every modern
appliance, but what the theatre lacked the audience made up for, and a
more spontaneous, good-natured public I never played to.”

On another occasion he again indulged in a retrospect; indeed, his eyes
seem always to have fondly turned back to Manchester and these early
days of struggle: “I came all the way from Greenock with a few shillings
in my pocket, and found myself in the splendid theatre now presided
over by our friend Captain Bainbridge. The autumn dramatic season of
1860 commenced with a little farce, and a little two-act piece from
the French, called ‘The Spy,’ the whole concluding with ‘God Save the
Queen,’ in which, and in the little two-act piece from the French, I
took prominent parts; so you see, gentlemen, that as a vocalist I even
then had some proficiency, although I had not achieved the distinction
subsequently attained by my efforts in Mephistopheles. Well, you will
admit that the little piece from the French and the one-act farce—‘God
Save the Queen’ was left out after the first night, through no fault of
mine, I assure you—you will admit that these two pieces did not make up
a very sensational bill of fare. I cannot conscientiously say that they
crammed the theatre for a fortnight, but what did that matter?—we were at
the Theatre Royal, Manchester, the manager was a man of substance, and
we were all very happy and comfortable. Besides ‘Faust and Marguerite,’
there was a burlesque of Byron’s, ‘The Maid and the Magpie,’ in which I
also played, the part being that of an exceedingly heavy father; and you
will forgive me, I am sure, for saying that the very heavy father was
considered by some to be anything but a dull performance. But though the
houses were poor, we were a merry family. Our wants were few: we were not
extravagant. We had a good deal of exercise, and what we did not earn we
worked hard to borrow as frequently as possible from one another. Ah!
they were very happy days. But do not think that this was our practice
always of an afternoon; there was plenty of fine work done in the
theatre. The public of Manchester was in those days a critical public,
and could not long be satisfied with such meagre fare as I have pictured.
During the five years of my sojourn in Manchester there was a succession
of brilliant plays performed by first-rate actors, and I must say that I
owe much to the valuable experience which I gained in your Theatre Royal
under the management of John Knowles.”

In his Manchester recollections, as we see, there are hints of very
serious struggles and privations. Such are, as says Boswell, “bark and
steel for the mind.” A man is the better for them, though the process is
painful; they assuredly teach resource and patience. Years after, the
actor, now grown celebrated and prosperous, used to relate, and relate
dramatically, this very touching little story of his struggles:

“Perhaps the most remarkable Christmas dinner at which I have ever been
present was the one at which we dined upon underclothing. Do you remember
Joe Robins—a nice genial fellow who played small parts in the provinces?
Ah, no; that was before your time. Joe Robins was once in the gentleman’s
furnishing business in London city. I think he had a wholesale trade, and
was doing well. However, he belonged to one of the semi-Bohemian clubs,
associated a great deal with actors and journalists, and when an amateur
performance was organized for some charitable object, he was cast for
the clown in a burlesque called ‘Guy Fawkes.’ He determined to go upon
the stage professionally and become a great actor. Fortunately, Joe was
able to dispose of his stock and goodwill for a few hundreds, which he
invested so as to give him an income sufficient to prevent the wolf from
getting inside his door in case he did not eclipse Garrick, Kean, and
Kemble. He also packed up for himself a liberal supply of his wares, and
started in his profession with enough shirts, collars, handkerchiefs,
stockings, and underclothing to equip him for several years.

“The amateur success of poor Joe was never repeated on the regular stage.
He did not make an absolute failure; no manager would entrust him with
parts big enough for him to fail in. But he drifted down to general
utility, and then out of London, and when I met him he was engaged in a
very small way, on a very small salary, at a Manchester theatre.

“Christmas came in very bitter weather. Joe had a part in the Christmas
pantomime. He dressed with other poor actors, and he saw how thinly
some of them were clad when they stripped before him to put on their
stage costumes. For one poor fellow in especial his heart ached. In the
depth of a very cold winter he was shivering in a suit of very light
summer underclothing, and whenever Joe looked at him, the warm flannel
undergarments snugly packed away in an extra trunk weighed heavily on
his mind. Joe thought the matter over, and determined to give the actors
who dressed with him a Christmas dinner. It was literally a dinner upon
underclothing, for most of the shirts and drawers which Joe had cherished
so long went to the pawnbroker’s or the slop-shop to provide the money
for the meal. The guests assembled promptly, for nobody else is ever so
hungry as a hungry actor. The dinner was to be served at Joe’s lodgings,
and before it was placed on the table, Joe beckoned his friend with the
gauze underclothing into a bedroom, and pointing to a chair, silently
withdrew. On that chair hung a suit of underwear, which had been Joe’s
pride. It was of a comfortable scarlet colour; it was thick, warm, and
heavy; it fitted the poor actor as if it had been manufactured especially
to his measure. He put it on, and as the flaming flannels encased his
limbs, he felt his heart glowing within him with gratitude to dear Joe
Robins.

“That actor never knew—or, if he knew, could never remember—what he
had for dinner on that Christmas afternoon. He revelled in the luxury
of warm garments. The roast beef was nothing to him in comparison with
the comfort of his under-vest; he appreciated the drawers more than
the plum-pudding. Proud, happy, warm, and comfortable, he felt little
inclination to eat; but sat quietly, and thanked Providence and Joe
Robins with all his heart. ‘You seem to enter into that poor actor’s
feelings very sympathetically.’ ‘I have good reason to do so, replied
Irving, with his sunshiny smile, ‘_for I was that poor actor_!’”

This really simple, most affecting, incident he himself related when on
his first visit to America.

Most actors have a partiality for what may be called fantastic freaks
or “practical jokes,” to be accounted for perhaps by a sort of reaction
from their own rather monotonous calling. The late Mr. Sothern delighted
in such pastimes, and Mr. Toole is not exactly indifferent to them. The
excitement caused by that ingenious pair of mountebanks, the Davenport
Brothers, will still be recalled: their appearance at Manchester early
in 1865 prompted our actor to a lively method of exposure, which he
carried out with much originality. With the aid of another actor, Mr.
Philip Day, and a prestidigitator, Mr. Frederic Maccabe, he arranged his
scheme, and invited a large number of friends and notables of the city
to a performance in the Athenæum. Assuming the dress characteristics
of a patron of the Brothers, one Dr. Ferguson, Irving came forward
and delivered a grotesque address, and then, in the usual familiar
style, proceeded to “tie up” his coadjutors in the cabinet, with the
accompaniments of ringing bells, beating tambourines, etc. The whole
was, as a matter of course, successful. It was not, however, strictly
within the programme of an actor who was “toiling at his oar,” though the
vivacity of youth was likely enough to have prompted it.

On the eve of his departure from Manchester he determined on an ambitious
attempt, and, as already stated, played ‘Hamlet’ for his own benefit. The
company good-naturedly favoured his project, though they fancied it was
beyond his strength. It was, as he has told us, an extraordinary success,
and the performance was called for on several nights—a high compliment,
as it was considered, in the city, where the custom was to require a “new
bill” every night. He himself did not put much faith in the prophecies
of future eminence that were uttered on this occasion; he felt that,
after all, there was no likelihood of his emerging from the depressing
monotonous round of provincial histrionics. But rescue was nearer at hand
than he fancied. The stage is stored with surprises, and there, at least,
it is the unexpected that always, or usually, happens.

Leaving Manchester, he passed to Edinburgh, Bury, Oxford, and even to
Douglas, Isle of Man, where the assembly-room used to do duty as a
“fit-up” theatre. For six months, from January to July, 1866, he was at
Liverpool with Mr. Alexander Henderson.

Thus had he seen many men and many theatres and many audiences, and must
have learned many a rude lesson, besides learning his profession. At this
moment, as he described it long after, he found himself one day standing
on the steps of the theatre looking hopelessly down the street, and in a
sort of despair, without an engagement, and no very likely prospect of
engagement, not knowing, indeed, which way to turn, unless some “stroke
of luck” came. But the “actor’s luck,” as he said, “is really _work_;”
and the lucky actor is, above all, a worker. At this hopeless moment
arrived unexpectedly a proposal from Dion Boucicault that he should join
him at Manchester and take a leading character in his new piece. He
accepted; but with some shrewdness stipulated that should he succeed to
the author’s satisfaction, he was to obtain an engagement in London. This
was acceded to, and with a light heart he set off.

Mr. Boucicault, indeed, long after in America boasted that it was his
good fortune to “discover Irving” in 1866, when he was playing in “the
country.” The performance took place on July 30, 1866. “He was cast
for a part in ‘Hunted Down,’ and played it so admirably that I invited
my friend Mr. Charles Reade to go and see him. He confirmed my opinion
so strongly, that when ‘Hunted Down’ was played in London a few months
afterwards, I gave it conditionally on Mr. Irving’s engagement. That
was his _début_ in London as a leading actor.” He added some judicious
criticism, distinguishing Irving as “an eccentric serious actor” from
Jefferson, who was “an eccentric comic actor.” “His mannerisms are
so very marked that an audience requires a long familiarity with his
style before it can appreciate many merits that are undeniable. It is
unquestionable that he is the greatest actor as a tragedian that London
has seen during the last fifty years.”[2]

In this piece, ‘Mary Leigh and her Three Lives’ (which later became
‘Hunted Down’), the heroine was performed by Miss Kate Terry, at that
time the only member of a gifted family who had made a reputation.
Irving’s character was Rawdon Scudamore, a polished villain, to which he
imparted such force and _finesse_, that it impressed all who witnessed
it with the belief that here was an actor of striking power. It at once
gave him “a position,” and an impression of his gifts was of a sudden
left upon the profession, upon those even who had not seen him. No fewer
than three offers of engagement were made to him. The author of the
piece, as we have seen, was particularly struck with his powers; his
London engagement was now secure, and he was to receive a tempting offer,
through Mr. Tom Taylor, from the management of the St James’s Theatre,
about to open with the new season.




CHAPTER III.

1866.

THE ST. JAMES’S THEATRE—‘HUNTED DOWN’—THE NEW VAUDEVILLE THEATRE—‘THE TWO
ROSES.’


The directress of the new venture at the St. James’s Theatre was Miss
Herbert, a graceful, sympathetic person of much beauty, with exquisite
golden hair and almost devotional features, which supplied many of the
Pre-Raphaelite brethren with angelic faces for their canvases. On the
stage her efforts were directed by great intelligence and spirit, and
she was now about to essay all the difficulties and perplexities of
management. Like so many others, she had before her a very high ideal
of her office: the good, vivacious old comedies, with refined, correct
acting, were to entice the wayward public, with pieces by Reade, Tom
Taylor, and Boucicault. This pleasing actress was destined to have a
chequered course of struggle and adventure, a mingled yarn of success and
disappointment, and has long since retired from the stage.

At the St. James’s Theatre the company was formed of the manageress
herself; of Walter Lacy, an actor of fine polish and grace; of Addison,
one of the old school; with that excellent mirth-making pair, the Frank
Mathews. The stage-manager was Irving. Here, then, he found himself, to
his inexpressible satisfaction, in a respected and respectable position,
one very different from that of the actor-of-all-work in the provinces.
Not the least comforting reflection was that he had won his way to this
station by remarkable talent and conscientious labour. The theatre
opened on October 6, 1866. ‘Hunted Down’ was the piece originally fixed
upon, but it could not be got ready in time, so a change was made to the
lively old comedy of the ‘Belle’s Stratagem,’ the name which it had been
originally proposed to give to Oliver Goldsmith’s ‘She Stoops to Conquer.’

The actor tells us of this interesting occasion: “I was cast for
Doricourt, a part which I had never played before, and which I thought
did not suit me; I felt that this was the opinion of the audience
soon after the play began. The house appeared to be indifferent, and
I believed that failure was conclusively stamped upon my work, when
suddenly, upon my exit after the mad scene, I was startled by a burst of
applause, and so great was the enthusiasm of the audience, that I was
compelled to reappear upon the scene, a somewhat unusual thing except
upon the operatic stage.”[3] This compliment is nearly always paid to our
actor when he performs this part.

In the criticisms of the piece the efforts of the interesting
manageress-actress of course received the chief attention. Dramatic
criticism, however, at this time was of a somewhat slender kind, and the
elaborate study of an individual performer’s merits was not then in
fashion. The play itself was then “the thing,” and accordingly we find
the new actor’s exertions dealt with in a curt but encouraging style:
“Mr. H. Irving was the fine gentleman in Doricourt: but he was more,
for his mad scenes were truthfully conceived and most subtly executed.”
Thus the _Athenæum_. And Mr. Oxenford, with his usual reserve, after
pronouncing that the comedy was “a compound of English dulness and
Italian pantomime,” added that Doricourt “was heavy company till he
feigns madness, and the mock insanity represented by Mr. H. Irving is the
cause of considerable mirth.” This slight and meagre tribute contrasts
oddly with the elaborate fulness of stage criticism in our day.

The piece has always continued in the actor’s _répertoire_, after being
compressed into a few scenes. The rich, old-fashioned dress and powder
suits the performer and sets off his intelligent features, which wear a
smiling expression, as though consciously enjoying the comedy flavour of
the piece.

A little later, on November 5, ‘Hunted Down’ was brought forward, in
which the actor, as Rawdon Scudamore, made a deep impression. It was
declared that the part “completely served the purpose of displaying
the talent of Mr. Henry Irving, whose ability in depicting the most
vindictive feelings, _merely by dint of facial expression_, is very
remarkable.” Facial expression is, unhappily, but little used on our
English stage, and yet it is one of the most potent agencies—more so than
speech or gesture.[4] It was admitted, too, that he displayed another
precious gift—reserve—conveying even more than he expressed: a store of
secret villainy as yet unrevealed. Many were the compliments paid him on
this creation; and friends of Charles Dickens know how much struck he
was with the new actor’s impersonation. The novelist was always eager to
recognise new talent of this kind. Some years later, “Charles Dickens the
younger,” as he was then called, related at a banquet how his celebrated
father had once gone to see the ‘Lancashire Lass,’ and on his return
home had said: “But there was a young fellow in the play who sits at the
table and is bullied by Sam Emery; his name is Henry Irving, and if that
young man does not one day come out as a great actor, I know nothing of
art.” A worthy descendant of the Kembles, Mrs. Sartoris, also heartily
appreciated his powers.[5] During the season a round of pieces were
brought forward, such as ‘The Road to Ruin,’ ‘The School for Scandal’
(in which he played young Dornton and Joseph Surface), ‘Robert Macaire,’
and a new Robertson drama, ‘A Rapid Thaw,’ in which he took the part of
a conventional Irishman, O’Hoolagan! It must have been a quaint surprise
to see our actor in a Hibernian character. After the season closed, the
company went “on tour” to Liverpool, Dublin, and other towns.[6]

Miss Herbert’s venture, like so many other ventures planned on an
intellectual basis, did not flourish exceedingly; and in the course of
the years that followed we find our actor appearing rather fitfully
at various London theatres, which at this time, before the great
revival of the stage, were in rather an unsettled state. He went with
Sothern to play in Paris, appearing at the Théâtre des Italiens, and
in December, 1867, found an engagement at the Queen’s Theatre in Long
Acre, a sort of “converted” concert-room, where nothing seemed to
thrive; and here for the first time he played with Miss Ellen Terry,
in ‘Catherine and Petruchio’ (a piece it might be well worth while to
revive at the Lyceum); and in that very effective drama, ‘Dearer than
Life,’ with Brough and Toole; in ‘The School for Scandal’; also making a
striking effect in ‘Bill Sikes.’ I fancy this character, though somewhat
discounted by Dubosc, would, if revived, add to his reputation. We find
him also performing the lugubrious Falkland in ‘The Rivals.’ He also
played Redburn in the highly popular ‘Lancashire Lass,’ which “ran”
for many months. At the Queen’s Theatre he remained for over a year,
not making any marked advance in his profession, owing to the lack of
favourable opportunities. He had a part in Watts Phillips’ drama of ‘Not
Guilty.’ Then, in 1869, he came to the Haymarket, and had an engagement
at Drury Lane in Boucicault’s ‘Formosa,’ a piece that gave rise to
much excited discussion on the ground of the “moralities.” His part
was, however, colourless, being little more than a cardboard figure:
anything fuller or rounder would have been lost on so huge a stage. It
was performed, or “ran,” for over a hundred nights. With his sensitive,
impressionable nature the performance of so barren a character must
have been positive pain: his dramatic soul lay blank and fallow during
the whole of that unhappy time. Not very much ground had been gained
beyond the reputation of a sound and useful performer. Relying on my
own personal impressions—for I followed him from the beginning of his
course—I should say that the first distinct effort that left prominent
and distinct impression was his performance at the Gaiety Theatre, in
December, 1869, of the cold, pompous Mr. Chenevix, in Byron’s ‘Uncle
Dick’s Darling.’ It was felt at once, as I then felt, that here was a
rich original creation, a figure that lingered in the memory, and which
you followed, as it moved, with interest and pleasure. There was a
surprising finish and reserve. It was agreed that we had now an actor of
_genre_, who had the power of creating a character. The impression made
was really remarkable, and this specimen of good, pure comedy was set
off by the pathetic acting of “friend Toole,” who played ‘Uncle Dick.’
This was a turning-point in his career, and no doubt led to an important
advance. But these days of uncertainty were now to close. I can recall
my own experience of the curious pleasure and satisfaction left by the
performance of this unfamiliar actor, who suggested so much more than
the rather meagre character itself conveyed. I found myself drawn to see
it several times, and still the feeling was always that of some secret
undeveloped power in the clever, yet unpretending, performer.

Irving can tell a story in the pleasantest “high comedy” manner, and
without laying emphasis on points. In May last, being entertained by the
“Savages,” he made a most agreeable speech, and related this adventure
of his early Bohemian days, in illustration of the truth that “it is
always well to have a personal acquaintance with a presiding magistrate.”
“I had driven one night from the Albion to some rooms I occupied in old
Quebec Street, and after bidding the cabman farewell, I was preparing
to seek repose, when there came a knock at the door. Upon opening it
I found the cabman, who said that I had given him a bad half-crown.
Restraining myself, I told him ‘to be—to begone.’ I shut the door, but
in a few moments there came another knock, and with the cabman appeared
a policeman, who said, with the grave formality of his office, ‘You
are charged with passing a bad half-crown, and must come with me to
the police-station.’ I explained that I was a respectable, if unknown,
citizen, pursuing a noble, though precarious, calling, and that I could
be found in the morning at the address I had given. The policeman was
not at all impressed by that, so I jumped into the cab and went to the
station, where the charge was entered upon the night-sheet, and I was
briefly requested to make myself at home. ‘Do you intend me to spend the
night here?’ I said to the inspector. ‘Certainly,’ he said; ‘that is the
idea.’ So I asked him to oblige me with a pencil and a piece of paper,
which he reluctantly gave me. I addressed a few words to Sir Thomas
Henry, who was then presiding magistrate at Bow Street, and with whom I
had an intimacy, in an unofficial capacity. The inspector looked at me.
‘Do you know Sir Thomas Henry?’ he said. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I have that
honour.’ The officer suddenly turned round to the policeman and said,
‘What do you mean by bringing such a charge against this gentleman?’
Then he turned fiercely on the cabman, and nearly kicked him out of the
office. I returned home triumphantly in the cab. I cannot give a young
‘Savage’ first starting on his career a sounder piece of advice than
this—‘Always know your own mind, and also a magistrate.’” We practised
_littérateurs_ might well envy the pleasant facility and point with which
this is told.

About this time an attractive actor, who had been much followed on
account of his good looks, one Harry Montague, had joined in management
with two diverting drolls—as they were then—James and Thorne, who were
the pillars of burlesque at the Strand Theatre. All three felt a sort
of inspiration that they were capable of something higher and more
“legitimate”—an impression which the event has more than justified. The
two last, by assiduous study and better opportunities, became admirable
comedians. A sort of club that had not prospered was lying unused in the
Strand, and a little alteration converted it into a theatre. The three
managers were anxiously looking for a piece of modern manners which
would exhibit to advantage their several gifts. A young fellow, who had
left his desk for playwriting, had brought them a sort of comedy which
was in a very crude state, but which, it seemed likely, could be made
what they wanted; and by the aid of their experience and suggestions, it
was fashioned into shape. Indeed, it proved that never was a piece more
admirably suited to the company that played it. The characters fitted
them all, as it is called, “like gloves.” They were bright, interesting,
natural, and humorous; the story was pleasing and interesting, and the
dialogue agreeable and smart. Such was ‘The Two Roses,’ which still holds
the stage, though it now seems a little old-fashioned. Irving was one of
the performers, and was perhaps the best suited of the group. The perfect
success of the piece proved how advantageous is the old system of having
a piece “written in the theatre,” when the intelligence of the performers
and that of the managers are brought in aid of each other. The little
house opened on April 16, 1870, with a piece of Mr. Halliday’s; and it
was not until a few weeks later that the piece was brought forward—on
June 4. The success was instantaneous.

The unctuous Honey, in his own line an excellent original actor, raised
in the good old school of the “low comedian,” which has now disappeared,
was the good-natured Bagman—a part taken later by James, who was also
excellent. Thorne was efficient, and sufficiently reserved, in the
rather unmeaning blind Caleb Decie; while Montague was the gallant and
interesting hero, Jack Wyatt. The two girls were represented in pleasing
fashion by Miss Amy Fawcitt and Miss Newton. The piece, as I have said,
owed much to the actors, though these again owed much to the piece. It
is difficult to adjust the balance of obligation in such cases; but good
actors can make nothing of a bad play, whereas a good play may make
good actors. Irving, as Digby Grant, was the chief attraction, and his
extraordinarily finished and varied playing of that insincere and selfish
being excited general admiration.

It has not been noticed, in these days of appropriation, that the piece
was practically an ingenious variation, or adaptation, of Dickens’
‘Little Dorrit.’ For here we find old Dorrit, his two daughters, and one
of their admirers; also the constant loans, the sudden good fortune, and
the equally sudden reverse. It was easy to see that the piece had been
formed by the evolution of this one character, the legitimate method, it
has always seemed to me, of making a play; whereas the average dramatist
adopts a reverse practice of finding a story, and then finding characters
for it. Character itself _is_ a story. The character of Digby Grant was
the first that gave him firm hold of public favour. It belongs to pure
comedy—a fidgety, selfish being, self-deluded by the practice of social
hypocrisies, querulous, scheming, wheedling. It is curious that a very
good actor, who later filled the part, took the villainy _au sérieux_,
giving the complaint, “_You annoy me very much!_” repeated so often, as a
genuine reproach, and with anger. Irving’s was the true view—a simulated
vexation, “_You annoy me very much!_” The audience sees that he is not
“annoyed very much.”

After our actor’s visit to America, his performance was noticed
to be more elaborate and laboured, but it had lost some of its
spontaneousness—a result which, it has been noted, is too often the
result of playing to American audiences, who are pleased with broad
effects. This piece continued to be played for about a year—then thought
to be a prodigious run, though it is now found common enough—during which
time Irving’s reputation steadily increased.[7]




CHAPTER IV.

1871.

‘THE BELLS’—WILLS’S ‘CHARLES I.’


Among those who had taken note of Irving’s efforts was a “long-headed”
American manager, whose loudly-expressed criticism was that “he ought
to play Richelieu!” This was a far-seeing view. Many years before, this
manager had been carrying round the country his two “prodigy” daughters,
who had attracted astonishment by their precocious playing in a pretty
little piece of courtship, called ‘The Young Couple.’ The elder later
won favour by her powerful and intense acting in ‘Leah’; and he was
now about taking a theatre with a view of bringing forward his second
daughter, Isabel. It seems curious now to think that the handsome,
elegantly-designed Lyceum Theatre, built by an accomplished architect
on the most approved principles, was then lying derelict, as it were,
and at the service of any stray _entrepreneur_. It could be had on very
cheap terms, for at this time the revival of theatrical interest had not
yet come; the theatre, not yet in high fashion, was conducted on rude,
coarse lines. The attractions of the old correct comedy, as seen at the
Haymarket, were waning, and the old companies were beginning to break up.
Buckstone and Webster were in their decay, yet still lagged ingloriously
on the stage. The pit and galleries were catered for. Theatres were
constantly opening, and as constantly closing. Burlesques of the Gaiety
pattern were coming into favour. In this state of things the shrewd
American saw an opportunity. He had an excellent coadjutor in his wife, a
clever, hard working lady, with characteristics that often suggested the
good-natured Mrs. Crummles, but without any of her eccentricities. Her
husband took the Lyceum, and proceeded to form a company; and one of his
first steps was to offer an engagement to Irving.

The new venture started on September 11, 1871, with an unimportant piece,
‘Fanchette,’ founded on George Sand’s ‘Petite Fadette,’ in which our
actor had a character quite unsuited to his gifts, a sort of peasant
lover.[8] The object was to introduce the manager’s daughter, Isabel,
in a fantastical part, but the piece was found “too French,” and rather
far-fetched. It failed very disastrously. The young actor, of course, had
to bear his share in the failure; but he could not have dreamt at that
moment that here he was to find his regular home, and that for twenty
long years he was destined never to be away from the shadow of the great
portico of the Lyceum.

The prospect for the American manager was now not very encouraging. He
had made a serious mistake at starting. In a few weeks he had replaced it
by a version of _Pickwick_, with a view of utilizing his chief comedian’s
talent as “Jingle.” The play was but a rude piece of carpentry, without
any of the flavour of the novel, hastily put together and acted
indifferently; the actors were dressed after the pictures in the story,
but did not catch the spirit of their characters. Irving in face and
figure and dress was thoroughly Pickwickian, and reproduced Seymour and
Hablot Browne’s sketch, very happily catching the recklessness and rattle
of the original. Still, it was difficult to avoid the suggestion of
‘Jeremy Diddler,’ or of the hero of ‘A Race for a Dinner.’ The reason,
perhaps, was that the adaptation was conceived in a purely farcical
spirit. It has always seemed to me that “the Immortal Pickwick” should
be treated as comedy rather than farce, and would be more effective on
the stage were the Jingle scenes set forth with due seriousness and
sincerity. The incidents at the Rochester Ball, for instance, belong to
pure comedy, and would be highly effective. Some years later Irving put
the work into the not very skilful hands of Albery, who reduced it to
the proportions of a farce with some pathetic elements. It was called
‘Jingle.’

At this time there was “hanging loose on” the theatres, as Dr. Johnson
once phrased it, one Leopold Lewis, who had been seduced from an office
by the enchantments of the stage. He had made a translation of a very
striking French play, ‘Le Juif Polonais,’ which had been shown to the new
actor. This, as is well known, was by the gifted pair Erckmann-Chatrian,
whose realistic but picturesque stories, that call up before us the old
“Elsass” life, show extraordinary dramatic power. This ‘Juif Polonais’ is
more a succession of tableaux than a formal play, but, like ‘L’Ami Fritz’
of the same writers, it has a charm that is irresistible. It is forgotten
that a version of this piece had already been brought before the public
at one of the minor theatres, which was the work of Mr. F. C. Burnand,
at that time a busy caterer for the theatres, chiefly of melodramas, such
as the ‘Turn of the Tide’ and ‘Deadman’s Point.’

“Much against the wish of my friends,” says our actor, “I took an
engagement at the Lyceum, then under the management of Mr. Bateman. I
had successfully acted in many plays besides ‘The Two Roses,’ which ran
three hundred nights. It was thought by everybody interested in such
matters that I ought to identify myself with what they called ‘character
parts’; though what that phrase means, by the way, I never could exactly
understand, for I have a prejudice in the belief that every part should
be a character. I always wanted to play in the higher drama. Even in my
boyhood my desire had been in that direction. When at the Vaudeville
Theatre, I recited the poem of ‘Eugene Aram,’ simply to get an idea as
to whether I could impress an audience with a tragic theme. I hoped I
could, and at once made up my mind to prepare myself to play characters
of another type. When Mr. Bateman engaged me he told me he would give
me an opportunity, if he could, to play various parts, as it was to
his interest as much as to mine to discover what he thought would be
successful—though, of course, never dreaming of ‘Hamlet’ or of ‘Richard
III.’ Well, the Lyceum opened, but did not succeed. Mr. Bateman had lost
a lot of money, and he intended giving it up. He proposed to me to go
to America with him. By my advice, and against his wish, ‘The Bells’
was rehearsed, but he did not believe in it much. When he persuaded the
manager to produce ‘The Bells,’ he was told there was a prejudice against
that sort of romantic play. It produced a very poor house, although a
most enthusiastic one. From that time the theatre prospered.”

Our actor, thus always earnest and persuasive, pressed his point, and
at last extorted consent—and the play, which required scarcely any
mounting, was performed on November 25, 1871. At that time I was living
in the south of France, in a remote and solitary place, and I recollect
the surprise and curiosity with which I heard and read of the powerful
piece that had been produced, and of the more extraordinary triumph of
the new actor. Everyone, according to the well-worn phrase, seemed to be
“electrified.” The story was novel, and likely to excite the profoundest
interest.

An extraordinary alteration, due, I believe, to the manager, was the
introduction of the vision of the Jew in his sledge, a device unmeaning
and illogical. In the original the morbid remorse of the guilty man is
roused by the visit of a travelling Jew, which very naturally excites his
perturbed spirit. But this vision discounts, as it were, and enfeebles
the _second_ vision. The piece would have been presented under far more
favourable conditions had it been prepared by or adapted by someone of
more skill and delicacy than Mr. Leopold Lewis.

For twenty years and more this remarkable impersonation has kept its
hold upon audiences, and whenever it is revived for an occasional
performance or for a longer “run,” it never fails to draw full houses;
and so it doubtless will do to the end of the actor’s career. It was his
introduction to the American audiences; and it is likely enough that it
will be the piece in which he will take his farewell.

The new actor was now becoming a “personality.” Everyone of note
discovered that he was interesting in many ways, and was eager to
know such a man. The accomplished Sir E. Bulwer Lytton wrote that his
performance was “too admirable not to be appreciated by every competent
judge of art,” and added, “that any author would be fortunate who
obtained his assistance in some character that was worthy of his powers.”
A little later the actor took this hint, and was glad to do full justice
to several pieces of this brilliant and gifted writer.

At this time there was a clever young man “on town” who had furnished
Mr. Vezin with a fine and effective play, ‘The Man o’ Airlie,’ from a
German original. He was a poet of much grace, his lines were musical, and
suited for theatrical delivery; he had been successful as a novelist, and
was, moreover, a portrait-painter in the elegant art of pastel, then but
little practised. In this latter direction it was predicted that he was
likely to win a high position, but the attractions of the stage were too
strong for him. Becoming acquainted with the popular actor, a subject for
a new creation was suggested by his very physique and dreamy style. This
was the story of the unhappy Charles I. Both the manager and the player
welcomed the suggestion, and the dramatist set to work. Though possessed
of true feeling and a certain inspiration, the author was carried away
by his ardour into a neglect of the canons of the stage, writing masses
of poetry of inordinate length, which he brought to his friends at the
theatre, until they at last began to despair. Many changes had to be made
before the poem could be brought into satisfactory shape; and, by aid of
the tact and experience of the manager and his actor, the final act was
at last completed to the satisfaction of all.[9]

‘Charles I.’ was brought out on September 28, 1872. Having been present
on this night, I can recall the tranquil pleasure and satisfaction and
absorbing interest which this very legitimate and picturesque performance
imparted, while the melodious and poetical lines fell acceptably on the
ear. This tranquil tone contrasted effectively with the recent tumult and
agitation of ‘The Bells.’ It was a perfect success, and the author shared
in the glories.

Only lately we followed the once popular Wills to his grave in the
Brompton Cemetery. His somewhat erratic and, I fear, troubled course
closed in the month of December, 1891. There was a curious suggestion,
or reminiscence, of his countryman Goldsmith in his character and ways.
Like that great poet, he had a number of “hangers-on” and admirers who
were always welcome to his “bit and sup,” and helped to kill the hours.
If there was no bed there was a sofa. There were stories, too, of a
“piece purse” on the chimney to which people might apply. He had the
same sanguine temperament as Goldsmith, and the slightest opening would
present him with a magnificent prospect, on which his ready imagination
would lavish all sorts of roseate hues. He was always going to make
his fortune, or to make a “great hit.” He had the same heedless way of
talking, making warm and even ardent protestations and engagements which
he could not help forgetting within an hour. But these were amiable
weaknesses. He had a thoroughly good heart, was as sensitive as a woman,
or as _some_ women, affectionate and generous. His life, I fear, was to
the close one of troubles and anxiety. He certainly did much for the
Lyceum, and was our actor’s favourite author. ‘Charles I.,’ ‘Eugene
Aram,’ ‘Olivia,’ ‘Iolanthe,’ ‘Faust,’ ‘Vanderdecken’ (in part), ‘Don
Quixote’—these were his contributions.

The play was written after the correct and classical French model. The
opening scene, as a bit of pictorial effect—the placid garden of Hampton
Court, with a startling reproduction of Vandyke’s figure—has always been
admired, and furnishes “the note” of the play. All through the actor
presented a spectacle of calm and dignified suffering, that disdained
to resent or protest; some of his pathetic passages, such as the gentle
rebuke to the faithless Huntley and the parting with his children, have
always made the handkerchiefs busy.

The leading actor was well supported by Miss Isabel Bateman in the
character of the Queen, to which she imparted a good deal of pathetic
feeling and much grace. For many years she was destined to figure in
all the pieces in which he played. This, it need not be said, was of
advantage for the development of her powers. Even a mediocre performer
cannot withstand the inspiration that comes of such companionship; while
constant playing with a really good actor has often made a good actress.
But the manager, who had some odd, native notions of his own, as to
delicacy and the refinements generally, must have rather inconvenienced
or disturbed—to say the least of it—our actor, by giving him as a
coadjutor, in the part of Cromwell, an effective low-comedy actor of
_genre_, in the person of Mr. George Belmore, who did his work with a
conscientious earnestness, but with little colouring or picturesque
effect. On a later occasion he supplied another performer who was yet
more unsuited—viz., the late Mr. John Clayton—who used to open the
night’s proceedings in a light rattling touch-and-go farce, such as
‘A Regular Fix.’ Both these actors, excellent in their line, lacked
the weight and dignified associations necessary for the high school of
tragedy.[10]

One of those vehement and amusing discussions which occasionally arise
out of a play, and furnish prodigious excitement for the public, was
aroused by the conception taken of Cromwell, which was, in truth, opposed
to tradition; for the Protector was exhibited as willing to condone the
King’s offences, and to desert his party, for the “consideration” of a
marriage between himself and one of the King’s daughters. This ludicrous
view, based on some loose gossip, was, reasonably enough, thought
to degrade Cromwell’s character, and the point was debated with much
fierceness.

During the “run” of ‘Charles I.’ the successful dramatist was busy
preparing a new poetical piece on the subject of Eugene Aram. It is not
generally known that the author himself dramatized his story. This was
produced on April 19, 1873, but the tone seemed to be too lugubrious,
the actor passing from one mournful soliloquy to another. There was but
little action. The ordinary versions are more effective. But the actor
himself produced a deep, poetical impression.

The manager, now in the height of success, adopted a style of “bold
advertisement,” that suggested Elliston’s amusing exaggerations.[11] The
piece ran for over one hundred and fifty nights, to May 17, 1873, and
during a portion of the time the versatile player would finish the night
with ‘Jeremy Diddler.’

The new season of 1873 began on September 27, with Lord Lytton’s
‘Richelieu.’ It is a tribute to the prowess of that gifted man that
his three pieces—the ever-fresh and fair ‘Lady of Lyons,’ ‘Money,’ and
‘Richelieu’—should be really the only genuine stock-pieces of the modern
stage. They never seem out of fashion, and are always welcomed. It might
be said, indeed, that there is hardly a night on which the ‘Lady of
Lyons’ is not _somewhere_ acted. In ‘Richelieu’ the actor presented a
truly picturesque figure—he was aged, tottering, nervous, but rallying
to full vigour when the occasion called. The well-known scene, where he
invokes “the curse of Rome,” produced extraordinary enthusiasm, cheers,
waving of handkerchiefs, and a general uproar from the pit. It was in
this piece that those “mannerisms” which have been so often “girded
at,” often with much pitilessness, began to attract attention. In this
part, as in the first attempt in ‘Macbeth,’ there was noted a lack of
restraint, something hysterical at times, when control seemed to be set
aside. The truth is, most of his attempts at this period were naturally
_experiments_, and very different from those deliberate, long-prepared,
and well-matured representations he offered under the responsibility of
serious management.

This piece was succeeded by an original play, ‘Philip,’ by an agreeable
writer who had made a name as a novelist, Mr. Hamilton Aïdé—a dramatic
story of the average pattern, and founded on jealousy. It was produced on
February 7, and enjoyed a fair share of success.




CHAPTER V.

1874.

‘HAMLET’—‘OTHELLO’—‘MACBETH’—DEATH OF ‘THE COLONEL’—‘QUEEN MARY.’


But now was to be made a serious experiment, on which much was to depend.
Hitherto Irving had not travelled out of the regions of conventional
drama, or of what might be called romantic melodrama; but he was now
to lay hands on the ark, and attempt the most difficult and arduous of
Shakespearian characters, Hamlet. Every actor has a dream of performing
the character, and fills up his disengaged moments with speculations as
to the interpretation. The vitality of this wonderful play is such that
it nearly always is a novelty for the audience, because the character is
fitfully changeful, and offers innumerable modes of interpretation.

The momentous trial was made on October 31, 1874. It had long and
studiously been prepared for: and the actor, in his solitary walks
during the days of his provincial servitude, had worked out his formal
conception of the character. There was much curiosity and expectation;
and it was noted that so early as three o’clock in the afternoon a dense
crowd had assembled in the long tunnel that leads from the Strand to
the pit door. I was present in the audience, and can testify to the
excitement. Nothing I have ever seen on the stage, except perhaps the
burst that greeted Sarah Bernhardt’s speech in ‘Phèdre’ on the first
night of the French Comedy in London, has approached the tumult of the
moment when the actor, after the play scene, flung himself into the
King’s chair.

Our actor judiciously took account of all criticisms, and with later
performances subdued or toned down what was extravagant. The whole gained
in thoughtfulness and in general meditative tone, and it is admitted that
the meaning of the intricate soliloquies could not be more distinctly or
more intelligibly conveyed to an audience. He played a good deal with his
face, as it is called: with smilings of intelligence, as if interested or
amused. But, as a whole, his conception of the character may be said to
remain the same as it was on that night.

The play was mounted with the favourite economy of the manager,
and contrasted with the unsparing lavishness of decoration which
characterized its later revival. But the actors were good. The sound,
“full-bodied” old Chippendale was Polonius; Swinburne, also of the old
school, was the King; and the worthy Mead, long ago a star himself,
and one of Mr. Phelps’ corps, “discharged” the Ghost with admirable
impression and elocution.[12] He has now passed away, after long service,
to “that bourne,” etc. Miss Bateman was interesting, and Mrs. Pauncefort,
who was till lately at the Lyceum, was an excellent Queen. Actor and
manager expected much success for ‘Hamlet,’ and counted on a run of
eighty nights, but it was performed for two hundred! To the present hour
it has always continued—though sparingly revived—the most interesting of
the actor’s performances, looked for with an intellectual curiosity.

In March the hundredth night of ‘Hamlet’ was celebrated by a banquet,
given in the saloon of the Lyceum Theatre, at which all the critics and
literary persons connected with the stage were present. This method of
festivity has since become familiar enough, owing to the never-flagging
hospitality of the later manager of the Lyceum, and offers a striking
contrast to the older days, when it was intimated that “_chicken and
champagne_” was a ready method of propitiating the critics. Mr. Pigott,
who had recently been appointed the Licenser of Plays, a man of many
friends, from his amiability—now, alas! gone from us—proposed the health
of the lessee, which was followed by the health of the actor and of the
author of the establishment, the latter, as it was rather sarcastically
said, “giving the hundred and odd literary men present the oft-repeated
illustration of how far apart are authorship and oratory.” The good old
Chippendale told how he had played Polonius to the Hamlet of Kemble,
Kean, Young, and other famous tragedians; but protested that “the most
natural and, to his mind, the most truthful representation he had seen
was that of his friend here.” Something must be allowed for post-prandial
exuberance, and no one could more shrewdly appreciate their value than
the actor himself. We may be certain that in his “heart of heart” he did
not agree that he had excelled Kemble, Kean, Young, and the others. It
was interesting, however, to meet such histrionic links with the past,
which are now broken. Mr. Howe is perhaps the only person now surviving
who could supply reminiscences of the kind.

A second Shakespearian piece was now determined on, and on February 14,
1875, ‘Othello’ was brought out. This, it was admitted, was not a very
effective performance. It was somewhat hysterical, and in his agitation
the actor exhibited movements almost panther-like, with many strange and
novel notes. The ascetic face, too, was not in harmony with the dusky
lineaments of ‘the Moor.’ Here, again, his notion of the character was
immature.

In the full tide of all this prosperity, theatre-goers were startled to
learn that the shrewd and capable manager, the energetic “old Colonel,”
as he was styled by his friends, was dead. This event occurred, with
great suddenness, on Monday, March 22, 1875. On the Sunday he had been
at a banquet at a Pall Mall restaurant in company with his leading actor
and other friends, but on the next day, complaining of a headache, he lay
down. His daughter went as usual to the theatre, to which word was soon
brought that he had passed away peacefully. It was thought advisable to
let the performance be completed, and the strange coincidence was noted
that while his child was bewailing the loss of her theatrical sire, the
old Polonius, she was unconscious of the blow which had deprived her of
her real parent.

There was much speculation as to what arrangement would follow, and
some surprise when it was announced that the widow was ready to step
intrepidly into his place, and carry on matters exactly as before. The
mainstay of the house was ready to support her, and though bound by
his engagement, he would, had he been so inclined, have found it easy
to dissolve it, or make it impracticable. He resolved to lend his best
efforts to support the undertaking, in which his views would, of course,
prevail. It was hardly a prudent arrangement, as the result proved, for
the three years that followed were scarcely advantageous to his progress.
The management was to be of a thrifty kind, without boldness, and lacking
the shrewd, safe instincts of the late manager; while the actor had the
burden, without the freedom, of responsibility. It struck some that the
excellent Mrs. Bateman was “insisting” somewhat too much upon the family
element. The good-hearted, busy, and managing lady was in truth unsuited
to bear the burden of a great London theatre, and what woman could be?
her views were hardly “large” enough, and too old-fashioned. The public
was not slow to find all this out, and the fortunes of the theatre
began almost at once to change. Our actor, ambitious, and encouraged by
plaudits, was eager to essay new parts; and the manageress, entirely
dependent on his talent, was naturally anxious to gratify him. Here it
was that the deliberation of the “old Colonel” became valuable. He would
debate a question, examine it from all points, feel the public pulse, and
this rational conduct influenced his coadjutor. Irving was, in truth, in
a false position.

‘Macbeth’ was speedily got ready, and produced on September 18, 1875.
Miss Bateman, of Leah fame, was the Lady Macbeth, but the performance
scarcely added to her reputation. The actor, as may be conceived, was
scarcely then suited, by temperament or physique, to the part, and by a
natural instinct made it conform to his own particular qualifications.
His conception was that of a dreamy, shrinking being, overwhelmed with
terrors and remorse, speaking in whispers, and enfeebled by his own
dismal ruminations. There was general clamour and fierce controversy
over this reading, for by this time the sympathetic powers of the player
had begun to exercise their attraction. He had a large and passionately
enthusiastic following; but there were Guelphs and Ghibellines,
Irvingites and anti-Irvingites—the latter a scornful and even derisive
faction. I could fancy some of the old school, honest “Jack” Ryder, for
instance, as they patrolled the Strand at mid-day, expatiating on the
folly of the public: “Call _him_ an actor!” Some of them had played with
Macready, “and _they_ should think they knew pretty well what acting
was!” This resentful tone has been evoked again and again with every new
actor.[13]

Objection was taken to the uncertainty in the touches; the figure did
not “stand out” so much as it ought. Much of this, however, was owing
to the lack of effect in the Lady Macbeth, who, assuming hoarse and
“charnel-house” tones, seemed to suggest something of Meg Merrilies. On
the later revival, however, his interpretation became bold, firm, and
consistent. The play had, however, a good deal of attraction, and was
played for some eighty nights.

The King in Tennyson’s play-poem, ‘Queen Mary,’ I have always thought
one of the best, most picturesque, of Irving’s impersonations, from the
realization it offered of the characters, impressions, feelings, of what
he represented: it was complete in every point of view. As regards its
length, it might be considered trifling; but it became important because
of the _largeness_ of the place it fitted. Profound was the impression
made by the actor’s Philip—not by what he had to say, which was little,
or by what he had to do, which was less, or by the dress or “make-up,”
which was remarkable. He seemed to speak by the expression of his figure
and glances; and apart from the meaning of his spoken words, there was
another meaning beyond—viz., the character, the almost diseased solitude,
the heartless indifference, and other odious historical characteristics
of the Prince, with which it was plain the actor had filled himself. Mr.
Whistler’s grim, antique portrait conveys this perfectly.

His extraordinary success was now to rouse the jealousy, and even
malignity, which followed his course in his earlier days, and was not
unaccompanied with coarse ridicule and caricature, directed against
the actor’s legs even. “Do you know,” said a personage of Whistlerian
principles—“do you know, it seems to me there is a great deal of _pathos_
in Irving’s legs, particularly in the _left_ leg!”

A letter had appeared, in January, 1876, in _Fun_, the _Punch_ of the
middle and lower class, addressed to “The Fashionable Tragedian.” It
affected alarm at the report that, “so soon as the present failure
can with dignity be withdrawn,” he intended to startle the public and
Shakespearian scholars with ‘Othello.’ In the name of that humanity
“to which, in spite of your transcendent abilities, you cannot help
belonging,” he was entreated to forbear, if only for the sake of order
and morality. “With the hireling fashion of the press at your command,
you have induced the vulgar and unthinking to consider you a model of
histrionic ability.” In the course of the investigation the article was
traced to a writer who has since become popular as a dramatist, and who,
as might be expected, has furnished a fair proportion of murders and
other villainies to the stage. What was behind the attack it would be
difficult to say; but there are people to whom sudden unexpected success
is a subject of irritation. Just as hypocrisy is the homage paid to vice,
so it may be that the attacks of this kind are some of the penalties that
have to be paid for success.

When the theatre closed in 1876, the indefatigable manageress organized
a tour of the company in the provinces, with the view of introducing the
new tragedian to country audiences. There was, as may be conceived, a
prodigious curiosity to see him, and the tour was very successful. She
brought to the task her usual energy and spirit of organization; though
with so certain an attraction, the tour, like a good piece, might be said
to “play itself,” on the principle of _ma femme et cinq poupées_. I can
recall the image of the busy lady on one of these nights at Liverpool or
Birmingham, seated in her office, surrounded by papers, the play going
on close by, the music of a house crowded to overflowing being borne
to her ears. There was here the old Nickleby flavour, and a primitive,
homely spirit that contrasts oddly with the present brilliant system of
“touring,” which must be “up to date,” as it is called, and supported by
as much lavishness and magnificence as is expected in the Metropolis.
After the piece came the pleasant little supper at the comfortable
lodgings.

On this occasion he was to receive the first of those intellectual
compliments which have since been paid him by most of the leading
Universities. At Dublin he excited much enthusiasm among the professors
and students of Trinity College. He was invited to receive an address
from both Fellows and students, which was presented by Lord Ashbourne,
lately Lord Chancellor of Ireland, then a Queen’s Counsel. This was
conceived in the most flattering and complimentary terms.

About this time there arrived in England the Italian actor Salvini, of
great reputation in his own country. He presented himself at Drury Lane,
then a great, dilapidated “Dom-Daniel” stored with ancient scenery,
wardrobes, and nearly always associated with disaster. In its chilling
area, and under these depressing conditions, he exhibited a very original
and dramatic conception of the Moor, chiefly marked by Southern fire
and passion. The earlier performances were sad to witness, owing to the
meagre attendance, but soon enthusiasm was kindled. It was likely that
mean natures, who had long resented the favour enjoyed by the English
actor, should here see an opportunity of setting up a rival, and of
diminishing, if possible, his well-earned popularity. Comparisons of a
rather offensive kind were now freely made, and the next manœuvre was
to industriously spread reports that the English actor was stung by an
unworthy jealousy, that the very presence of the Italian was torture to
him, and that he would not even go to see his performance. These reports
were conveyed to the Italian, who was naturally hurt, and stood coldly
aloof. The matter being thus inflamed, Irving, himself deeply resenting
the unjust imputation made on him, felt it would be undignified to seek
to justify himself for offences that he had not committed. Everyone knows
that during a long course of years no foreign actor has visited the
Lyceum without experiencing, not merely the lavish hospitality of its
manager, but a series of thoughtful kindnesses and services. But in the
present case there were unfortunately disturbing influences at work.

Indeed, as the actor day by day rose in public estimation, the flood
of caricatures, skits, etc., never relaxed. He could afford to smile
contemptuously at these efforts, and after a time they ceased to appear.
The tide was too strong to be resisted, and the lampooners even were
constrained to join in the general eulogy.[14] At one of them he must
himself have been amused—a pamphlet which dealt with his mannerisms and
little peculiarities in a very unsparing way. It was illustrated with
some malicious but clever sketches, dealing chiefly with the favourite
topic of the “legs.” My friend Mr. William Archer, who has since become a
critic of high position, about this time also wrote a pamphlet in which
he examined the actor’s claims with some severity. Yet so judicial was
the spirit of this inquiry, that I fancy the subject of it could not have
been offended by it, owing to some compliments which seemed to be, as it
were, extorted by the actor’s merit.

The new Lyceum season opened with yet one more play of
Shakespeare’s—‘Richard III.’ As might have been expected, he put aside
the old, well-established Cibberian version, a most effective piece of
its kind, and restored the pure, undiluted text of the Bard, to the
gratification, it need not be said, of all true critics and cultivated
persons. It was refreshing to assist at this intellectual feast, and to
follow the original arrangement, which had all the air of novelty.[15]

A happily-selected piece was to follow, the old melodrama of ‘The Courier
of Lyons,’ which was brought out on May 19, 1877, under a new title, ‘The
Lyons Mail.’ The success of ‘The Bells’ had shown that for a certain
class of romantic melodramas the actor had exceptional gifts; and it may
be added that he has a _penchant_ for portraying characters of common
life under exciting and trying circumstances. This play is an admirable
specimen of French workmanship. The characters are marked, distinct,
amusing; every passage seems to add strength to the interest, and with
every scene the interest seems to grow. The original title—‘The Courier
of Lyons’—seems a more rational one than ‘The Lyons Mail.’

With pieces of this kind, where one actor plays two characters, a nice
question of dramatic propriety arises, viz., to how far the point of
likeness should be carried. In real life no two persons could be so alike
as a single person, thus playing the two characters, would be to himself.
The solution I believe to be this, that likenesses of this kind, which
are recognised even under disguise, are rather mental and intellectual,
and depend on peculiar expression—a glance from the eye, smiles, etc.
Irving, it must be said, contrived just so much likeness in the two
characters as suited the situations and the audience also. Superficially
there was a resemblance, but he suggested the distinct individualities in
the proper way. The worthy Lesurques was destined to be one of his best
characters, from the way in which he conveyed the idea of the tranquil,
innocent merchant, so affectionate to his family, and so blameless in
life. Many will recall the pleasant, smiling fashion in which he would
listen to the charges made against him.

A yet bolder experiment was now to be made, and another piece in which
Charles Kean made a reputation, ‘Louis XI.,’ was brought out on March
9, 1878. It may be said without hesitation that this is one of the most
powerful, finished, and elaborate of all Irving’s efforts, and the one to
which we would bring, say, a foreign actor who desired to see a specimen
of the actor’s talents.

This marvellous performance has ripened and improved year by year,
gaining in suggestion, fulness of detail, and perfect ease. In no other
part is he so completely the character. There is a pleasant good-humour—a
chuckling cunning—an air of indifference, as though it were not worth
while to be angry or excited about things. His figure is a picture, and
his face, wonderfully transformed, yet seems to owe scarcely anything
to the ‘making-up.’ Nowhere does he speak so much with his expressive
features. You see the cunning thought rising to the surface before the
words. There is the hypocritical air of candour or frankness suddenly
assumed, to conceal some villainous device. There is the genuine
enjoyment of hypocrisy, and the curious shambling walk. How admirably
graduated, too, the progress of decay and mortal sickness, with the
resistance to their encroachments. The portrait of his Richard—not
the old-established, roaring, stamping Richard of the stage, but the
weightier and more composed and refined—dwells long on the memory,
especially such touches as his wary watchings, looking from one to the
other while they talk, as if cunningly striving to probe their thoughts;
that curious scraping of his cheek with the finger, the strange senile
tones, the sudden sharp ferocity betokening the ingrained wickedness, and
the special leer, as though the old fox were in high good humour.

Irving naturally recalls with pleasure any spontaneous and unaffected
tributes which his acting has called forth. A most flattering one is
associated with ‘Louis XI.’—a critical work which one of his admirers
had specially printed, and which enforced the actor’s view of Louis’s
character. “You will wonder,” the author said, “why we wrote and compiled
this book. A critic had said that, as nothing was really known of
the character, manners, etc., of Louis XI., an actor might take what
liberties he pleased with the subject. We prepared this little volume
to put on record a refutation of the statement, a protest against it,
and a tribute to your impersonation of the character.” Another admirer
had printed his various thoughts on Charles I. This was set off with
beautifully-executed etchings, tailpieces, etc., and the whole richly
bound and enshrined in a casket. The names of these enthusiasts are not
given.[16]

A few years before this time Wagner’s weird opera, ‘The Flying Dutchman,’
had been performed in London, and the idea had occurred to many, and
not unnaturally, that here was a character exactly suited to Irving’s
methods. He was, it was often repeated, the “ideal” Vanderdecken. He
himself much favoured the suggestion, and after a time the “Colonel”
entrusted me and my friend Wills with the task of preparing a piece
on the subject. For various reasons the plan was laid aside, and the
death of the manager and the adoption of other projects interfered. It
was, however, never lost sight of, and after an interval I got ready
the first act, which so satisfied Irving that the scheme was once more
taken up. After many attempts and shapings and re-shapings, the piece
was at last ready—Wills having undertaken the bulk of the work, I myself
contributing, as before, the first act. The actor himself furnished some
effective situations, notably the strange and original suggestion of the
Dutchman’s being cast up on the shore and restored to life by the waves.

I recall all the pleasant incidents of this venture, the journeys to
Liverpool and Birmingham to consult on the plot and read the piece; above
all, the company of the always agreeable Irving himself, and his placid,
unaffected gaiety. Indeed, to him apply forcibly the melodious lines—

                      “A merrier man,
    Within the limits of becoming mirth,
    I never spent an hour withal.”

‘Vanderdecken,’ as it was called, was produced on July 8, 1878, but was
found of too sombre a cast to attract. It was all, as Johnson once said,
“inspissated gloom,” but there was abundant praise for the picturesque
figure of the actor. Nothing could be more effective than his first
appearance, when he was revealed standing in a shadowy way beside the
sailors, who had been unconscious of his presence. This was his own
subtle suggestion. A fatal blemish was the unveiling of the picture,
on the due impressiveness of which much depended, and which proved to
be a sort of grotesque daub, greeted with much tittering—a fatal piece
of economy on the part of the worthy manageress. An unusually sultry
spell of summer that set in caused “the booking to go all to pieces”—the
box-keeper’s consolatory expression. Our actor, however, has not lost
faith in the subject to this hour, and a year or two later he encouraged
me to make another attempt; while Miss Terry has been always eager to
attempt the heroine, in which she is confident of producing a deep
impression.

At this time our actor’s position was a singular one. It had occurred
to many that there was something strange and abnormal in the spectacle
of the most conspicuous performer of his time, the one who “drew” most
money of all his contemporaries, being under the direction of a simple,
excellent lady, somewhat old-fashioned in her ideas, and in association
with a mediocre company and economical appointments. There was here
power clearly going to waste. It soon became evident that his talents
were heavily fettered, and that he had now attained a position which,
to say the least, was inconsistent with such surroundings. His own
delicacy of feeling, and a sense of old obligation, which, however, was
really slender enough, had long restrained him; but now, on the advice
of friends, and for the sake of his own interests, he felt that matters
could go on no longer, and that the time had arrived for making some
serious change. The balancing of obligations is always a delicate matter,
but it may be said that in such cases quite as much is returned as is
received. The successful manager may “bring forward” the little-known
actor, but the little-known actor in return brings fortune to the manager.

The situation was, in fact, a false one. Where was he to find an opening
for those sumptuous plans and artistic developments for which the public
was now ripe, and which he felt that he, and he alone, could supply?
The breach, however, was only the occasion of the separation which must
inevitably have come later. As it was, he had suggested a change in stage
companionship: the attraction of the “leading lady,” with whom he had
been so long associated, was not, he thought, sufficient to assist or
inspire his own. As this arrangement was declined, he felt compelled to
dissolve the old partnership.

It presently became known that the popular player was free, and ready
to carry out the ambitious and even magnificent designs over which he
had so long pondered. The moment was propitious. Except the little
Prince of Wales’s, there was no theatre in London that was conducted in
liberal or handsome style, and no manager whose taste or system was of
a large or even dignified sort. Everything was old-fashioned, meagre,
and mercantile. Everything seemed in a state of languor and decay. No
one thought of lavish and judicious outlay, the best economy in the end.
There was really but one on whom all eyes now instinctively rested as the
only person who by temperament and abilities was fitted to restore the
drama, and present it worthily, in accordance with the growing luxurious
instinct of the time.

It was a rude shock for the manageress when this resolution was
communicated to her. The loss of her actor also involved the loss of her
theatre. She might have expostulated, with Shylock:

    “You take my house, when you do take the prop
    That doth sustain my house.”

It followed therefore, almost as a matter of course, that the theatre,
without any exertion on his part, would, as it were, drop into his hands.
He at once prepared to carry out his venture on the bold and sumptuous
lines which have since made his reputation. The poor lady naturally
fancied that she had a grievance; but her complaint ought in truth to
have been directed against the hard fate which had placed her in a
position that was above her strength.[17] With much gallantry and energy
she set herself to do battle with fortune in a new and lower sphere. She
secured the old theatre at Islington, which she partially rebuilt and
beautified, and on the opening night was encouraged by a gathering of
her old friends, who cheered her when she appeared, supported by her two
faithful daughters. Even this struggle she could not carry on long. She
took with her some of her old company, Bentley, the Brothers Lyons, and
others, and she furnished melodramas, brought out in a somewhat rude but
effective style, suited to the lieges of the district. Later Mr. Charles
Warner, greatly daring, gave a whole course of Shakespearian characters,
taking us through the great characters _seriatim_. It was indeed a very
astonishing programme. But the truth was, she had fallen behind the
times; the old-fashioned country methods would no longer “go down.” In
a few years she gave up the weary struggle, and, quite worn-out, passed
away to join the “old Colonel.”




CHAPTER VI.

1878.

THE NEW MANAGER OF THE LYCEUM—MISS TERRY—HIS SYSTEM AND ASSISTANTS.


The Lyceum was designed by a true architect at a time when a great
theatre was considered to be a building or monument, like a public
gallery or museum. In these days little is thought of but the _salle_
or interior, designed to hold vast audiences in galleries or shelves,
and laid out much like a dissenting chapel. The Lyceum is really a fine
structure, with entrances in four different streets, an imposing portico,
abundance of saloons, halls, chambers, and other _dependances_, which
are necessary in all good theatres. There is a special grace in its
lobby and saloon, and in the flowing lines of the interior, though they
have suffered somewhat from unavoidable alterations.[18] The stage is a
truly noble one, and offers the attraction of supplying a dignity and
theatrical illusion to the figures or scenes that are exhibited upon
it; thus contrasting with the rather mean and prosaic air which the
stages of most modern houses offer. This dignified effect is secured at
a heavy cost to the manager, for every extra foot multiplies the area of
scenery to a costly degree, and requires many figures to fill the void.
Beazely, a pleasant humorist and writer of some effective dramas, was
the architect of this fine temple, as also of the well-designed Dublin
Theatre, since destroyed by fire.[19]

It may be imagined that the financial portion of the transaction could
have offered little difficulty. A man of such reputation inspires
confidence; and there are always plenty ready to come forward and support
him in his venture, his abilities being the security. A story was long
industriously circulated that he was indebted to the generosity of a
noble lady well known for her wealth and liberality, who had actually
“presented him with the lease of the theatre.” The truth, however,
was that Irving entirely relied on his own resources. According to a
statement which he found it necessary to have circulated, he borrowed
a sum of money on business terms, which he was enabled to pay off
gradually, partly out of profits, and partly out of a substantial legacy.
His first repayments were made out of the gains of his provincial tour.

The new manager’s first effort was to gather round him an efficient and
attractive company. It became presently known that Miss Ellen Terry was
to be his partner and supporter on the stage, and it was instantly, and
almost electrically, felt that triumph had been already secured. People
could see in advance, in their mind’s eye, the gifted pair performing
together in a series of romantic plays; they could hear the voices
blending, and feel the glow of dramatic enjoyment. This important step
was heartily and even uproariously acclaimed. No manager ever started on
his course cheered by such tokens of goodwill and encouragement, though
much of this was owing to a natural and selfish anticipation of coming
enjoyment.

The new actress, a member of a gifted family, was endowed with one of
those magnetically sympathetic natures, the rarest and most precious
quality a performer can have. It may be said to be “twice blessed,”
blessing both him that gives and him that takes—actor and audience. She
had a winning face, strangely expressive, even to her tip-tilted nose,
“the Terry nose,” and piquant, irregular chin; with a nervous, sinuous
figure, and a voice charged with melodious, heart-searching accents.
She indeed merely transferred to the stage that curious air of fitful
_enjouement_ which distinguished her among her friends, which often thus
supplied to her performances much that was unfamiliar to the rest of the
audience. She had, in short, a most marked _personality_.

I possess a rare and possibly unique bill of one of Miss Ellen Terry’s
earliest child-performances, which it may be interesting to insert here:

                         LECTURE HALL, CROYDON.

                           FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY!

                  _Tuesday Evening, March 13th, 1860._

                             MISS KATE TERRY

                                   AND

                            MISS ELLEN TERRY,

    The original representatives of Ariel, Cordelia, Arthur, Puck,
    etc. (which characters were acted by them upwards of one
    hundred consecutive nights, and also before her Most Gracious
    Majesty the Queen), at the Royal Princess’s Theatre, when under
    the management of Mr. Charles Kean, will present their new and
    successful

                        ILLUSTRATIVE AND MUSICAL

                       DRAWING-ROOM ENTERTAINMENT,

                         In Two Parts, entitled

            ‘DISTANT RELATIONS,’ AND ‘HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS,’

                   In which they will sustain several

                       CHARACTERS IN FULL COSTUME.

    N.B.—This entertainment was produced at the Royal Colosseum,
    and represented by the Misses Kate and Ellen Terry thirty
    consecutive nights to upwards of 30,000 persons—

and so on.

In ‘Home for the Holidays,’ the burden seems to have been cast on Ellen
Terry, who performed ‘Hector Melrose, a slight specimen of the rising
generation.’

In her rather fitful course, Ellen Terry[20] had gone on the stage,
left it, and had gone on it again. Her performance at the Prince of
Wales’s Theatre, the little home of comedy, in the piece of ‘Masks
and Faces,’ had left a deep impression, and I well recall the sort of
passionate intensity she put into the part. It must be said that there
was some uncertainty as to how she was likely to acquit herself in the
very important round of characters now destined for her; but her friends
and admirers were confident that her natural dramatic instincts and
quick ability, together with the inspiration furnished by so powerful a
coadjutor, would supply all deficiencies. And these previsions were to
be amply justified. But it was the sympathetic, passionate, and touching
performance of Olivia in Mr. Wills’s version of ‘The Vicar of Wakefield’
that had lately drawn all eyes to her. It was felt that here was an
actress possessing “distinction” and original power. A series of these
performances at the Court Theatre, under Mr. Hare’s management, had added
to her reputation.

For the opening of his theatre, the new manager did not much care
to engage actors of mark, relying on a few sound but unpretentious
performers, such as the late Mead, Swinburne, and others.[21] On his
visits to Dublin, the new manager had met a clever, ardent young man, who
had taken share in the flattering honours offered by Trinity College.
This was the now well-known Bram Stoker, whose geniality, good-nature,
and tact were to be of much service to the enterprise. A short time
before he was in one of the public offices in Dublin; he was now offered
the post of director of the theatre, or “business-manager,” as it is
technically called. Mr. H. Loveday had been stage-manager under the
Bateman dynasty, and was continued in his office. This gentleman is
really _hors ligne_ in this walk, being quick of resource, firm, even
despotic where need requires it, and eke genial and forbearing too. The
wonderful and ambitious development at the Lyceum has drawn on all his
resources, equipping him with an experience which few stage-managers
have opportunities of acquiring. When, as during the performance of
‘Henry VIII.,’ a crowd of over five hundred persons passes through the
stage-door of the Lyceum, a stage-manager must needs have gifts of
control of a high order to maintain discipline and direct his forces.
And who does not know the sagacious and ever-obliging Hurst, who has
controlled the box-office for many a year!

This proper selection of officials is all-important in an enterprise of
this kind. Where they are well chosen, they help to bind the public to
the house. It is well known that our manager is well skilled in reading
the book of human character, and has rarely made a mistake in choosing
his followers. On their side, they have always shown much devotion to the
interests of their chief.

Not the least important of these assistants is an accomplished artist,
Mr. Hawes Craven, the painter of the scenery, the deviser of the many
elaborate settings and tableaux which have for so long helped to enrich
the Lyceum plays. The modern methods of scenery now require an almost
architectural knowledge and skill, from the “built-up” structures which
are found necessary, the gigantic portals and porticoes of cathedrals,
houses, squares, and statues. Monumental constructions of all kinds are
contrived, the details, carvings, etc., being modelled or wrought in
_papier-mâché_ material. It may be doubted whether this system really
helps stage illusion as it affects to do, or whether more sincere
dramatic effects would not be gained by simpler and less laboured
methods. To Mr. Craven, too, we owe the development of what is the
“medium” principle—the introduction of atmosphere, of phantasmagoric
lights of different tones, which are more satisfactory than the same
tones when produced by ordinary colours. The variety of the effects thus
produced has been extraordinary. As might be expected, the artistic
instincts of the manager have here come in aid of the painter, who with
much readiness and versatility has been ready to seize on the idea and
give it practical shape by his craft.[22]

Mr. Craven, years ago, practised his art on the boards of the old Dublin
Theatre Royal, under Mr. Harris, where his scenery attracted attention
for its brilliancy and originality. His scenes had the breadth and effect
of rich water-colour drawings, somewhat of the Prout school. Scenic
effect is now seriously interfered with by the abundant effulgence of
light in which the stage is bathed, and in which the delicate middle
tints are quite submerged. The contrast, too, with moulded work is
damaging, and causes the painted details to have a “poorish,” flat air.
Another point to which much prominence had been given from the first at
the Lyceum is the music. A fine and full orchestra—on an operatic scale
almost—with excellent conductors, who were often composers of reputation,
was provided. This rich and melodious entertainment sets off the play
and adds to its dignity, and may be contrasted with the meagre music
ordinarily provided in theatres.

Once, travelling in the North, the manager met at a hotel a young
musician who, like himself, “was on tour,” with some concert party
it might be, and fell into conversation with him on their respective
professions. This young man chatted freely, and imparted his ideas on
music in general, and on theatre music in particular. The manager was
pleased with the freshness and practical character of these views,
and both went their way. Long after, when thinking of a successor to
Stöpel—the old-established Lyceum conductor—he recalled this agreeable
companion, who was Mr. Hamilton Clarke, and engaged him, at the handsome
salary of some six hundred a year, to direct the music. He was, moreover,
a composer of great distinction. His fine, picturesque overtures and
incidental music to ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ and other Lyceum pieces,
still linger in the memory. It is to be lamented that this connection was
severed. The manager has later applied for aid to such composers as Sir
Arthur Sullivan, Sir A. Mackenzie, Sir Julius Benedict, Stanford, Jacobi,
and Mr. German.

When he was thus busy with preparations for inaugurating his new
ambitious venture, he had engagements to fulfil in the country, and
could only rush up to town occasionally to push on the preparations.
He tells us how, having secured a new Horatio, a “modern young actor,”
as he called him, whom he had never seen perform, he came up to town
especially to hear him go through his part. After reading it over for him
in the way he desired it to be done, Irving said, “Now you try it; I will
be the Ghost.” “So he began, and what a surprise it was! As Horatio he
apostrophized me in the most cool, familiar, drawing-room, conventional
style possible to imagine. I was aghast, ‘No, no,’ I cried. ‘Stop,
consider the situation, its thrills of horror, the supernatural!’ ‘Oh,
yes,’ he replied, ‘but how am I to do it?’ ‘Can’t you understand it?’
I said; ‘try again.’ He did still the same again and again. There was
nothing to be done but engage another performer.”

Anticipating a little, I may say here that the Lyceum company, though
not affecting to contain any brilliant “stars,” has from the beginning
exhibited a true homogeneousness in those sound conscientious actors who
have always “discharged” their characters in an effective way, suited
to the requirements of the piece. With a certain logical consistency,
the manager has ever considered the requirements of his audience and the
theatre. The attraction, it was understood, was to be the two leading
performers, who were to stand, as it were, before a well-studied,
well-composed background. The subsidiary characters, it was felt, should
set off the leading characters. The introduction of Mrs. Stirling, an
actress of the first rank, in such a part as the Nurse, however welcome
as a performance, almost disturbed the dramatic harmony, and made an
inferior part too prominent. This may seem hypercritical, but there can
be no doubt as to its truth, and it shows what tact is necessary to
secure an even performance. Those members of the corps who have been with
him almost from the beginning, the manager has thoroughly leavened with
his own methods and his own spirit, thus securing a general harmony. Such
useful auxiliaries include Johnson (a low comedian of the older school),
Tyers, Archer (another low comedian), Haviland (a most useful performer,
who improves with every year), and Andrews. Another serviceable player
was Wenman, who seemed in physique and method to be exactly suited to
Burchell in ‘Olivia.’ During the past seasons, however, this worthy man
has been removed from the company by death. On a stranger these players
might produce little effect; but the _habitués_ of the theatre have grown
familiar with their ways and faces and figures, and would miss them much
were they absent from a new play.

In addition to this permanent body, the manager is accustomed
occasionally to call to his aid performers of mark, such as Terriss and
Forbes Robertson, the former an admirable actor in special characters
that are suited to his robustness, though his powers would gain by some
refining. Forbes Robertson is a picturesque performer of many resources,
who can supply colour and passion at need. He has a fair share of what
is called “distinction”; indeed, we wonder that his position has not ere
this become more fixed and certain. But this rests on a deeper question,
and is connected with the conditions of the stage at this moment, when
the only course open to the player is to become a “manager-actor,” and
have his own theatre, otherwise he must wander from house to house.
Arthur Stirling and Macklin—excellent, well-trained actors both—have
been found at the Lyceum, as also Mr. Bishop. Of the ladies there are
Miss Genevieve Ward, the excellent Mrs. Pauncefort (of the school of
Mrs. Chippendale), Miss Coleridge, occasionally the vivacious Miss
Kate Phillips, and Miss Emery, who takes Miss Terry’s place in case of
indisposition or fatigue.

The new manager made some decorative alterations in the theatre which,
considering the little time at his disposal, did credit to his taste
and promptitude. The auditorium was treated in sage green and turquoise
blue; the old, familiar “cameos” of Madame Vestris’s day, ivory tint,
were still retained, while the hangings were of blue silk, trimmed
with amber and gold, with white lace curtains. The ceiling was of pale
blue and gold. The stalls were upholstered in blue, “a special blue”
it was called; escaloped shells were used to shield the glare of the
footlights. The dressing-rooms of the performers, the Royal box, and
Lady Burdett-Coutts’ box were all handsomely decorated and re-arranged,
the whole being directed by Mr. A. Darbyshire, a Manchester architect.
This, however, was but the beginning of a long series of structural
alterations, additions, and costly decorations, pursued over a term of a
little over a dozen years.

On Monday, December 30, 1878, the theatre was opened with the revived
‘Hamlet.’ This was the first of those glittering nights—_premières_—which
have since become a feature of a London season. From the brilliancy
of the company—which usually includes all that is notable in the arts
and professions—as well as from the rich dresses, jewels, and flowers,
which suggest the old opera nights, the spectacle has become one of
extraordinary interest, and invitations are eagerly sought. Here are seen
the regular _habitués_, who from the first have been always invited: for
the constancy of the manager to his old friends is well known.

The play was given with new scenery, dresses, music, etc. The aim was to
cast over the whole a poetical and dreamy glamour, which was exhibited
conspicuously in the treatment of the opening scenes when the Ghost
appeared. There were the mysterious battlements seen at a distance,
shadowy walls, and the cold blue of breaking day. There were fine halls,
with arches and thick pillars of Norman pattern. Irving’s version of the
part was in the main the same as before, but it was noted that he had
moderated it, as it were; it became more thoughtful.

Of course, much interest and speculation was excited by the new actress,
who exhibited all her charming grace and winsomeness, with a tender
piteousness, when the occasion called. “Why,” she told an interviewer,
“I am so high strung on a first night that if I realized there was
an audience in front staring at me, I should fly off and be _down at
Winchester in two twos_!” On this momentous night of trial she thought
she had completely failed, and without waiting for the fifth act she
flung herself into the arms of a friend, repeating, “I have failed, I
have failed!” She drove up and down the Embankment half a dozen times
before she found courage to go home.

This successful inauguration of his venture was to bear fruit in a long
series of important pieces, each produced with all the advantages that
unsparing labour, good taste, study, and expense could supply. Who could
have dreamed, or did _he_ dream on that night? that no fewer than nine
of Shakespeare’s greatest plays, a liberal education for audiences,
were destined to be his contribution to “the public stock of harmless
pleasure”? Every one of taste is under a serious obligation to him,
having consciously or unconsciously learnt much from this accomplished
man.

On this occasion, adopting a custom since always adhered to, the manager
had his arrangement of the play printed, with an introduction by a good
Shakespearian student, who was destined to be a well-known figure in
the _entourage_ of the Lyceum. Albeit a little _tête montée_, “Frank
Marshall,” with his excited, bustling ways, and eccentric exterior, seems
now to be missed. He was always _bon enfant_. He had written one very
pleasing comedy, ‘False Shame,’ and was also rated as a high authority
on all Shakespearian matters. He published an elaborate _Study of
Hamlet_, and later induced Irving to join him in an ambitious edition of
Shakespeare, which has recently been completed. He was also a passionate
bibliomaniac, though not a very judicious one, lacking the necessary
restraint and judgment. He had somewhat of a troubled course, like so
many a London _littérateur_.

At this time the average theatrical criticism, from lack of suitable
stimulant to excite it, was not nearly so discriminating as it is now,
when there is a body of well-trained, capable men, who sign their names
and carry out their duty with much independence. It is extraordinary what
a change has taken place. At the opening of Irving’s management there was
certainly a tendency to wholesale and lavish panegyric. Not unnaturally,
too, for all were grateful to one who was making such exertion to
restore the stage to elegance. Some of the ordinary newspapers, however,
overwhelmed him with their rather tedious, indiscriminate praises; it
seemed as though too much could not be said. There is no praise where
_everything_ is praised; nor is such very acceptable to its object. A
really candid discussion on the interpretation of a character, with
reasonable objections duly made, and argued out with respect, and
suggestions put forward—this becomes of real profit to the performer.
Thus in one single short criticism on a character of Garrick’s—he was
once playing a gentleman disguised as a valet—Johnson has furnished not
only Garrick, but all players too, with an invaluable principle which is
the foundation of all acting: “No, sir; he does not let the gentleman
break out through the footman.”

A new play at the Lyceum is rarely concluded without a speech being
insisted upon. Irving himself has favoured this practice, but
reluctantly, yielding only to the irresistible pressure of ardent and
clamorous admirers. The system now obtains at every theatre where there
is an “actor-manager.” But there can be no question but that it is
an abuse, and a perilous one. It encourages a familiarity, and often
insolence, which shakes authority. The manager, when he makes his speech,
seems to invite the galleries down on to his stage, and it is to be
noticed that the denizens of these places are growing bolder, and fancy,
not unreasonably, that they are entitled to have _their_ speech, as the
manager has his.[23]

The manager has been always guided by the principle of alternating
his greater attempts with others on a more moderate and less
pretentious scale. With this view he brought out, on April 17, 1879,
the ever-attractive ‘Lady of Lyons’—which would seem naturally suited
to him and his companion. He was himself in sympathy with the piece,
and prepared it on the most romantic and picturesque lines. It has
been usually presented in a stagey, declamatory fashion, as affording
opportunity to the two leading performers for exhibiting a robustious
or elocutionary passion. It was determined to tone the whole down, as
it were, and present it as an interesting love-story, treated with
restraint. Nothing could be more pleasing than the series of scenes thus
unfolded, set off by the not unpicturesque costumes of the revolutionary
era. It is difficult to conceive now of a Pauline otherwise attired.
It would seem that a play always presents itself to our manager’s eye
as a series of poetical scenes which take shape before him, with all
their scenery, dresses, and situations. As he muses over them they fall
into their place—the figures move; a happy suitable background suggests
itself, with new and striking arrangements; and thus the whole order and
tone of the piece furnishes him with inspiration.

Indeed, it must be confessed that there are few plays we should be less
inclined to part with than this hackneyed and well-worn drama. The
“casual sight” of that familiar title on the red-brick corner wall in
some country or manufacturing town, it may be weeks old—the old paper
flapping flag-like—always touches a welcome note, and the names of
characters have a romantic sound. In the story there is the charm of
simple effects and primitive emotion; it is worked out without violence
or straining, and all through the ordinary sympathies are firmly struck,
and in the most touching way. Tinselly or superficial as many have
pronounced the piece, there is depth in it. So artfully is it compounded
that it is possible to play the two characters in half-a-dozen different
ways; and clever actors have exerted themselves to gloss over the one
weak spot in Melnotte’s character—the unworthy deception, which involves
loss of respect. Pauline, however, is a most charming character, from the
mixture of emotions; if played, that is, in a tender, impulsive way, and
not made a vehicle for elocutionary display. The gracious, engaging part
of the heroine has been essayed by our most graceful actresses, after
being created by the once irresistible Miss Helen Faucit. For over fifty
years this drama has held its ground, and is always being performed.
The young beginner, just stepping on the boards, turns fondly to the
effective “gardener’s son,” and is all but certain that he could deliver
the passage ending, “_Dost like the picture?_”—a burst often smiled
at, but never failing to tell. Every one of the characters is good and
actable, and, though we may have seen it fifty times, as most playgoers
have, there is always a reserve of novelty and attraction left which is
certain to interest.

On this occasion, the old, well-worn drama was so picturesquely set
forth, that it seemed to offer a new pastoral charm. In Irving’s Claude
there was a sincerity and earnestness which went far to neutralize these
highly artificial, not to say “high-flown,” passages which have so often
excited merriment. Miss Terry, as may be conceived, was perfectly suited
in her character—the ever-charming Pauline; and displayed an abundance of
spontaneousness, sympathy, and tenderness.

The public was at this time to learn with interest that the actor was
to accompany Lady Burdett-Coutts on a voyage to the Mediterranean in
her yacht _The Walrus_, and all was speculation as to the party and
their movements. One of her guests was an agreeable young American named
Bartlett, now better known as Mr. Burdett-Coutts, since become the
husband of the lady. During this pleasant voyage _The Walrus_ directed
her course to Venice and various Italian cities—all new and welcome
to our actor, who was at the same time taking stock of the manners,
customs, dresses, etc., of the country, and acquiring, as it were,
the general flavour and _couleur locale_. His scene-painter had also
found his way there, and was filling his sketch-book with rich “bits of
colour,” picturesque streets, and buildings. The manager was, in fact,
pondering over a fresh Shakespearian venture—an Italian play, which
was to be produced with the new season. He was, in fact, about to set
on the stage ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ with every aid that money and
taste could supply. The moment this selection was known, it was felt
almost universally that it was exactly the piece that should have been
chosen. Everyone anticipated by a sort of instinct what entertainment
was in store for them: for here was the part and here was the actor.
Notwithstanding the elaborate character of the preparations, the whole
was “got up” in some four weeks, though this period did not comprise the
long course of private study and meditation during which the scheme was
gradually matured in his mind. When on his yachting expedition he had
taken advantage of a hasty visit to Tangier to purchase Moorish costumes
to be used in the Shakespearian spectacle he was preparing.

To fill up the interval he got ready Colman’s drama ‘The Iron Chest,’
produced on September 27, 1879. This powerful but lugubrious piece
has always had an unaccountable attraction for tragedians. Sir Edward
Mortimer belongs, indeed, to the family of Sir Giles Overreach. The
character offered temptation to our actor from its long-sustained,
mournful, and poetical soliloquies, in which the state of the remorseful
soul was laid bare at protracted length; but, though modified and
altered, the piece is hopelessly old-fashioned. It is impossible in
our day to accept seriously a “band of robbers,” who moreover live
in “the forest”; and the “proofs” of Sir Edward’s guilt, a knife and
blood-stained cloth, carefully preserved in an old chest which is always
in sight, have a burlesque air.

Irving very successfully presented the image of the tall, wan, haggard
man, a prey to secret remorse and sorrow. Wilford, the secretary, is
by anticipation, as it were, in possession of the terrible secret of
the murder, and is himself a character of much force and masterful
control. He is really the complement of the leading personage. But Norman
Forbes—one of the Forbes Robertson family, _ingenuus puer_, and likewise
_bonæ indolis_—made of this part merely an engaging youth, who certainly
ought to have given no anxiety in the world to a conscience-stricken
murderer. The terrors of Sir Edward would have had more force and effect
had he been in presence of a more robust and resolute personage—one who
was not to be drawn off the scent, or shaken off his prey. This piece
well served its purpose as “a stop-gap” until the new one was ready.




CHAPTER VII.

1879.

‘THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.’


This great and attractive play was now ready: all was anticipation and
eager interest The night of its production—November 1, 1879—was a festive
one. The house was most brilliant: and indeed this may be accounted the
first _regular_, official Lyceum _première_. I recall that among the
audience were Tom Taylor and Henry Byron, names that now seem ghost-like,
so rapidly do literary shadows depart. Like some rich Eastern dream,
steeped in colours and crowded with exquisite figures of enchantment,
the gorgeous vision of the pageant seems now to rise in the cold, sober
daylight. As a view of Venetian life, manners, and scenery, it has never
been matched. The figures seemed to have a grace that belonged not to
the beings that pace, and declaim upon, the boards. Add the background,
the rich exquisite dresses, the truly noble scenery—a revel of colour,
yet mellowed—the elegant theatre itself crammed with an audience that
even the Lyceum had not witnessed, and it may be conceived what a night
it was. The scenery alone would take an essay to itself, and it is hard
to say which of the three artists engaged most excelled. The noble
colonnade of the ducal palace was grand and imposing; so was the lovely
interior of Portia’s house at Belmont, with its splendid amber hangings
and pearl-gray tones, its archings and spacious perspective. But the
Court scene, with its ceiling painted in the Verrio style, its portraits
of Doges, the crimson walls with gilt carvings, and the admirable
arrangements of the throne, etc., surely for taste, contrivance, and
effect has never been matched. The whole effect was produced by the
painting, not by built-up structures. The dresses too—groupings,
servants, and retainers—what sumptuousness! The pictures of Moroni and
Titian had been studied for the dove-coloured cloaks and jerkins, the
violet merchant’s gown of Antonio, the short hats—like those of our
day—and the frills. The general tone was that of one of Paolo Veronese’s
pictures—as gorgeous and dazzling as the _mélange_ of dappled colour in
the great Louvre picture.

Shylock was not the conventional Hebrew usurer with patriarchal beard
and flowing robe, dirty and hook-nosed, but a picturesque and refined
Italianized Jew, genteelly dressed: a dealer in money, in the country of
Lorenzo de’ Medici, where there is an aristocracy of merchants. His eyes
are dark and piercing, his face is sallow, his hair spare and turning
gray; he wears a black cap, a brown gaberdine faced with black, and a
short robe underneath.

The “Trial scene,” with its shifting passions, would have stamped Irving
as a fine actor. See him as he enters, having laid aside his gaberdine
and stick, and arrayed in his short-skirted gown, not with flowing
but tightened sleeves, so that this spareness seems to lend a general
gauntness to his appearance. There he stands, with eyes half furtively,
half distrustfully following the Judge as he speaks. When called upon
to answer the appeal made to him “from the bench,” how different from
the expected conventional declaration of violent hatred! Instead, his
explanation is given with an artful adroitness as if _drawn_ from him.
Thus, “If you deny it” is a reminder given with true and respectful
dignity, not a threat; and when he further declares that it “is his
humour,” there is a candour which might commend his case, though he
cannot restrain a gloating look at his prey. But as he dwells on the
point, and gives instances of other men’s loathing, this malignity seems
to carry him away, and, complacent in the logic of his illustration
of the “gaping pig” and “harmless necessary cat,” he bows low with a
Voltairean smile, and asks, “_Are you answered?_” How significant, too,
his tapping the bag of gold several times with his knife, in rejection
of the double sum offered, meant as a calm business-like refusal; and
the “I would have my bond!” emphasized with a meaning clutch. Then the
conclusion, “Fie upon your law,” delivered with folded arms and a haughty
dignity; indeed, a barrister might find profit here, and study the art of
putting a case with adroitness and weight. But when Antonio arrives his
eyes follow him with a certain uneasy distrust, and on Bellario’s letter
being read out he listens with a quiet interest, plucking his beard a
little nervously. As, however, he sees the tone the young lawyer takes,
he puts on a most deferential and confidential manner, which colours his
various compliments: “O wise young Judge,” “A Daniel,” etc., becoming
almost wheedling. And when he pleads his oath—

    “Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?
    No, not for Venice!”

there is a hypocritical earnestness, as if he were giving his reason
privately to the counsel, though there is a strange, indescribable sneer
conveyed in that “not for Venice.” Then the compliment to Portia, “How
much more elder art thou than thy looks!” which he utters, crouching
low, with a smiling, even leering, admiration, but admiration given for
what is on his own side. And what follows opens a most natural piece of
business, arising out of the sort of confidential intimacy which he would
establish between them—

                          “Ay, his breast,
    So says the bond;—Doth it not, noble judge?
    _Nearest his heart_, those are the very words”;

the latter words pronounced with canine ferocity, his eyes straining
over the other’s shoulders, while he points with his knife—secure, too,
that the other will agree with him. He fancies that he has brought
over the counsel to his side. And it may be added that this knife is
not flourished in the butcher’s style we are accustomed to; it is more
delicately treated, as though something surgical were contemplated. When
bidden to “have by some surgeon,” nothing could be better than the sham
curiosity with which he affects to search the bond for such a proviso,
letting his knife travel down the lines, and the tone of “I cannot find
it,” in a cold, helpless way, as if he had looked out of courtesy to
his “young Judge,” who appeared to be on his side. The latter at last
declares that there is no alternative, but that Antonio must yield his
bosom to the knife; then the Jew’s impatience seems to override his
courtesies, his gloating eyes never turn from his victim, and with greedy
ferocity he advances suddenly with “Come, prepare!” When, however, Portia
makes her “point” about the “drop of blood,” he drops his scales with
a start; and, Gratiano taunting him, his eyes turn with a dazed look
from one to the other; he says slowly, “Is—that—the—law?” Checked more
and more in his reluctant offers, he at last bursts out with a demoniac
snarl—“Why, then, the devil give him good of it!” Finally he turns to
leave, tottering away bewildered and utterly broken. As may be imagined,
the new Shylock excited a vast deal of controversy. The “old school” was
scornful; and here again it would have been worth hearing the worthy Jack
Ryder—whom we still must take to be the type of the good old past—on the
subject.

Nothing was more remarkable than the general effect of this fine and
thoughtful representation upon the public. It was a distinct education,
too, and set everyone discussing and reading. Admittedly one result was
the great increase in the sale of editions of Shakespeare’s works; and
the ephemeral literature engendered in the shape of articles, criticisms,
and illustrations of all kinds was truly extraordinary. Here again was
heard the harsh note of the jealous and the envious. There was plenty of
fair and honest dissent as to the interpretation of the play, with some
reasonably argued protests against the over-abundant decoration.

The hundredth night of the run of this prodigiously successful revival
was celebrated in hospitable fashion by a supper, to which all that was
artistic, literary, and fashionable—_tout Londres_ in short—was bidden.
The night was Saturday, February 14, 1880, the hour half-past eleven.
As soon as the piece was terminated a wonderful _tour de force_ was
accomplished. In an incredibly short space of time—some forty minutes,
I believe—an enormous marquee, striped red and white, that enclosed the
whole of the stage, was set up; the tables were arranged and spread with
“all the luxuries of the season” with magic rapidity. An enjoyable night
followed. The host’s health was given by that accomplished man, and man
of elegant tastes, Lord Houghton, in what was thought a curiously _mal à
propos_ speech. After conventional eulogiums, he could not resist some
half-sarcastic remarks as to “this new method of adorning Shakespeare.”
He condemned the system of long “runs,” which he contrasted with that of
his youth, when pieces were given not oftener than once or twice in the
week. He then praised the improvement in the manners of the profession,
“so that the tradition of good breeding and high conduct was not confined
to special families like the Kembles, or to special individuals like Mr.
Irving himself, but was spread over the profession, so that families of
condition were ready to allow their children to go on the stage. _We put
our sons and daughters into it._” I recall now the genuine indignation
and roughly-expressed sentiments of some leading performers and critics
who were sitting near me at this very awkward compliment. He then
proceeded to speak of the new impersonation, describing how he had seen
a Shylock, formerly considered a ferocious monster, but who had, under
their host’s treatment, become a “gentleman of the Jewish persuasion, in
voice very like a Rothschild, afflicted with a stupid servant and wilful
and pernicious daughter, to be eventually foiled by a very charming
woman. But there was one character Mr. Irving would never pervert or
misrepresent, and that was his own,” etc.

Never was the power and good-humour—the _bonhomie_—of the manager more
happily displayed than in his reply. As was said at the time, it showed
him in quite a new light. Taken wholly unawares—for whatever preparation
he might have made was, he said, “rendered useless by the unexpected tone
of Lord Houghton’s remarks”-he was thrown on his impromptu resources, and
proved that he really possessed what is called debating power. He spoke
without hesitation, and with much good sense and playful humour put aside
these blended compliments and sarcasms.

Some time before the manager, who was on friendly terms with the gifted
Helen Faucit, determined to revive a piece in which she had once made a
deep impression, viz., ‘King Réné’s Daughter.’ This poem, translated by
her husband, set out the thoughts and feelings of a young girl in the
contrasted conditions of blindness and of sight recovered. With a natural
enthusiasm for his art, Irving persuaded the actress, who had long since
withdrawn from the stage, to emerge from her retirement and play her old
character “for one night only.” This news really stirred the hearts of
true playgoers, who recalled this actress in her old days of enchantment,
when she was in her prime, truly classical and elegant in every pose,
playing the pathetic Antigone. But, alas! for the old Antigone dreams; we
could have wished that we had stayed away! The actress’s devices seemed
to have hung too long a “rusty mail, and seemed quite out of fashion.”
Irving did all he could, in an almost chivalrous style, and it was
certainly a kindly act of admiration and enthusiasm for his art to think
of such a revival. Such homage deserved at least tolerance or recognition.

Miss Terry herself had always fancied the character of Iolanthe, and it
was now proposed to give the play as an after-piece to ‘The Merchant
of Venice,’ a substantial meal for one night. Our heroine made a
tender, natural, and highly emotional character of it. A new version or
adaptation from the Danish had been made, for obvious reasons, by the
trusty Wills: the piece was set off by one really lovely scene, which
represented the heart of some deep grove, that seemed almost inaccessible
to us, weird and jungle-like. A golden, gorgeous light played on the
trees capriciously; there was a rich tangle of huge tropical flowers;
while behind, the tall, bare trunks of trees were ranged close together
like sentinels. Golden doors opened with a musical chime, or clang;
strange, weird music, as of æolian harps, floated up now and again. With
this background, knightly figures of the Arthurian pattern and ethereal
maidens were seen to float before us. Miss Terry’s conception of the
maid was not Miss Faucit’s, which was that of a placid, rather cold and
elegant being. She cast over the character a rapture, as though she were
all love and impulse, with an inexpressible tenderness and devotional
trust, as when she exclaimed, “I _go_ to find the light!” This sort of
rapture also tinged Mr. Irving’s character, and the audience were lifted
into a region where emotion reigned supreme.




CHAPTER VIII.

1880.

‘THE CORSICAN BROTHERS’ AND ‘THE CUP.’


With his usual tact the manager had determined on a change of
entertainment which should offer a marked contrast to the classical
success just obtained, and was now meditating a revival of the once
popular romantic drama, ‘The Corsican Brothers,’ with all its spectral
effects—certainly one of the best of many admirably-constructed and
effective French pieces. To such a group belong the absorbing ‘Two
Orphans,’ ‘Thirty Years of a Gambler’s Life,’ ‘Victorine,’ and others.
‘The Lady of Lyons’ is the only one of our _répertoire_ that can be
put beside these ingenious efforts. Some thirty years ago, when it was
produced at the Princess’s, the horny-voiced Charles Kean performing
the Brothers, it took hold of the public with a sort of fascination—the
strange music of Stöpel, and the mysterious, gliding progress of the
murdered brother across the stage, enthralling everyone. There was a
story at the time that the acts, sent over from Paris in separate parcels
for translation, had become transposed, the second act being placed
first, and this order was retained in the representation with some
benefit to the play. This may be a legend; but the fact is that either
act could come first without making any serious difference.

Magnificent and attractive as was the mounting of this piece at the time,
it was really excelled in sumptuousness on its later revival in 1891.
The experience of ten years had made the manager feel a certainty in the
results of his own efforts; his touch had become sure; the beautiful and
striking effects were developed naturally, without that undue emphasis
which often disturbs the onward course of a piece. All his agents had
grown skilled in the resources of the scene; and he himself, enjoying
this security, and confident as would be a rider on the back of a
well-trained horse, could give his undoubted fancy and imagination full
range. Hence that fine, unobtrusive harmony which now reigns in all his
pictures. Even now the wonderful opera house, the forest glades, the
_salon_ in Paris, all rise before us. Nor was there less art shown in the
subdued tone of mystery which it was contrived to throw over the scenes.
The scenes themselves, even those of reckless gaiety, seemed to strike
this “awesome” note. Much as the familiar “ghost tune” was welcomed, more
mysterious, as it always seemed to me, was the “creepy variation” on the
original theme, devised by Mr. H. Clarke, and which stole in mournfully
at some impending crisis all through the piece. There was some criticism
on the D’Orsay costumes of the piece; the short-waisted waist-coats, the
broad-brimmed opera hats, and the rich cravats—_Joinvilles_, as they
used to be called. These lent a piquancy, and yet were not too remote
from the present time. Terriss, it must be said, was lacking in elegance
and “distinction.” There always lingers in the memory the image of the
smooth grace and courtesies of Alfred Wigan, who really made a dramatic
character of the part—sympathetic and exciting interest. It is in these
things that we miss the style, the bearing which is itself acting,
without utterance of a word, and which now seems to be a lost art. One
result of this treatment, as Mr. Clement Scott truly pointed out, was the
shifting of sympathies. “Château-Renaud was, no doubt, a villain, but he
was one of the first class, and with magnetic power in him. He had won
for himself a high place. He was cold as steel, and reserved. For him to
deal with Louis was child’s play. And yet all this was reversed: it was
Louis that dominated the situation; no one felt the least apprehension
for his fate.” This is a judicious criticism.

Familiarity has now somewhat dulled the effect of the gliding entrance of
the ghostly Louis, which at first seemed almost supernatural. The art was
in making the figure rise as it advanced, and an ingenious contrivance
was devised by one of the stage foremen. It was a curious feeling to find
oneself in the cavernous regions below the stage, and see the manager
rush down and hurriedly place himself on the trap to be worked slowly
upwards.[24]

The use of intense light has favoured the introduction of new effects in
the shape of transparent scenery; that is, of a scene that looks like
any ordinary one, but is painted on a thick gauzy material. Thus, in
the first act, the back of the scene in the Corsican Palace is of this
material, through which the tableau of the Paris duel is shown, a fierce
light being cast upon it. In the original representation the whole wall
descended and revealed the scene. The upper half ascending, the other
offers something of a magic-lantern or phantasmagorian air. The same
material is used in the dream in ‘The Bells,’ when the spectral trial is
seen going on, made mysterious and misty by the interposition of this
gauze.

In the duel scene one of the swords is broken by an accident; the other
combatant breaks his across his knee, that the duel may proceed “on equal
terms.” It is not, of course, to be supposed that a sword is broken every
night. They are made with a slight rivet and a little solder, the fitting
being done every morning, so that the pieces are easily parted. But few
note how artfully the performers change their weapons; for in the early
stages of the duel the flourishings and passes would have soon caused
the fragments to separate. It is done during the intervals of rest, when
the combatants lean on the seconds and gather strength for the second
“round,” and one gets his new weapon from behind a tree, the other from
behind a prostrate log.

But it is in the next act that the series of elaborate set scenes
succeeding each other entails the most serious difficulties, only to be
overcome in one way—viz., by the employment of an enormous number of
persons. Few modern scenes were more striking than that of the Opera
House lit _à giorno_, with its grand chandelier and smaller clusters
running round. The blaze of light was prodigious; for this some five
thousand feet of gas-tubing had to be laid down, the floor covered with
snake-like coils of indiarubber pipes, and the whole to be contrived
so as to be controlled from a single centre-pipe. There were rows of
boxes with crimson curtains, the spectators filling them—some faces
being painted in, others being represented by living persons. Yet
nothing could be more simple than the elements of this Opera House.
From the audience portion one would fancy that it was an elaborately
built and costly structure. It was nothing but two light screens pierced
with openings, but most artfully arranged and coloured. At its close,
down came the rich tableau curtains, while behind them descended the
cloth with the representation of the lobby scene in the Opera House.
It used to be customary for the manager’s friends to put on a mask and
domino and mingle with the gay throng of roysterers in the Opera House
scene, or to take a place in one of the practicable boxes and survey
the whole—and a curious scene it was. A cosy supper in the Beef-steak
room, and a pleasant _causerie_ through the small hours, concluded a
delightful and rather original form of a night’s entertainment. This
was followed by the double rooms of the supper party, a very striking
scene: two richly-furnished rooms, Aubusson carpets, a pianoforte,
nearly twenty chairs, sofas, tables, clocks, and a supper-table covered
with delicacies, champagne bottles, flowers, etc. This is succeeded
almost instantly by a scene occupying the same space—that of the forest,
requiring the minutest treatment, innumerable properties, real trees,
etc. This is how it is contrived. The instant the tableau curtains are
dropped, the auxiliaries rush on the scene; away to right and left fly
the portions of the Parisian drawing-room: tables, chairs, piano, sofa,
vanish in an instant. Men appear carrying tall saplings fixed in stands;
one lays down the strip of frozen pond, another the prostrate trunk of
a tree—everyone from practice knowing the exact place of the particular
article he is appointed to carry. Others arrive with bags of sand, which
are emptied and strewn on the floor; the circular tree is in position,
the limelights ready. The transformation was effected, in what space
of time will the reader imagine? In thirty-eight _seconds_, by the
stage-manager’s watch. By that time the tableau had been drawn aside, and
Château-Renaud and his friend Maugiron were descending into the gloomy
glade after their carriage had broken down.[25]

As we call up the memories of the Lyceum performances, with what a series
of picturesque visions is our memory furnished—poetical Shakespearian
pageants; romantic melodramatic stories, set forth with elegance and
_vraisemblance_; plays of pathetic or domestic interest; exhilarating
comedies; with highly dramatic poems, written by the late Poet Laureate,
Wills, and others. Indeed, who could have conceived on the opening night
of the Lyceum management, when ‘Hamlet’ was to be brought out, that this
was to be the first of a regular series—viz., nine gorgeous and ambitious
presentations of Shakespearian pieces, each involving almost stupendous
efforts, intellectual and physical, that we were to see in succession
‘The Merchant of Venice,’ ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ ‘Much Ado About Nothing,’
‘Othello,’ ‘Twelfth Night,’ ‘Macbeth,’ ‘Henry VIII.,’ and ‘King Lear’?
What a gift to the public in the shape of the attendant associations,
in the glimpses of Italian and other scenery, the rich costumes, the
archæology!

The late Laureate, not contented with the popularity which his poems have
won, always “hankered” after the entrancing publicity and excitement of
the theatre. He made many an attempt in this direction, and his list
of performed dramas is a fairly long one; few, however, have enjoyed
any signal success, save perhaps the last, recently produced in the
United States. To one indeed—witness the unlucky ‘Promise of May’—the
regular “first-nighter,” as he is called, was indebted for an amusing
and enjoyable evening’s entertainment. It must be conceded, however,
that there is a dramatic tone or flavour about his pieces which is
attractive, in spite of all deficiencies, and anyone who could not see
a touching grace and elegance in such a piece as ‘The Falcon,’ weak as
it is in treatment, must have little taste or feeling. So with ‘Queen
Mary,’ which had a certain grim power, and, above all, local colour. His
own striking success in the character of King Philip was an agreeable
recollection for Irving; and he now lent himself with much enthusiasm to
a project for bringing forward a new drama by the poet. The preparations
for this elegant play were of the most lavish and unstinted kind.
Nothing, literally, was spared in the outlay of either study, thought,
money, or art. The manager usually follows an eclectic system, choosing
his _aides_ and assistants as they appear suited to each play. Thus an
architect of literary tastes, Mr. Knowles, was called in to design a
regular Temple-interior, which was the principal scene, and which was to
be treated, _secundum artem_, in professional style. And so it rose with
all its pillars and pediments “behind the scenes.”

              “No ponderous axes rung;
    Like some tall palm the mystic fabric sprung.”

The name of the new piece was ‘The Cup,’ a fine “barbarian” story,
strangely interesting and even fascinating. It was, of course, diffuse
and expanded to inordinate length. And there were many pleasant stories
afloat of the poet contending “for the dear life” for his “ewe lambs,”
and every line of his poetry; the manager, in his pleasant, placid
way—but firm withal—quietly insisting on the most abundant compression.

The night of performance was that of January 3, 1881, when the beautiful
play-poem was at last set before the audience in all its attraction.
It still lingers in the memory with an inexpressible charm, breathing
poetry and romance. We shall ever look back fondly to ‘The Cup,’ with its
exquisite setting, and lament heartily that others did not so cordially
or enthusiastically appreciate it. There was something so fascinating
about the play, something so refining, and also so “fantastical,” that
though lacking the strong thews and muscles of a regular drama, it
satisfied eye and ear. As it floated before us, in airy, evanescent
fashion, it seemed to recall the lines that wind up the most charming of
Shakespeare’s plays, when the revels now had ended, and all had “melted
into air, into thin air.” The noble Temple, with its rich mouldings,
was destined too soon, alas! to pass away into the same dark grave
of so many noble creations. On the two chief characters, both full of
tragic power, the eye rested with an almost entrancing interest. Never
did Irving _act_ better—that is, never did he convey by his look and
tones the evidence of the barbaric conception within him. There was a
fine, pagan, reckless savagery, yet controlled by dignity. Miss Terry’s
Camma returns to the memory like the fragment of a dream. The delightful
creation was brought before us more by her sympathetic bearing and motion
than by speech; what music was there in those tones, pitched in low,
melodious key, interpreting the music of Tennyson! Her face and outline
of figure, refined and poetical as they were, became more refined still
in association with the lovely scenery and its surroundings. She seemed
to belong to the mythological past. There was a strange calm towards the
close, and all through no undue theatrical emphasis or faulty tone of
recitation to disturb that dreamy sense.

It was not a little disheartening to think that this “entire, perfect
chrysolite” was received with a rather cold admiration, or at least not
with the enthusiasm it richly merited. The apathetic crowd scarcely
appreciated the too delicate fare set before it, we scarcely know why. I
suppose that it had not sufficient _robustness_, as it is called. After
some weeks the manager found it needful to supplement the attraction of
the play by the revived ‘Corsican Brothers.’ It may be conceived what a
strain[26] was here on the resources, not merely of the actors, but even
of all who were concerned with the scenery and properties. Two important
pieces had to be treated and manipulated within an incredibly short space
of time.




CHAPTER IX.

1881.

‘OTHELLO’ AND ‘THE TWO ROSES’ REVIVED.


At this time there came to London an American actor whose reputation
in his own country was very high, and for whom it was claimed that, as
a legitimate performer, he was superior to all rivals. This was Mr.
Edwin Booth. He was welcomed with cordiality and much curiosity, and
by none was he received with such hearty goodwill as by the manager
of the Lyceum. Unluckily, he had made his arrangements injudiciously,
having agreed to appear under a management which was quite unsuited
to the proper exhibition of his gifts. The Princess’s Theatre was a
house devoted to melodrama of the commoner type, and was directed by
commercial rather than by æsthetic principles. This mistake proved fatal.
The manager, finding that there was no likelihood of success, was not
inclined to waste his resources, and, no doubt to the anguish of the
actor, brought out the pieces in a meagre fashion that was consistent
with the traditions of Oxford Street, but fatal to the American’s chances.

In this disastrous state of things the manager of the Lyceum came to the
rescue of his _confrère_ with a suggestion as delicately conceived as it
was generous. He offered him his theatre, with its splendid resources and
traditions, his company, and—himself. He proposed that a Shakespearian
play should be produced on the customary scale of magnificence, and that
he and Booth should fill the leading characters. This handsome offer was,
of course, accepted with gratitude, and ‘Othello’ was selected as the
play.

The arrangements for this “Booth season,” as it might be termed, were
of an unusual and certainly laborious kind. The manager, however, was
never disposed to spare himself. The programme began on May 2, 1881, when
Booth was to appear as Othello, performing on Monday, Wednesday, and
Friday, the manager playing Iago. On the other nights of the week, ‘The
Cup,’ with the lively ‘Belle’s Stratagem,’ was to be performed. In the
following week there was the same arrangement, except that Irving took
the part of Othello.[27]

The night of May 2 was an exciting one, even in the list of exciting
Lyceum nights. The Americans were, of course, there in great force.
Irving—Booth—Ellen Terry: this surely formed, in theatrical phrase, a
galaxy of talent, and the cynosure of a crowded, brilliant audience. It
was, indeed, a charming performance—intellectual, highly-coloured, and
treated in the romantic fashion which the age seems to demand. The old
days of lusty-throated, welkin-splitting declamation, emphasized with
strides and lunges, are done with.

Of Irving’s Iago it would be difficult to say too much. There have been
always the two extremes: one portraying the Ancient as a malignant,
scowling, crafty villain, doing much work with his eyes; the other as a
kind of dapper, sarcastic, sneering personage, much after the model of
Mephistopheles, this tone being emphasized by an airy, fashionable dress,
as though he were some cynical Venetian “about town.” In Irving was seen
the man of power and capability. There was breadth of treatment—the
character was coherent throughout. The keynote to the perplexing
character was found in his _humour_. In “I hate the Moor!”—one of those
secret, jealous, morbid broodings which belong to human nature—an
admirably delivered soliloquy, he strives to find some reasonable excuse
for this suggestion; ‘He has done my office’ is merely accepted as a
suitable pretext. The mode in which this was, as it were, chased through
the turnings of his soul; the anxious tone of search, “I know not if
’t be true”; the covering up his face, and the motion by which he let
his hands glide, revealing an elated expression at having found what
would “serve,” was a perfect exhibition of the processes of thought. All
this was set off by a dress of singular appropriateness and richness: a
crimson and gold jerkin, with a mantle of dull or faded green, sometimes
alternated with a short cloak and a red mantle worn on one arm.

In Booth’s Othello there appeared to be a lack of vigour, and the
elocutionist was too present. There was a system of “points.” Some
critics were rude enough to say that “his make-up suggested at times an
Indian juggler, while about the head he seemed a low-cast Bengali.” He
was never the “noble Moor.” “He had a tendency at times to gobble like a
turkey.” This was rather hard measure. But in the scene with Iago, and,
above all, in the scenes with Desdemona, the frantic bursts of jealousy,
the command of varied tones, the by-play, the fierce ordering of Emilia
and his wife—all this was of a high class, and stirred us. Miss Terry’s
Desdemona was pathetic, and her piteous pleadings and remonstrances went
straight to the heart.

On the next performance the parts were interchanged. A figure arrayed
in a flowing amber robe over a purple brocaded gaberdine; a small,
snow-white turban; a face dark, yet not “black”—such was Irving’s
conception of Othello, which indeed answered to our ideal of the Moor.
His tall figure gave him advantage. His reading of the part, again, was
of the romantic, passionate kind, and he leant more on the tender side
of the character than on the ferocious or barbaric. In the scene of
Desdemona’s death or murder, there was now another and more effective
arrangement: the bed was placed in the centre of the stage, and the whole
became more important and conspicuous. When it was at the side, as in the
Booth arrangement, it was difficult to believe in the continued presence
of the lady after her death, and there was an awkwardness in the efforts
to keep in sight of the audience during the struggle. There is not space
to give details of the points which distinguished this conception—it
is virtually a new character; but it will always be played by Irving
under a disadvantage, as the play of his expressive face—the meaning,
“travelling” eyes—is greatly veiled by the enforced swarthiness and
Æthiop tint.

Booth’s Iago had been seen before, and was much praised. It was on the
old “Mephistopheles” lines. The dress, indeed, strangely meagre and
old-fashioned, scarcely harmonized with the rich costumes about him.

The whole of this transaction, as I have said, did honour to the English
actor. Nothing more cordially hospitable could have been imagined. At the
time there was a “Booth party,” who gave out that their favourite had
not had fair play at the Princess’s, and that on a properly-appointed
stage his superiority to all rivals would be apparent. These and other
utterances were scattered about freely. Irving might have passed them
by with indifference. It was certainly not his duty to share his stage
with a stranger and a rival. At the same time we may give him credit
for a certain delicate _finesse_, and he may have later thought, with
a smiling, good-humoured complacency, that, owing to his allowing
the experiment, the issue had turned out very differently from what
“good-natured people” had hoped. The mortification for the American
must have been the greater from the disadvantage of the contrast, which
brought out in the most forcible way the want of “distinction,” the
stock of old, rather faded, devices with which he came provided, and
which he tried on his audience with an antique gravity. Audiences have,
unfortunately, but little delicacy. In their plain way they show their
appreciation of whom they think “the better man” in a business-like
manner; and I remember how they insisted that the encouraging applause
which they gave to the new actor should be shared by his host.

It should be mentioned that the prices on this engagement were raised
to the opera scale—a guinea in the stalls, half-a-guinea for the
dress-circle.

When the actor took his benefit at the close of this laborious season,
the theatre presented an opera-house appearance, and was filled to
overflowing with a miscellany of brave men and fair women, the latter
arrayed in special splendour and giving the whole an air of rich luxury
and magnificence befitting the handsomest and best-appointed theatre in
the kingdom. Bouquets of unusual brilliancy and dimensions were laid
in position, clearly not brought for the enjoyment of the owners. The
entertainment consisted of the stock piece of ‘The Bells.’ Mr. Toole
performed Mr. Hollingshead’s farce, ‘The Birthplace of Podgers,’ a happy
subject, which shows that the “germ” of the æsthete “business” existed
twenty years ago. The feature of the night was the well-known scene from
‘The Hunchback,’ in which Modus is so pleasantly drawn into making a
declaration. Sheridan Knowles is often ridiculed for his sham Elizabethan
situations; yet it may be doubted if any living writer could treat this
incident with such freshness or so naturally. It is a piece of good,
wearing stuff, and will wear even better. When the scene drew up, the
handsome curtains, festooned in rich and abundant folds, revealed a new
effect, throwing out, by contrast, the pale greenish-tinted scene, and
heightening the light so that the two figures were projected on this
mellow background with wonderful brilliancy. Miss Terry’s performance
was full of animation and piquancy. Most remarkable, indeed, was the new
store of unexpected attitudes and graces revealed at every moment—pretty
stoopings, windings, sudden half turns, inviting “rallyings”—so that even
a Modus more insensible to her advances must have succumbed. But in truth
this wonderful creature “adorns all she touches.” It is clear that there
is a Jordan-like vein of comedy in her yet to be worked. Irving’s Modus
was full of a quaint earnestness, and his air of helplessness in the
hands of such a mistress was well maintained. Modus is generally made to
hover on the verge of oafishness, so as to make it surprising that there
should be any object in gaining such a being. Irving imparted a suitable
air to it, and lifted the character into pure comedy.

At the end came the expected speech, delivered with a pleasant
familiarity, and dwelling on past successes and future plans. As in
the case of another Premier, announcement was made of “improvement
for tenants” in the pit and boxes, who were to have more room—to be
“rooted,” if not to the soil, in their places at least. It was a pleasant
and remarkable season to look back upon: the enchanting ‘Cup,’ which
lingers like a dream, or lotus-eating fancy; the ‘Corsican Brothers,’ so
sumptuously mounted; the splendid ‘Othello,’ the meeting of the American
and the English actor on the same stage, and their strangely opposed
readings of the same characters.

The performance of ‘The Belle’s Stratagem,’ which supplemented the
attraction of ‘Othello,’ was interesting, as it introduced once more
to active life that excellent and sound old actor, Henry Howe, who is
now perhaps the only link with the generation of the great actors. It
was a graceful and thoughtful act of Irving’s to seek out the veteran
and attach him to his company. During the decade of years that have
since elapsed, he has always treated him with a kindly and courteous
consideration. Everyone who knows Mr. Howe—and everyone who does is glad
to be counted among his friends—can testify to his kindly and loveable
qualities. He has not the least particle of that testy discontent which
too often distinguishes the veteran actor, who extols the past and is
discontented with the present, because it is discontented with him, or
thinks that he lags superfluous on the stage. As we have talked with him
of a summer’s afternoon, in his little retreat at Isleworth, the image
of many a pleasant hour in the old Haymarket days has risen up with his
presence. It is always pleasant to encounter his honest face in the
Strand, where he lives, as he is hurrying to his work.[28]

In January, 1882, our manager revived a piece in which he had achieved
one of his earliest triumphs—‘The Two Roses.’ Miss Terry was at this time
busily preparing for what was to be her great effort, in Juliet, and this
interruption to her labours was judicious policy on the manager’s part.
Much had occurred during the long interval of twelve years since the play
had been first performed, but many still recalled with enjoyment Irving’s
masterly creation. When he was casting the characters for the piece, he
had counted on the original Caleb Decie—Thorne—who held the traditions
of the play. Owing to some sudden change—I think to his entering on
management—this arrangement had to be given up, and the manager was
somewhat perplexed as to who he could find to fill the character. He
happened to be in Glasgow at this time, when the local manager said to
him, “There is a young fellow here who, I think, would exactly suit you;
he is intelligent, hard working, and anxious to get on. His name is
Alexander.” Irving accepted the advice, and secured an actor who was of
his own school, of well-defined instincts and a certain elegance, and
exactly suited to be _jeune premier_ of the Lyceum. It may be conceived
with what delight, as he himself has told me, this unexpected opening
was received by the then obscure youth; and at a pleasant supper the new
engagement was ratified. At this moment the young Glasgow candidate is
the prosperous manager of the St. James’s Theatre, a position which a
dozen years of conscientious work has placed him in. Far more rough and
thorny was the path along which Irving had to toil, during a score of
years, before he found himself at the head of a theatre. But in these
_fin de siècle_ times, the days and hours have doubled their value.

The piece was well mounted and well played, and there was much interest
felt in comparing the new cast with the old. In a pleasant, half-sad
meditation, my friend Mr. Clement Scott called up some of the old
memories; the tyrant Death, he said, had played sad havoc with the
original companies that did so much for this English comedy. “Far away,
leagues from home, across the Atlantic sleep both Harry Montague and
Amy Fawcitt. We may associate them still with Jack Wyatt and Lottie—who
seemed the very boy and girl lovers that such a theme required—so bright
and manly and noble, so tender, young, and handsome.” David James, as I
have said, had taken the place of the oleaginous Honey, and for those who
had not seen the latter, was an admirable representative of the part. The
“Roses” were Miss Helen Mathews and Miss Emery.

The manager, in his old part, received universal praise from the entire
circle of critics. Some considered it his most perfect creation, and
likened it to Got’s ‘Duc Job’ and Regnier’s ‘Annibal.’ It was certainly
a most finished and original performance; but it must be confessed that
the larger stage and larger house had its effect, and tempted the actor
into laying greater emphasis on details of the character. An actor
cannot stand still, as it were. Repetition for a hundred nights is one
of the vices of the modern stage, and leads to artificiality. Under the
old _répertoire_ system, when a piece was given for a few nights, then
suspended to be resumed after an interval, the actor came to his part
with a certain freshness and feeling of novelty.

At the same time, it should be said that the play itself was accountable
for this loss of effect. It was of but an ephemeral sort, and belonged
to an old school which had passed away. Other players besides Irving,
conscious of this weakness, have felt themselves constrained to
supplement it by these broad touchings. The average “play of commerce” is
but the inspiration of the moment, and engendered by it—authors, manager,
actors, audience all join, as it were, in the composition. Every portion,
therefore, reflects the tone of the time. But after a number of years
this tone becomes lost or forgotten; the fashions of feeling and emotion,
both off as well as on the stage, also pass away.

When closing his season and making the important announcement of the
selection of ‘Romeo and Juliet’ for the new one, the manager, as we have
seen, had promised some alterations and improvements in the theatre.
These were duly carried out, and not only added to the comfort of the
audience, but also to the profits of the management. The corridor at
the back of the dress-circle was taken in and supplied some sixty or
seventy new seats; while below, on the pit floor, place was found for
some two hundred additional persons, by including the saloon. Further,
the arch of the gallery which impeded the view was raised, padded
seats were furnished for the pit, and the manager was willing even to
supply “backs,” an unusual luxury, to the seats in the gallery; but the
Chamberlain interposed, on the ground that in any panic or hurrying down
the steep ascent, these might be found an obstruction. Other alterations
were made in the exits and entrances—though these were merely in the
nature of makeshifts. But the manager was not content until, many years
later, he had purchased the adjoining house and thoroughly remodelled the
whole.[29]

The manager, in the interval, took his company on a provincial tour
to the leading towns. At Glasgow it was announced to be “the greatest
engagement ever witnessed in that city.” As he told his audience on the
last night, the receipts for the twelve nights amounted to over £4,000—an
average of £334 per night. But the extraordinary “drawing” power of our
actor was never exhibited more signally than during the engagement at
Edinburgh, at Mr. Howard’s Theatre, which produced results that were
really unprecedented. On his last appearance Irving told the audience
that “this engagement—and you must not take it for egotism—has been
the most remarkable one played for any twelve nights in any theatre, I
should think, in Great Britain, certainly out of London, and there are
some large theatres in London. I may tell you that there has been taken
during the engagement here £4,300, which is certainly the largest sum
ever had before in any theatre during the space of time, and I believe
it is perfectly unprecedented in any city.” This was a tribute to his
attraction. On his departure a gold repeater watch was presented to him.




CHAPTER X.

1882.

‘ROMEO AND JULIET’—THE BANQUET.


By March 8, 1882, the great revival of ‘Romeo and Juliet’ was ready.
For this performance the manager drew upon all the resources of his
taste, purse, study, and experience. The fascinating play, indeed,
offered opportunities for adornment only too tempting. Those glittering,
bewitching pictures still linger in the memory of the playgoer, though
more than ten years have elapsed since the opening night “Among the
restorations will be found that of Romeo’s unrequited love for Rosaline,
omitted, among other things, in Garrick’s version.”

Those who came away from the Lyceum on that opening night must have had
a sense almost of bewilderment, so rich and dazzling were the scenes of
light and colour that had for hours passed before their eyes. According
to the true illusive principle in use on this stage, the lights are
lowered as every scene is about to change, by which a sense of mystery is
produced, and the prosaic mechanism of the movement is shrouded. Hence,
a sort of richness of effect and surprise as the gloom passes away and
a gorgeous scene steeped in effulgence and colour is revealed. It would
take long to detail the beautiful views, streets, palaces, chambers,
dresses, groupings, that were set before the audience, all devised with
an extraordinary originality and fertility of resource; though this was
the third of these Italian revivals. When it is considered that there
were twenty-two scenes, and that most of these were “sets,” it is amazing
with what rapidity and smoothness the changes were contrived. Not the
least pleasurable part of the whole was the romantic music, written in a
flowing, tender strain by Sir Julius Benedict, full of a juvenile freedom
and spirit, thoroughly Italian in character, and having something of the
grace and character of Schubert’s ‘Rosamunde.’ In the exquisite garden,
with its depth of silvered trees glistening in the moonlight, viewed
from a terrace, the arrangement of the balcony was the only successful
solution seen as yet. It has always been forgotten that Juliet has to
act—is, as it were, “on the stage”—and should not be perched in a little
wobbling cage. Here it was made a sort of solid loggia, as much a part of
the stage as that upon which her lover was standing. I fancy this was the
scenic triumph of the night.

When it is considered that Romeo and Juliet are characters almost
impossible to perform so as to reach the Shakespearian ideal, it becomes
easier to “liberate one’s mind” on the subject of the performance of
the two leading characters. The chief objection was that they scarcely
presented the ideal of superabundant youth—boyish and girlish—required by
the play. I have always thought this a point to be but little insisted
upon; it is much the same as with strictness of costume, which is
overpowered, as it were, by the acting. It is the _acting_ of youth, not
the appearance of youth, that is required; and a case is conceivable
where all the flush of youth with its physical accompaniments may be
present in perfection, and yet from failure of the acting the idea of
maturity and age may be conveyed.[30] In the dramatic ballroom scene,
when he was moving about arrayed as a pilgrim, the unbecoming dress and
rather too swarthy features seemed to convey the presentment of a person
in the prime of life. The critics spoke freely in this sense.

In the latter, more tragic portion of the play, the very intensity of
the emotion seemed to add maturity and depth to the character of Romeo.
Nothing could better supply the notion of impending destiny, of gathering
gloom, than the view of the dismal heart-chilling street, the scene of
the visit to the apothecary. Our actor’s picturesque sense was shown in
his almost perfect conception of this situation. The forlorn look of the
houses, the general desolation, the stormy grandeur in keeping with the
surroundings, the properly subdued grotesqueness of the seller of simples
(it was the grotesqueness of _misery_ that was conveyed), filled the
heart with a sadness that was almost real. In Miss Terry’s case there was
a division of opinions, some thinking her performance all but perfect,
others noting the absence of “girlishness.” All agreed as to its engaging
character and its winning charm. Terriss was the Mercutio, which he gave
with his favourite blunt impetuosity. But one of the most perfectly
played characters was Mrs. Stirling’s Nurse. This accomplished woman
represented all the best traditions—high training, admirable elocution,
with the art of giving due weight and breadth to every utterance. And
yet—here was a curious phenomenon—the very excellence of the delineation
disturbed the balance of the play. The Nurse became almost as important
as the leading performers, but not from any fault of the actress. She
but followed the due course. This is a blemish which is found in many
exhibitions of Shakespearian plays, where the inferior actor works up
his Dogberry, or his Gravedigger, or his Jacques to the very fullest
extent of which they are capable. But there should be subordination;
these are merely humours exhibited _en passant_. With an actress of Mrs.
Stirling’s powers and rank, the manager no doubt felt too much delicacy
to interfere; nor would perhaps the audience have placidly accepted any
effacing of her part. But as it was, the figure of this humble retainer
became unduly prominent.[31]

‘Romeo and Juliet’ was witnessed one night by the impetuous Sarah
Bernhardt, who afterwards came behind the scenes to congratulate the
performers. “How can you act in this way every night?” she exclaimed to
Ellen Terry. The latter, in her simple, natural way, explained: “It is
the audience—they inspire me!”

Such was this refined, elegant, and truly brilliant spectacle, which,
as usual, furnished “talk for the town,” and stirred its interest. The
hundredth night of performance was celebrated by a banquet on the stage,
on Sunday night, June 25, 1882. Here assembled critics, dramatists,
artists, _e tutti quanti_; there were many admirers, friends, and
sympathizers present, some of whom have since passed away—Sir W. Hardman,
Dr. Cox, Laman Blanchard, Palgrave Simpson, and many more. There is a
sadness in thinking of these disappearances.

Among the guests at the banquet was Mr. Abbey, the American manager, well
known for his many daring and very successful _coups_ in management. In
the course of the night there were some rumours circulated as to the
motives of his presence in town; but an allusion in Irving’s speech, when
he said pointedly that he hoped next year to have good experience of the
cordiality of American audiences, set the matter at rest. This scheme
had long been in his thoughts; and, indeed, already many invitations
and proposals had been made to him to visit the United States. There
was something dazzling and fascinating in this prospect of going forth
to conquer a new great kingdom and new audiences. There was the chance,
too, of riches “beyond the dreams of avarice.” No wonder, then, that the
scheme began to take shape, and was presently to be decided upon.

After one hundred and thirty nights’ performance of ‘Romeo and Juliet,’
the season was brought to a close, the manager taking “a benefit” on his
last night. Some ungracious folk object to this old-established form of
compliment, but he defended it in a very modest and judicious way.




CHAPTER XI.

1882.

‘MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING’—AMERICAN VISIT ARRANGED.


In his speech at the close of the season, the manager announced the
new piece selected for the next season. With that judicious view to
contrast or relief which directed all his efforts, he had settled on a
true comedy—the effective ‘Much Ado About Nothing.’ To this piece many
had long since pointed as being exactly adapted to the special gifts
of the two performers. Here was the fourth Shakespearian play of an
Italian complexion and atmosphere, which entailed accordingly a fresh
exhibition of Italian streets, manners, and costumes. A happy impression
was produced by the very note of preparation, the air was filled with
the breath of the coming piece; all felt, in anticipation, the agreeable
humours and fancies of Benedick and his Beatrice. This feeling of comedy,
it may be said, is ever a delightful one; it spreads abroad a placid,
quiet enjoyment and good-humour with which nothing else can compare.

On Wednesday, October 11, 1882, the delightful piece was brought out.
From the excellent acting of the two principal performers, and the
beautiful “setting” of the whole, it was destined to become one of the
most popular and acceptable of the Lyceum _répertoire_. By a curious
delusion, owing no doubt to the recollection of the lavish splendours of
‘Romeo and Juliet,’ some critics pronounced that it had been brought out
with but a moderate display of scenic resources. The truth was that the
play had been “mounted” with as much state as it would properly bear.
Some scenes were equipped in an unusually lavish and superb style. The
general effect, however, was harmonious; indeed, the happy tact of the
manager was never displayed to such advantage as in seizing on what might
be termed the proper key of the piece. When we recall, with a pleasant
enjoyment, these various Lyceum spectacles, we find that there is no
confusion of one with the other, that each has a special, distinct note,
and thus is started a train of impressions, delightful for their variety,
which enrich the chambers of the memory.

There was one scene which, for its splendour and originality, was to
be talked of for many a day, viz., the beautiful interior of a church
at Messina—the “Church Scene,” as it was called. The art displayed
here, the combination of “built-up” scenery with “cloths,” the rich
harmonious tintings, the ecclesiastical details, the metal-work, altars,
etc., made an exquisite picture.[32] The well-known passage of the
interrupted bridal was “laid out” with extraordinary picturesqueness,
much emphasis being given to the religious rites. It was felt, however,
that the genuflections before the altar were introducing rather too
awful a suggestion, though the intention was, no doubt, reverent. It
must be admitted by all whose memories wander back to that performance,
that the vision of this “Church Scene” rises before them with an almost
pathetic significance, owing in some part to the touching, sympathetic
acting of Miss Millward. By this emphasizing of the state and publicity
of the scene, the crowds and rich dresses and ecclesiastical robes, the
“distressful” character of such a trial for a young bride was brought out
in a very striking way.

All eyes, as it may be conceived, were drawn to the figures of Benedick
and Beatrice, as portrayed by Irving and Ellen Terry. Their scenes were
followed with a delighted interest, and their gay encounters of wit and
flirtation gave unalloyed pleasure. Irving threw a Malvolian gravity over
the character, alternated by a certain jocoseness.

These two characters, Benedick and Beatrice, are so much the heritage of
all lovers of true comedy, that everyone seems to have fixed a standard
for himself, which he will critically apply to every representation. This
partiality does not make us particularly _exigeant_, but we have each
our own fancies. There is nothing more interesting, entertaining, or
fruitful in speculation than the discussion of how favourite characters
in comedy should be represented. It is as though they were figures in
real life. For myself, I confess I should have preferred that the actor
had taken the character into still higher realms of airy comedy, and
had less emphasized the somewhat farcical passages. Benedick was a man
of capacity, a soldier, a gentleman, and though he was likely to be so
imposed upon, he would not have given his friends the satisfaction of
seeing him in this dejected condition, almost inviting laughter and rude
“rallying.”[33]

During all this time, preparations for the great American visit were
being carefully matured. There is supposed to be a sort of hostility
between artistic gifts and business-like habits; but Irving has
always shown great capacity where organization and arrangement are in
question—he has the clearest vision, and the firmest, most decided
purpose. In this he has often suggested a surprising likeness to the
departed novelist Dickens, who was also remarkable for his business power
and decision of character, and whose motto it was to do every trifle in
the best way that it could be done. Anything worth doing at all, he would
say, was worth doing well.

Nothing was left undone to ensure success. Everything was “thought
out” beforehand with the greatest care and deliberation. The American
manager, Abbey, who had undertaken the direction of the venture, and had
a vast store of experience and skill at command, planned, of course,
the arrangements of the visit; but the purely theatrical details were
thrown upon the English actor, who had to equip completely some dozen
plays with scenery, dresses, and properties. A following of from seventy
to a hundred persons—including actors, actresses, secretaries, scenic
and music artists, dressers, supernumeraries—was to be taken out.[34]
Further, with a view to making the company thoroughly familiar with the
_répertoire_, for months beforehand a sort of continuous rehearsal went
on before the regular Lyceum audiences; that is, all the stock-pieces
were revived one after the other, and performed with much care.

The honours and flattering tributes that were now lavished on the
departing actor would have turned the head of one less sensible or
less unspoiled. The town seemed really to have “run horn-mad” after
him, and could talk of nothing but of him and his expedition. As was
to be expected, the compliment of a public dinner was the smallest of
these tributes. Presents and invitations were lavished upon him. In a
caricature he was shown as being profusely anointed, by critics and
others, from a tub filled with a composition labelled “butter.” In
another the Prince of Wales is obsequiously presenting an invitation,
which the actor excuses himself from accepting owing to “my many
engagements.” The most famous portrait-painter of the day begged
to be allowed to paint his picture, which he wished to offer as a
present to the Garrick Club.[35] Rumours were busily circulated—and
contradicted—that a knighthood had been offered and declined.

The public dinner at St. James’s Hall was fixed for July 4—a compliment
to the American people. The list of stewards was truly extraordinary,
comprising almost everyone of mark in the arts and the great professions.
The Chief Justice, Lord Coleridge, who was himself setting out for a tour
in the States, was to take the chair. Mr. Gladstone and some Cabinet
Ministers were on the committee. There were three thousand applicants for
the five hundred possible seats, all that Mr. Pinches, the secretary—a
relation of the actor’s old master—could contrive to supply. Two Bishops
excused their attendance in flattering terms; and Mr. Gladstone would
gladly have attended, but was compelled by his duties to be absent.[36]
At this banquet, besides the Chief Justice and the Lord Chancellor of
Ireland, there were five other judges present, together with all that was
distinguished in the professions and arts.

The Chairman, in a thoughtful and studied speech, delivered perhaps
one of the best _apologias_ for the actor that is ever likely to be
offered. The skill and moderation of the accomplished advocate was shown
to perfection: he did not adulate, but gave the actor a graduated and
judicious measure of praise for all he had done in the improvement in the
general tone, morals, and methods of the stage. Irving acknowledged these
compliments in grateful and heartfelt terms, addressed not so much to the
diners present as to the kingdom in general.

After these metropolitan honours, he passed to Edinburgh, Glasgow, and
Liverpool. At each city he was greeted with complimentary banquets.
At Edinburgh he opened a new theatre, named in compliment to his own,
the Lyceum. He was invited to Hawarden by Mr. Gladstone, and also to
Knowsley, on a visit to Lord Derby.

On October 10, 1883, the chief members of the company—over forty in
number—sailed for New York, under the conduct of Mr. Bram Stoker. Tons
of scenery, dresses, properties, etc., had been already shipped. The
following day Irving and Miss Terry embarked on board the White Star
liner, _The Britannic_. Up to the last moment telegrams and letters
containing good wishes literally by hundreds were being brought in. Even
while the vessel was detained at Queenstown, the Mayor and Corporation
of Cork seized the opportunity of saluting him with a parting address.
The incidents have been all described by my friend Mr. Joseph Hatton, who
attended the party as “historiographer”; and I may refer the reader to
his interesting volumes.

The visit was to prove one long triumph, and the six months’ progress
a strange, wonderful phantasmagoria of receptions, entertainments,
hospitalities of all kinds. Novel and original, too, were the humours and
fashions that greeted them everywhere, and the eyes of the two players
must have often turned back with pleasure to that odd pantomime.

‘The Bells’ was selected for the opening performance which was on October
29, 1883. Though his reception was overpowering and tumultuous, there was
some hesitation as to the success of the play itself, and the critics
seemed to be a little doubtful as to whether it fairly represented the
full measure of his gifts. ‘Charles I.’, however, followed, and the two
great artists made the profoundest impression. But when ‘Louis XI.’ and
‘Much Ado About Nothing’ were presented, all doubts vanished. Miss Terry
won all hearts; her sympathetic style and winsome ways made conquest of
every audience. Nothing struck the Americans with such astonishment as
the exquisite arrangement and “stage management” of the Shakespearian
comedy, the reserved yet effectively harmonious treatment of all the
details being a complete revelation. The actor’s consummate taste was
recognised; in fact, the result of the visit was a complete revolution
in all the American stage methods. The extraordinary record of lavish
hospitalities, tributes of all kinds, with the adventures, is set
forth fully in the story of the tour. But it is only by consulting the
American journals that we can gather a notion of the odd “humours,”
often grotesque, by which the American public displays its enthusiastic
approbation.[37] The “interviewers,” as may be imagined, were rampant,
and extracted from the genial and courteous actor opinions on everything
connected with his profession. One immortal criticism deserves to be
recorded here. “He has rung,” said a newspaper, “_the knell of gibbering_
GOSH!”[38]

The party remained in the country until the May of the year following.
The receipts exceeded every forecast, a quarter of a million dollars
having been taken in the first four weeks. But the expenses were
enormous. The substantial profit was found in Irving’s securing a new,
vast, and prominent audience in the West; in his winning the suffrages of
Americans abroad as well as of those at home, who became his most fervent
adherents.

The following is an amusing scene. Irving had been invited to the
Journalists’ Club, and after the close of the performance of ‘Louis
XI.,’ the actor had come round to the club, where he partook of a supper
tendered to him by a few members in a private room. He had been in the
building three-quarters of an hour before he made known his presence by
coming upstairs, escorted by several gentlemen. The guest of the evening
then held an informal reception.

“After he had said something pleasant to almost everyone, he volunteered
to do his share towards entertaining those present. It had been slightly
hinted to him that something of the kind was looked for, and he entered
into the spirit of the occasion. Then the great tragedian turned from
the serious to the comic. He recited, in a way that provoked roars of
laughter, the funny little poem, ‘Tommy’s First Love.’

“When this was over there was a unanimous shout, which lasted several
minutes. It was a loud cry for more. Mr. Irving expressed his willingness
to give another recitation, and called for a chair. After sitting down
he observed that, as all were standing, those in the rear could see but
indifferently. ‘Suppose we change the stage management,’ he suggested.
‘Can’t we all sit down?’ This was received with some merriment, as there
were few chairs in the room. Someone, however, saw Mr. Irving’s idea that
those in the front ranks should sit upon the floor, and in a moment the
four foremost lines were kneeling upon the carpet.

“Mr. Irving then recited ‘Eugene Aram’s Dream.’ The splendid elocutionary
talents of the actor kept the audience spellbound. Every emotion, every
pang of the schoolmaster was vividly depicted by the expressive face of
the tragedian. The scene was a remarkable one. Mr. Irving threw himself
so earnestly into the character that at one time _he tore the white
necktie from his throat_ without realizing what he was doing, and, as
his features were wrought up to show the usher’s agony, similar lines
seemed to show themselves by sympathy in the faces of those present. At
the close of the recitation the motionless figures, some standing, some
sitting with crossed legs upon the floor, became moving, enthusiastic
men. Those on their feet threw their arms into the air and cheered as
if for dear life, while those on the floor bounded up simultaneously
and expressed their enthusiasm. It was some time before the excitement
subsided.

“I recited that once to a friend of mine,” said Mr. Irving, after quiet
had been restored, “and what do you think he said? Why, he seriously
exclaimed: ‘There is one point in that story that I’d like to know
about. _What became of the boy?_’” This anecdote produced a chorus of
laughter. After shaking hands all round, Mr. Irving went downstairs and
out, accompanied by the club’s officers. Before he left the room, “Three
cheers for Mr. Irving” were called for and given by throats already
hoarse with applauding him.

A second American expedition followed in the September of the same year,
during which a visit was paid to Canada.




CHAPTER XII.

1884.

‘TWELFTH NIGHT’—‘THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD’—OXFORD HONOURS.


On July 8, 1884, a few weeks after the return to London, ‘Twelfth Night’
was brought out at the Lyceum, and, for luxury of scenery, dresses, and
mounting, fully equalled all its predecessors. Irving was, of course,
the Malvolio, which he rendered not exactly after Charles Lamb’s
interpretation, but, indeed, as anyone of Shakespearian intelligence
would have done, never lapsing into farce, but treating the whole
earnestly. It was a beautiful and graceful show, full of alternate
sympathy and humour. Personally we look back to it as one of the most
welcome and interesting of his revivals; all the incidents connected with
Viola, so charmingly interpreted by Ellen Terry, have an irresistible and
touching interest. The scenery was costly and exquisite, and reflected
the tone of the piece. The audience, however, listened with a somewhat
languid interest—some said because of the oppressive heat of a July
night, which fretted and put them out of humour; but I believe because
they were unfamiliar with the piece, and had not been “educated up to
it.” When the manager came out at the close, with all the good-humour
and freedom of a privileged favourite, he was confounded to find his
expressions of self-congratulation and satisfaction greeted with uncouth
denial and rude interruptions. He was not accustomed to such coarse
reception, and with much spirit he administered this well-deserved
chastisement: “I can’t understand how a company of earnest comedians and
admirable actors, having these three cardinal virtues of actors—being
sober, clean, and perfect—and having exercised their abilities on one of
the most difficult plays, can have given any cause for dissatisfaction.”
But there are curious idiosyncrasies in audiences, one of which is, as I
have noted, that they must be in some way familiar with the piece and its
incidents; and there must be broad, comprehensive types of character. Now
Malvolio, one of the most delicately exquisite of conceptions, it could
be seen, was almost unintelligible to “the general”: they took him for
some “crank,” or half-cracked being, appearing in his nightcap, etc. Sir
Toby and Sir Andrew and their rollickings were actually thought “low” or
vulgar, on the same principle that Tony Lumpkin’s alehouse friend could
not abide anything low. So much for the ignorant, ill-mannered section of
the audience.

It was argued, indeed, by critics that Irving’s Malvolio was somewhat
_too_ much in earnest, and therefore was liable to be accepted by the
audience as a serious person, actually in love with his mistress, which
with his eccentricities and oddities became an impertinence. Whereas,
as Lamb says, by imparting a quaint humorousness, the audience sees the
absurdity of the jest and is amused. Elia, indeed, always insists that
the actor of such “fantastical” parts should hint to the audience, slyly,
as it were, that he is only half in earnest.

A most delightful sense of pure natural comedy was induced by the
likeness between the Terrys, brother and sister, who had a sort of
Shakespearian elegance in their bearing. But this did not avail much
with the uncultured crowd. It was objected also that the play was set
forth somewhat pedantically and too much _au grand sérieux_, many of
the actors, not being comedians—witness Mr. Terriss—imparting a literal
tone to all they said and did. This was not without its effect on the
audience, who by the very promise of seriousness were beguiled into
expecting something serious. Irving himself was not wholly free from
this method; and in the strange scene of the imprisonment, so difficult
to “carry off,” he was deeply tragic, as if really suffering, and without
any underlying grotesqueness. His exit, too, with solemn menaces, had the
air of retributive punishment in store.

Now followed a second expedition to the States, as well as to Canada,
the details of which I pass over. On the reopening of his theatre on
his return a rather disagreeable episode occurred, connected with an
alteration he had made in the arrangement of his house. It was announced
that places in the pit might be reserved and secured in advance, which
gave rise to indignant protest and to cries of “_Give us back our Pit_.”
The question was warmly discussed in the newspapers.

The advantage of the debate was that it clearly established a true
theatrical principle—viz., that the pit and galleries are intended for
the crowd, and should be free and open to the “man in the street”: that
the best seats here must be the prize of the strongest and most patient.
The principle of numbering and booking, it was shown, would actually
abolish the pit. The judicious manager understood and recognised the
public discontent, and made announcement that on May 18 he would restore
the old custom.

In accordance with his engagement, the manager now proceeded to get ready
Wills’s pleasing and sympathetic drama, ‘Olivia.’ This was no doubt
selected with a view to furnishing a fresh opportunity for the display
of Miss Terry’s attractions; but it will be seen that she was not to be
altogether the cynosure of the whole, and that two other accomplished
performers were to share the honours of the piece. It was produced on May
27, 1885, and excited much interest. The creation of Dr. Primrose is one
of the most interesting and most original of Irving’s characters. It is
elaborated and finished to the very highest point, and yet there is no
lack of simplicity or unaffected grace. The character suited him in every
way, and seemed to hold completely in check all his little “mannerisms,”
as they are called. There was a sort of Meissonnier delicacy in his
touches, and scarcely any other of his characters is so filled in and
rounded with unspoken acting—that is, by the play of facial expression,
gesture, walk, etc. It is, indeed, a delightful performance, and always
holds the audience, which attentively follows the Vicar’s successive
emotions. These the actor allows unconsciously, as it were, to escape
him, as he pursues his little domestic course unconscious of spectators.
One reason for this complete success was, of course, that Irving, like so
many others, had read, known, and felt this engaging character from his
childhood, altogether outside dramatic conditions, though of course it is
not every play that enjoys this advantage.

As we look back to the Lyceum, the eye rests with infinite pleasure on
the engaging figure of the Vicar, with his powdered wig and rusted suit,
and that amiable smile of simplicity which betokened what agreeable
fancies were occupying his mind. There he was, the centre of a happy
family, content with the happiness of his wife and children. No picture
could have been prettier. With an exquisite feeling of propriety, the
quaint, antique associations were developed, and no more pleasing scene
could have been conceived, or one that lingers more in the memory, than
the scene at night, when the family are singing at the spinet, Moses
accompanying with his flute,[39] the Vicar in his chair, the cuckoo-clock
in the corner. It was a fine instinct that directed these things.

It should be added that the piece had been somewhat altered from its
first shape, and no doubt gained from the manager’s suggestions. One
of the most astonishing things connected with it is the admirably firm
and coherent construction, it being laid out in the most effective way.
Its various characters are introduced with singular skill. The last
act seemed, indeed, somewhat superfluous and too much drawn out; but
the whole design was really admirable. Yet its adapter was admittedly
deficient in the arts of construction, and most of his other pieces
display singular and even ludicrous incoherencies. It might be that he
had received assistance in this individual case, or had been so inspired
by the subject as to triumph over his own defects.

Such tales as these—world-wide stories that belong to all countries and
to all time—Shakespearian, in short—seem on repetition to have the air
of novelty; at least, they always interest. The situations are dramatic,
and the characters even more dramatic than the situations. Miss Terry’s
Olivia is not only one of her best characters, but is a most touchingly
graceful and varied performance. The gifted pair are indeed at their
best here. In the excellently-contrived scene at the Dragon, Miss Terry’s
transition of horror, astonishment, rage, shame, succeeding each other,
were displayed with extraordinary force and variety. Some insisted that
the part suffered from her restlessness, but, as it was happily said,
“She is for ever flickering about the stage in a series of _poses_, or
rather disturbance of _pose_, each in itself so charming that one can
hardly account for the distrust she herself shows of it by instantly
changing it for another.” The other characters were no less excellent
in their way. Terriss, as the Squire, was admirably suited, his very
defect—an excessively pronounced brusqueness—adding to the effect. I
recollect it was said at the time in the theatre that there was only the
one performer for Thornhill, and that one Terriss. He—and he only—must be
secured. He never performed so well as in this character.

A year later there occurred what must have been one of the most
gratifying incidents in the actor’s career, and one of the most pleasant
to recall. The Oxford commencements, held on June 26, 1886, were more
than usually brilliant. At that time, the late learned and popular Dr.
Jowett was Vice-Chancellor, a man, as is well known, of the largest
sympathies. Though a divine, he took a deep interest in Irving and his
profession. On its being proposed to confer honorary degrees on certain
distinguished guests, including Mr. John Bright, the Vice-Chancellor, it
is said, suggested the name of the well-known actor. There was something,
as I say, dramatic or characteristic in this proposal, coming as it
did from so expressive a personality. The University, however, was not
prepared to go so far as this, though the proposal was only negatived,
it is said, by a narrow majority of two votes. The vigorous purpose of
the Vice-Chancellor was not to be thus baffled, and by a brilliant _coup_
he contrived that the very omission of the actor’s name—like the absence
of one portrait from a series—should suggest that the chief performer
had been “left” out, and thus supplied a fresh element in the brilliancy
of his reception. He invited him to deliver a lecture on his art in the
very precincts of the University, and under the patronage of its most
distinguished professors and “Heads,” and it may be conceived that the
figure of the popular player became the cynosure of attraction in the
brilliant academic show.

    “For when the well-grac’d actor quits the scene,
    The eyes of men are idly bent on him that enters next.”

When it became known that the actor was to give his address, everyone
of note and culture and importance in the place rushed to secure seats.
Some fourteen hundred persons were present, with most of “the Heads of
Houses,” and distinguished professors. Dr. Jowett welcomed him in some
warm and well-chosen phrases, telling him how much honoured they felt by
his coming to them. A good English actor, he said happily enough, lived
in the best company—that of Goethe and Shakespeare; and coming from such,
he might seem to convey that he was good enough company for them.

But during the year 1892 the University of Dublin was the first to
recognise officially the actor’s position, and at the celebration of its
tercentenary conferred on him the degree of Doctor of Letters, in company
with many distinguished men. Indeed, Irving’s sympathetic temperament
has always been specially acceptable to this University, and the youths
of Trinity College from the beginning were eager to exhibit their
appreciation and admiration of his talent. They would attend him home
from the theatre in uproarious procession, and sing songs in his praise
in the galleries. So early as June, 1877, he had given a reading in the
University in its great Examination Hall. The Provost, the Dean, and
other “dons” all attended. He gave ‘Richard III.,’ a chapter of ‘David
Copperfield,’ and ‘Eugene Aram.’ An illuminated address was presented to
him, and to make the day truly festive and collegiate, the actor dined in
the hall, the guest of the college, and went his way covered with honours.

Later came the turn of Edinburgh, where he was much considered, and in
1881 delivered a lecture before the Edinburgh Philosophical Institute.
He gave, also, an interesting lecture on acting at the Royal Institution
in London. With pleasure, too, must he look back to his welcome at
Harvard University, in the United States. The novelty of the scene, the
warm welcome accorded to him in a strange land, must have made a most
welcome form of honour. He delivered a lecture on the “Art of Acting”—his
favourite topic—in the great Sande’s Theatre, into which over two
thousand persons were crowded—the usual audience was sixteen hundred. An
enormous crowd blocked the doors, so that the actor on his arrival could
not gain admittance, and had to be taken in by a subterranean passage.
The president was in a conspicuous place, and all the professors and
dons attended. Another American University, that of Cambridge, also
invited him to lecture (rather to give instruction) before them, and
the newspapers of the country declared that the honours with which he
was welcomed were really “unprecedented.” Again he discoursed on the
“Art of Acting.” An even more flattering and unusual compliment was
the invitation to the Military Academy at West-point, where, with his
company, he performed ‘The Merchant of Venice’ in Elizabethan dresses,
but without scenery—to the huge enjoyment of professors and students.
Here is a round of University distinctions that has never fallen to the
lot of any other actor. We may see in it an instinctive recognition of a
cultured and artistic feeling that has influenced the community and done
excellent educational service.

Irving had long wished to display his sardonic power in Goethe’s great
character of Mephistopheles. He had already given proof of his quality
in this line in Louis XI. and Richard III.; but there was a piquancy
and range in Mephistopheles which naturally offered him an attraction,
from the mixture of the comic or grotesque with deep tragic force. It
also offered room for a superb and almost unlimited display of scenic
magnificence. It was no secret, too, that in this particular display he
was resolved to surpass all his previous efforts.

To Wills was entrusted the work of preparing the adaptation, this writer
having, as I said, a command of flowing and melodious versification,
which, moreover, was fitted to the actor’s delivery. The adapter had
completed his task many years before, and the piece had long lain in the
manager’s desk. During this period he let his conception of the piece
slowly ripen; he discussed it with scholars; thought over it; while
the adapter, a German student himself, revised his work at intervals
according to the views of his chief. All this was judicious enough. It
was, however, destined to be the last work that he was to prepare for his
old friend and faithful Lyceum patron. It must be said that the latest
adapter was not altogether well fitted for the task, as he was too much
given to descriptions and “recitations,” while Mephistopheles might have
been made far more of.

The preparations made were of the most thorough kind. For months the
manager’s rooms were hung round with a profusion of sketches by artists
of all kinds, relics of Nuremberg and the Goethe country, with old
engravings of Albert Dürer, and great folios of costumes. To permeate
himself with something of the tone and feeling of the piece, he travelled
in Germany, accompanied by his scene-painter, Mr. Craven. Both stayed
at Nuremberg, where the artist imbued himself with the whole poetry of
the old city. Everyone of artistic feeling will recall one truly romantic
scene—a simple cloth set very forward on the scene, perhaps to its
disadvantage—a view of the old city, with its dull red high roofs and
quaintly-peaked spires.

During the preparations, the theatre, now some eighty years old, had been
redecorated afresh, but at the complete sacrifice of the old Vestris
adornments, the elegant medallions or cameos, and the double-gilt
pillars, which were thought to interfere with the view. The outline of
the dress-circle was brought forward with some gain of space, and its
graceful undulations were abolished. For such changes no one can be
brought to account—the irresistible pressure of the time and the laws of
convenience bring them about. An entirely new system of decoration was
introduced, suggested by that of Raffaelle’s Loggie at the Vatican, which
seemed scarcely sober enough for an auditorium. More structural changes
were also made in the interests of the galleries, of which the manager
has always shown himself careful.

On December 19, 1886, the piece was produced. There was the now
invariable excitement of a Lyceum _première_, and there were stories
of frantic efforts, grovellings, implorings, etc., to obtain a seat. A
peer had actually been seen in the gallery—and was more than content
with his place. The Royal Family were in their box, and the Prince, then
in mourning, watched the play from behind the scenes. Mephistopheles
was destined for many a night to give the keenest enjoyment to vast
audiences. It was, indeed, a most original conception. With successive
performances he enriched it with innumerable telling and grotesque
touches; for, as I have said, the adapter had “laid out” the character on
rather conventional lines. In spite of all these defects, he suggested
the notion of “uncanniness” and a supernatural _diablerie_. His antic
scaring of the women at the church-door will be recalled by many.
Miss Terry’s Marguerite was full of pathos and poetry, occasionally
suggesting, as in the “Jewel” scene, the operatic heroine. But at the
first performance it became plain that a serious mistake had been made
in the choice of Conway for the hero, Faust. He seemed scarcely to feel
or understand the part; there was a lack of passion and sympathy. It
was, indeed, an overwhelming burden for a player whose gifts lay in the
direction of light comedy.

But on one Saturday night the audience was somewhat astonished to see
before them a new Faust, one who, moreover, came on with a book in his
hand, which he continued to read aloud even after Mephisto had paid him
his visit through the steam clouds. It proved that Conway was suffering
from gout, and Alexander, resigning his own character to Tyars, took the
_rôle_ of Faust, which on the following night he assumed permanently, and
“discharged” in the regular way. Considering the shortness of the notice,
he performed this awkward duty _en vrai artiste_—as, indeed, might be
expected.[40] However, the cast was further strengthened by the excellent
Mrs. Stirling, whose part was scarcely worthy of her. Placing a strong
performer in a part that is inferior in strength, instead of improving or
fortifying, only further brings out the poverty of the character.

In this piece numerous scientific devices were introduced to add to
the effect, such as the clouds of steam which veiled the apparition of
Mephistopheles, a device of French origin. This is scarcely illusive, as
it is attended by an unmistakable “hissing” sound, as of a locomotive;
it seems what it is—namely, steam. The blue electric light flashed with
weird effect as the swords of Valentine and Faust crossed. But here again
there was an electric wire and “contact,” and a current “switched on.”
It may be paradoxical to say so, but these “advances” in scenic art are
really retrograde steps.

Of the regular scenes or structures put on the stage, it would be
difficult to say too much. The grandly-built porch of the Church of St.
Lorentz Platz at Nuremberg, and the buildings grouped round it, were
extraordinary works of construction, the porch being “moulded” in all its
details, and of the real or natural size. Another scene that lingers in
the memory with a sort of twilight melancholy is the garden scene, which
again illustrates the admirable instinct of the manager. Red-brick walls
of calm, quiet tones, old trees, and, above all, the sombre towers of
the city, were seen in the distance. The dresses of the characters were
chosen to harmonize, and the deep sunset cast a melancholy glow or tinge
over all. The most striking effects were contrived by changes of the
lights and “mediums.”

The Brocken scene, for its vastness and ambitious attempt to suggest
space and atmosphere, has never been surpassed. Most people were struck
by the bewildering crowd of unearthly spirits, witches, and demons, etc.;
but the real marvel was the simulation of the chill mountain atmosphere,
the air of dizziness, of mists that hover over vast crevasses and depths,
and make one shiver to look at. The designing, direction, and controlling
of the elements in this wonderful scene seemed a bewildering and gigantic
task.

The vision of Angels in the last act seemed a little conventional. There
were many objections, too, taken mostly by Germans, to the treatment of
the great story, such as the fixing of the scene at Nuremberg instead of
at Leipsic, the placing the drinking bout in the open air, and at the
tavern door, instead of in Auerbach’s cellar. These changes could not, of
course, be justified, save on the ground of theatrical expediency.

For seven months, though ‘Faust’ continued to attract vast houses, it had
really, as the manager said, “only started on its wild career.” On the
occasion of Miss Terry’s benefit, he made an interesting, half-jocular
speech announcing his plans.

The ninety-ninth night of ‘Faust’ was celebrated in a remarkable and
somewhat appropriate fashion. The venerable Abbé Liszt was at this time
in London, followed with an eager curiosity, affecting even the “cabbies”
with interest, who were heard talking of the “Habby List.” No one who
had seen him at this time will forget the striking personality of this
interesting and brilliant man. He was induced to visit the theatre,
and to witness the performance. After the first act, the orchestra
broke into his own “Hungarian March,” and, being presently recognised
by the audience, the great virtuoso received a perfect ovation. He
followed the piece throughout with singular interest, and applauded
with enthusiasm. After the play was over, he was welcomed at a supper
in the old Beef-steak dining-room, where there were invited to meet him
a few distinguished persons. His favourite dishes—“lentil pudding, lamb
cutlets, mushrooms in batter”—were prepared for him by Gunter’s _chef_.
He was delighted with this delicate hospitality. This is one of the many
pleasant and dignified memories associated with the Lyceum.

It was when ‘Faust’ was being played that the catastrophe of the burning
of the French Opéra Comique occurred. This excited general sympathy,
and the kindly manager of the Lyceum promised that when the proper
time came he would furnish assistance. In due course a performance of
‘Faust’ was announced for the benefit of the sufferers, and a crowded
audience assembled. Everyone concerned—and they were to be counted by
hundreds—gave their services gratis—the manager behaved in his own
liberal style—and, as the result, a sum of £419 was despatched to Paris.
This liberality was much appreciated by the French press. The _Figaro_
devoted an article to a review of the various characters played by the
English actor, and in flattering terms pointed out that, notwithstanding
all his detractors, Mr. Henry Irving was “the most perfect gentleman.”

During the performance of ‘Faust,’ Miss Terry found the fatigue
excessive, and, not being very strong at the time, had to resign her
part. During these intervals, the character was supported by a clever
young actress, bearing an historic name, Miss Winifred Emery, who brought
much intelligence and refinement to her task. It was generally agreed
that, considering her resources, she had supplied the place of the absent
actress very well indeed. The _feu sacré_ was, of course, not to be
expected, and cannot be supplied to order.

This appreciation of our manager-actor by the French will naturally
suggest the inquiry, What is his reputation generally in that eminently
theatrical country, whence we draw our chief supply of dramas and
dramatic ideas, and whose school of acting is perhaps the first in
Europe? So frequent have been the visits of French companies to London,
that nearly all the leading performers have had opportunities of seeing
the English actor perform. Their ignorance of the language has, of
course, stood in the way of a satisfactory judgment—they cannot follow
the play as an average Englishman will follow a French piece; but all
have been struck by his fine faculty of imparting colour and romance to
a character, and have broken into raptures over the intelligence that
directs the scene, and the lavish magnificence of the _spectacle_.

The memorable visit of the French Comedy to London in 1879, and the
fine series of performances in which every player of note displayed
his talent, curiously coincided with the new departure on the English
stage. Few will forget the deep impressions left by that season or the
opportunities afforded for a liberal education in dramatic taste. With
the company came the _fine fleur_ of French critics, Sarcey, Claretie
(since become director of the company he had so often criticized), and
others of less note. These judges were glad to seize an opportunity,
which under other circumstances they would never have thought of
seeking, of visiting the Lyceum and witnessing the performances of the
most distinguished of English actors. I recall Sarcey at this time, a
coarsely-built man, with not very refined features, lounging night after
night into his stall, with an air of something like arrogance. He did
not relish his enforced banishment from the Boulevards, and indemnified
himself by making rather free criticisms on the French players. He was
induced to go and see some of the English performances, but with an
amusing hauteur pleaded his ignorance of the language as an excuse for
not passing any serious judgment.

“Having weighed the matter well, I have determined to say very little
regarding English actors. I have as yet seen but a few, and those only
through the medium of a language imperfectly understood. I should be
placing myself in a ridiculous position if I had the impertinence to
touch upon matters which I am thus incompetent to deal with. I may
remark, however, that Mr. Henry Irving appeared to me a remarkable actor,
notwithstanding a wilful tendency to exaggeration. Possibly, in this
latter respect, he followed rather the taste of his audience, whom his
instinct judges, than his own deliberate choice.”

To these brilliant and gifted strangers, however, the new manager did the
honours of his craft and extended to them a kindly hospitality. Indeed,
since that day, no distinguished artist has visited these shores without
being welcomed with rare hospitality.[41]

The most accomplished of French comedians is Coquelin _ainé_, an
extraordinary performer, from the versatility and even classical
character of his talents. This gifted man, who never appears without
imparting intellectual enjoyment of the highest kind, seems to have
always been attracted to the English actor, though exhibiting his
feelings in an oddly mixed fashion, compounded of admiration and
hostility. Analysis of the workings of character is the most entertaining
of pastimes, and is, of course, the foundation of theatrical enjoyment;
and the public has much relished the controversies between two such
eminent personages. In 1886 Coquelin, during a supper at Mrs. Mackay’s,
was invited in a very flattering way by the Prince of Wales to play in
London under Mr. Mayer. At this time, in obedience to the very natural
“force and pressure” of gain which was beginning to dissolve the great
company of the French Comedy, he had begun to “star it,” as it is called,
in the various capitals of Europe, and having found himself appreciated
in London at private houses, as well as on the stage, he seems to have
nourished a feeling that he was contending for the suffrages of the
public with the English actor! Not that he was conscious of any actual
“jealousy,” but something of this impression was left on those who were
watching the incident. In matters of art, however, such contentions are
healthy, and pardonable enough.

An early token of this curious feeling was offered in an article
published in _Harper’s Magazine_ in May, 1887, where the French actor
discussed with some acuteness the different systems of acting in England
and in France, particularly in the matter of what is called “natural” or
materialistic acting. He dwelt on the question how far the gifts of the
comedian will enable him to exhibit tragic characters, contending that
the practice of minute observation would materially aid him.

What was in Coquelin’s thoughts all this time would appear to have been
a sort of eagerness to measure himself with the English actor in ‘Le
Juif Polonais,’ which he looked upon as his own, and which had made a
reputation for Irving. With some lack of taste or tact, Coquelin later
challenged an English audience to decide between the two readings of
Mathias. He performed it, I think, on two different occasions. It was an
interesting and instructive experiment, for it proved that two artists
of eminence might legitimately take directly opposite views of the same
character. But does not character in real life offer the same varieties
of interpretation? Coquelin presented a sort of comfortable _bourgeois_,
a tradesman-like personage, who was not likely to reach the heroic or
melodramatic place. He was not over-sensitive, nor was his remorse very
poignant; and the keynote to his agitation was the desire to be thought
respectable, to keep his position, and not be found out. It was agreed
that the two conceptions were altogether opposed. “Irving’s hero was a
grave, dignified, and melancholy being; Coquelin’s was a stout Alsatian,
well-to-do, respected by his neighbours, but still on an equality
with the humble folk around him. Irving’s was a conscience-stricken
personage; Coquelin’s had no conscience at all. Irving’s was all remorse;
Coquelin was not in the least disturbed. He takes delight in his ill-got
treasures. The only side on which he is assailable is that of his fears,
and the arrival of the second Jew, so like the first, terrifies him; and
too much wine on the night of the wedding brings on the disturbed dream.”
The question might be thus summarized: Irving’s reading was that of a
tragedian; Coquelin’s that of a comedian. For myself, I confess a liking
for both.

A friendly and even enthusiastic appreciation of the actor was furnished
by Jules Claretie, then a critic of eminence. “His reputation,” he said,
“would be even greater than it is if he had the leisure to extend his
studies and correct his faults; but, as Mr. Walter Pollock remarks, a man
who has to play six or seven times a week can hardly be expected to find
much time for study. England, unlike France, does not possess a national
theatre.

“‘Richelieu’ was the first play in which I saw Mr. Irving in London.
Here he is superb. The performance amounts to a resurrection. The great
Cardinal, lean, worn, eaten up with ambition, less for himself than for
France, is admirably rendered. His gait is jerky, like that of a man
shaken by fever; his eye has the depth of a visionary’s; a hoarse cough
preys upon that feeble frame. When Richelieu appears in the midst of the
courtiers, when he flings his scorn in the face of the mediocrity that
is to succeed him, when he supplicates and adjures the vacillating Louis
XIII., Mr. Irving endows that fine figure with a striking majesty.

“What a profound artist this tragedian is! The performance over, I
was taken to see him in his dressing-room. I found him surrounded by
portraits of Richelieu. He had before him the three studies of Philippe
de Champaigne, one representing Richelieu in full face, and the others in
profile. There was also a photograph of the same painter’s full-length
portrait of the Cardinal. Before playing Louis XI. again, Mr. Irving
studied Commines, Victor Hugo, Walter Scott, and all who have written
of the _bourgeois_ and avaricious king, who wore out the elbows of his
_pourpoint de ratine_ on the tables of his gossips, the skin-dressers
and shoemakers. The actor is an adept in the art of face-painting, and
attaches great importance to the slightest details of his costume.

“I asked him what other historical personage he would like to represent,
what face he, who excelled in what I call stage-resurrection, would wish
to revive. He reflected a moment, his countenance assuming a thoughtful
expression. ‘Français ou Anglais?’ he at length asked. ‘Français ou
Anglais: peu importe,’ I replied. ‘Eh bien!’ he said, after another short
pause, ‘je serais heureux de créer un Camille Desmoulins.’

“Mr. Irving’s literary and subtle mind leans to psychological plays—plays
which, if I may so express myself, are more tragic than dramatic. He
is the true Shakespearian actor. How great was the pleasure which the
performance of ‘Hamlet’ afforded me! For a literary man it is a source of
real enjoyment. Mr. Irving, as manager of the Lyceum, spends more than
£3,000 a month to do things on an adequate scale. His theatre is the
first in London. He would like to make it a sort of Comédie Française, as
he would like to found a sort of Conservatoire to afford young English
artists the instruction they stand so much in need of.

“In Louis XI. Mr. Irving has been adjudged superior to Ligier. Dressed
with historical accuracy, he is admirable in the comedy element of the
piece and the chief scenes with the Monk and Nemours. The limelight
projected like a ray of the moon on his contracted face as he pleads for
his life excited nothing less than terror. The hands, lean and crooked as
those of a Harpagon—the fine hands whose character is changed with each
of his _rôles_—aid his words. And how striking in its realism is the last
scene, representing the struggle between the dying king and his fate!”

Another admirable French player, Got, once the glory of the French
Comédie, and unquestionably the most powerful and varied performer of his
day, used to come a good deal to London between the years 1870 and 1880.

It was a singular tribute to Irving that so great a player, in his day
greater even than Coquelin, should have been drawn from his retirement
to take up one of his characters. Got, the “Dean of the French stage,”
as Irving is “Dean” of the English theatre, by-and-by felt himself
irresistibly impelled to give his version of ‘The Bells.’ He induced a
Paris manager to draw forth the long-forgotten piece from its obscurity,
and presented Mathias very much on the _bourgeois_ lines of Coquelin.




CHAPTER XIII.

1887.

‘FAUST’—‘WERNER’—‘MACAIRE’—THE ACTOR’S SOCIAL GIFTS.


He was now preparing for his third American tour, the object of which
was to introduce to the audiences of the United States his splendid
spectacular piece, ‘Faust.’ This had excited much interest and
expectation, and its attractions were even magnified by distance. It
was the “last word” in scenic display. The Americans have now become
a section, as it were, of the Lyceum audiences, and it would seem to
be inevitable that at fixed intervals, and when a series of striking
plays have been given in England, the manager should feel a sort of
irresistible pressure to present the same attractions on the other side
of the Atlantic. This expedition took place in October, 1887, and was
crowned with all success. Henceforth the periodical visit to America will
become a necessity; and a new visit was already planned in concert with
Mr. Abbey, which was fixed for 1893.

On the return of the company, after their United States triumphs, ‘Faust’
was revived for a short period. At the close of the first performance the
manager announced his plans, which were awaited with some curiosity. “The
devil,” he said, “had been to and fro on the face of the earth.” After
a month of ‘Faust,’ he proposed to give Mr. Calmour’s ‘Amber Heart,’ to
bring forward Miss Terry, while he himself was to conclude the evening
with a revival of ‘Robert Macaire.’

On July 1, 1887, the manager of the Lyceum performed one of those many
kindly, graceful acts with which his name is connected—an act done at
the right moment, and for the suitable person. He gave his theatre to
benefit a veteran dramatist, Dr. Westland Marston, who in his day had
been associated with the classical glories of the stage, and had written
the interesting ‘Wife’s Secret’ for Charles Kean. As he now told the
audience from the stage, fifty years had elapsed since he had written his
first piece for Macready. The committee formed was a most influential
one, and comprised the names of such eminent _littérateurs_ as Browning,
Alfred Austin, E. W. Gosse, William Black, Wilkie Collins, Gilbert,
Swinburne, Tennyson, and many more. The performance was an afternoon
one, and the play selected was Byron’s ‘Werner,’ written “up to date,”
as it is called, by Frank Marshall. New scenery and dresses had been
provided, though the actor did not propose giving another representation.
He, however, intended to perform it on his approaching American tour. It
must be said that the play gave little satisfaction, and was about as
lugubrious as ‘The Stranger,’ some of the acts, moreover, being played in
almost Cimmerian gloom. What inclined the manager to this choice it would
be difficult to say. He has rather a _penchant_ for these morosely gloomy
men, who stalk about the stage and deliver long and remorseful reviews
and retrospects of their lives. The audience, however, sympathizes, and
listens with respectful attention.

‘Werner’ was to illustrate once more the conscientious and laborious care
of the manager in the production of his pieces. He engaged Mr. Seymour
Lucas to furnish designs for the dresses, who drew his inspirations
from an old volume of etchings of one “Stefano della Bella” in 1630. So
patiently _difficile_ is our manager in satisfying himself, that it is
said the dresses in ‘Faust’ were made and re-made three times before they
were found satisfactory. In this case all the arms of antique pattern,
the dresses, quaint head-dresses, and the like, even down to the peculiar
buttons of the period, were made especially in Paris under Auguste’s
superintendence.

‘Robert Macaire,’ that strange, almost weird-like drama, was familiar
enough to Irving, who had occasionally played it in the early part
of his course, and also at the St. James’s Theatre in 1867. For all
performers of genius who have taste for the mere _diablerie_ of acting,
and the eccentric mixture of tragic and comic, this character offers an
attraction, if not a fascination. We can feel its power ourselves as we
call up the grotesque figure; nay, even those who have never seen the
piece can have an understanding of the character, as a coherent piece
of grotesque. There is something of genius in the contrasted and yet
intimate union between the eccentric pair. In June, 1883, there had been
a performance at the Lyceum for the Royal College of Music, when Irving
had played the character, assisted by “friend Toole,” Bancroft, Terriss,
and Miss Terry—certainly a strong cast. Toole, on this occasion, was
almost too irrepressible, and rather distorted the proportion of the
two characters, encroaching on the delicate details in the part of his
friend, and overflowing with the pantomimic humours, or “gags,” which
are the traditions of Jacques Strop. When the piece was formally brought
out, the part was allotted to Mr. Weedon Grossmith, who was in the other
extreme, and too subordinate.

The play was produced in July, 1888, and was found not so attractive as
was anticipated. It seemed as though it were not wholly intelligible
to the audience. There were some reasons for this, the chief being the
gruesome assassination at “the roadside inn,” which is old-fashioned,
being literally “played out.” More curious was it to find that the
quaint type of Macaire seemed to convey nothing very distinct. All
accepted it as an incoherent extravagance: which opens an interesting
speculation—viz., How many such parts are there which have been the
characters of the original actors, and not the author’s—the former’s
creation, in short? Lemaître’s extraordinary success was, as is well
known, the result of a happy inspiration conceived during the progress
of the piece. From being a serious or tragic character, he turned it
into a grotesque one. There may have been here something founded on the
sort of _gaminerie_ that seems to go with crime; or it may have been
recklessness, which, together with a ludicrous attempt at a squalid
dandyism, showed a mind not only depraved, but dulled and _embêté_. This
sort of inspiration, where an actor sees his own conception in the part
and makes it his own, is illustrated by ‘The Bells,’ which—in the hands
of another actor—might have been played according to conventional laws.

An English actor who would have succeeded in the part was the elder
Robson. In Irving’s case, the audience were not in key, or in tune; the
thing seemed _passé_, though our actor had all the traditions of the
part, even to the curiously “creaking snuff-box.”[42]

Among Wills’s friends, admirers, and associates—of which his affectionate
disposition always brought him a following—was Calmour, the author of
some pieces full of graceful poetry of the antique model. Like Mr.
Pinero, he “knew the boards,” having “served” in the ranks, an essential
advantage for all who would write plays; had written several slight
pieces of a poetical cast, notably ‘Cupid’s Messenger,’ in which the
graceful and piquant Mary Rorke had obtained much success in a “trunk and
hose” character. But a play of a more ambitious kind, ‘The Amber Heart,’
had taken Miss Terry’s fancy; she, as we have said, had “created” the
heroine at a _matinée_. It proved to be a sort of dreamy Tennysonian
poem, and was received with considerable favour.

‘The Amber Heart,’ now placed in the bill with ‘Robert Macaire,’ was
revived with the accustomed Lyceum state and liberality. To Alexander was
allotted the hero’s part, and he declaimed the harmonious lines with good
effect. I fancy the piece was found of rather too delicate a structure
for such large and imposing surroundings.[43]

Whenever there is some graceful act, a memorial to a poet or player to be
inaugurated, it is pretty certain that our actor-manager will be called
on to take the leading and most distinguished share in the ceremonial.
At the public meeting, or public dinner, he can deport himself with much
effect.

There are plenty of persons of culture who have been deputed to perform
such duties; but we feel there is often something artificial in their
methods and speeches. In the case of the actor, we feel there is a
something genuine; he supplies a life to the dry bones, and we depart
knowing that he has added grace to our recollections of the scene.
Nor does be add an exaggeration to what he says; there is a happy
judicious reserve. This was felt especially on the occasion of one
pleasant festival day in the September of 1891, when a memorial was
unveiled to Marlowe, the dramatist, in the good old town of Canterbury.
It was an enjoyable expedition, with something simple and rustic in the
whole, while to anyone of poetical tastes there was something unusually
harmonious in the combination offered of the antique town, the memory
of “Dr. Faustus,” the old Cathedral, and the beaming presence of the
cultured artist, of whom no one thought as manager of a theatre. A crowd
of critics and authors came from town by an early train, invited by the
hospitable Mayor. At any season the old town is inviting enough, but now
it was pleasant to march through its narrow streets, under the shadow of
its framed houses, to the small corner close to the Christ Church gate
of the Cathedral, where the speeching and ceremonials were discharged.
The excellent natives seemed perhaps a little puzzled by the new-found
glories of their townsman; they were, however, glad to see the well-known
actor. Equally pleasant, too, was it to make our way to the old Fountain
Inn, where the “worthy” Mayor entertained his guests, and where there
were more speeches. The image of the sleepy old town, and the grand
Cathedral, and of the pretty little fountain—which, however, had but
little suggestion of the colossal Marlowe—and the general holiday tone
still lingers in the memory. Irving’s speech was very happy, and for its
length is singularly suggestive.

It was in October, 1887, that a memorial was set up at Stratford, a
clock-tower and fountain, in memory of Shakespeare. It was the gift of
the wealthy Mr. Childs, of New York, who has been hitherto eager to
associate his name, in painted windows and other ways, with distinguished
Englishmen of bygone times. It may be suspected that Childs’s name will
not be so inseparably linked with celebrated personages as he fondly
imagined. There is a sort of incongruity in this association of a casual
stranger with an English poet.

       *       *       *       *       *

Many a delightful night have his friends owed to the thoughtful kindness
and hospitality of their interesting host. Such is, indeed, one of the
privileges of being his friend. The stage brings with it abundance of
pleasant associations; but there are a number of specially agreeable
memories bound up with the Lyceum. Few will forget the visit of the
Duke of Meiningen’s company of players to this country, which forms
a landmark of extraordinary importance in the history of our modern
stage. With it came Barnay, that accomplished and romantic actor; and a
wonderful instinct of disciplining crowds, and making them express the
passions of the moment, as in Shakespeare’s ‘Julius Cæsar.’ The skilful
German stage-managers did not import their crowds, but were able to
inspire ordinary bands of supernumeraries with the dramatic feelings and
expression that they wanted.

I recall one pleasant Sunday evening at the close of a summer’s day,
when Irving invited his friends to meet the German performers at the
Lyceum. The stage had been picturesquely enclosed and fashioned into
a banqueting-room, the tables spread; the orchestra performed in the
shadowy pit. It was an enjoyable night. There was a strange mingling
of languages—German, French, English. There were speeches in these
tongues, and at one moment Palgrave Simpson was addressing the company in
impetuous fashion, passing from English to French, from French to German,
with extraordinary fluency. Later in the evening there was an adjournment
to the Beef-steak rooms, where the accomplished Barnay found himself at
the piano, to be succeeded by the versatile Beatty-Kingston, himself half
German. There were abundant “Hochs” and pledging. Not until the furthest
of the small hours did we separate, indebted to our kindly, unaffected
host for yet one more delightful evening.

The manager once furnished a pleasantly piquant afternoon’s amusement
for his friends on the stage of his handsome theatre. Among those who
have done service to the stage is Mr. Walter Pollock, lately editor
of the _Saturday Review_, who, among his other accomplishments, is a
swordsman of no mean skill. He has friends with the same tastes, with
whom he practises this elegant art, such as Mr. Egerton Castle, Captain
Hutton, and others. It is not generally known that there is a club known
as the Kerneuzers, whose members are _amateurs enragés_ for armour and
swordsmanship, many of whom have fine collections of helmets, hauberks,
and blades of right Damascene and Toledo.[44]

Mr. Egerton Castle and others of his friends have written costly and
elaborate works on fencing, arms, and the practice of _armes blanches_,
and at their meetings hold exciting combats with dirk and foil. It was
suggested that Mr. Castle should give a lecture on this subject, with
practical illustrations; and the manager, himself a fencer, invited a
number of friends and amateurs to witness the performance, which took
place on February 25, 1891. This lecture was entitled “The Story of
Swordsmanship,” especially in connection with the rise and decline of
duelling. And accordingly there was witnessed a series of combats,
mediæval, Italian, and others, back-sword, small-sword, sword and cloak,
and the rest. Later the performance was repeated at the instance of the
Prince of Wales.

Irving has often contributed his share to “benefits” for his distressed
brethren, as they are often called. In the days when he was a simple
actor he took his part like the rest; when he became manager he would
handsomely lend his theatre, and actually “get up” the whole as though
it were one of his own pieces. This is the liberal, _grand_ style of
conferring a favour. Miss Ellen Terry “takes her benefit” each year.

In June, 1876, a performance was arranged at the Haymarket for a benefit,
when the ever-blooming ‘School for Scandal’ was performed by Phelps,
Miss Neilson, “Ben” Webster, Irving, Bancroft, and others. Irving was
the Joseph Surface, a performance which excited much anticipation and
curiosity. Some time after he performed the same character at Drury Lane.
It might naturally have been thought that the part would have exactly
suited him, but whether from novelty or restlessness, there was a rather
artificial tone about the performance. But what actor can be expected to
play every character, and to find every character suited to him? Joseph
we hold to be one of the most difficult in the whole _répertoire_ to
interpret. At the Belford benefit—and Belford and his services to the
stage, such as they were, are long since forgotten—the all but enormous
sum of £1,000 was received! For schools, charities, convents even, and
philanthropic work of all kinds, some contribution from Henry Irving in
the shape of a recitation or scene may be looked for.

Irving s vein of pleasantry is ever welcome as it is unpretentious. I
have heard him at the General Theatrical Fund dinner give the toast of
“The Army, Navy, and Reserve Forces,” when he said, “There is an Artists’
Corps—I am curious to know why there should not be an Actors’ Corps.
_We are accustomed to handle weapons._” On this occasion “friend Toole”
had to leave on duty; “whose fine Roman visage,” said his friend, “has
beamed on us during dinner—he has been obliged to go away, fortified, I
hope, for his arduous labours, but he will return—I know him well—and he
will too, I am sure, with a most excellent donation.” He can tell a story
or relish a humorous situation with equal effect. In company with Toole,
he has often contrived a droll situation or comic adventure.[45]

At one period, when he was oppressed with hard work, it was suggested
to him that sleeping in the country would be a great restorative after
his labours. He much fancied an old house and grounds at Hammersmith,
known as “The Grange”; and having purchased it, he laid out a good deal
of money in improving and restoring it It had nice old gardens, with
summer-house, a good staircase, and some old panelled rooms.

To a man with such social tastes, the journey down and the night spent
there must have been banishment, or perhaps was found too troublesome.
Literary men, artists, and the like do not much relish these tranquil
pleasures, though practical men of business do. I am certain most will
agree that they leave Fleet Street and the Strand with reluctance and
return to it with pleasure. After a few years he was anxious to be rid of
what was only a useless toy, and it was offered for sale for, I think,
£4,000.[46]




CHAPTER XIV.

1888.

‘MACBETH’—‘THE DEAD HEART’—‘RAVENSWOOD.’


The approach of the opening night of ‘Macbeth’ caused more excitement
than perhaps any of the Lyceum productions. There was a sort of fever of
expectancy; it was known that everything in the way of novelty—striking
and sumptuous dress and scenery, elaborate thought and study, and
money had been expended in almost reckless fashion. There were legends
afloat as to Miss Terry’s marvellous “beetle-green” dress, and the
copper-coloured tresses which were to hang down on her shoulders.[47] The
scenery was to be vast, solid, and monumental. It was no surprise when it
was learned that before the day of performance some £2,000 had been paid
for seats at the box-office.

While allowing due praise to the accomplishments and sagacity of our
dramatic critics, I confess to looking with some distrust and alarm
at a sort of “new criticism” which, like the so-called “new humour,”
has developed in these latter days. This amounts to the assumption of
an aggressive personality—there is a constant manifestation, not of
the play or performers criticised, but of the writer’s own thoughts
and opinions. It seems to be the fashion for a critic to devote his
article to Mr. ——, an opposing critic, as though the public attached any
importance to the opinions these gentlemen held of each other. The vanity
thus unconsciously displayed is often ludicrous enough. The instances,
however, are fortunately rare.

Produced on December 29, the play caused considerable excitement
among Shakespearian students and “constant readers”; and Miss Terry’s
reading—or rather the appearance of Miss Terry in the part—produced much
vehement controversy. We had “The Real Macbeth” in the _Daily Telegraph_,
with the usual “old playgoers” who had seen Mrs. Charles Kean. I fancy
there were but three or four persons who were able to compare the
performance of Miss Terry with that of Mrs. Siddons—about sixty years
before.[48]

Banquo’s ghost has always been a difficulty in every presentation of the
play; all the modern apparitions and phantasmagorian effects neutralize
or destroy themselves. The powerful light behind exhibits the figure
through the gauzes, but to procure this effect the lights in front must
be lowered or darkened. This gives notice in clumsy fashion of what is
coming, and prepares us for the ghost.

“New and original” readings rarely seem acceptable, and, indeed, are
scarcely ever welcomed by the public, who have their old favourite lines
to which they are well accustomed. We never hear one of these novelties
without an effect being left as of something “purely fantastical,” as
Elia has it, and invariably they seem unacceptable and forced, producing
surprise rather than pleasure. Irving rarely introduces these changes. A
curious one in ‘Macbeth’ was the alteration of a line—

    “She should have died hereafter,”

into

    “She would have died hereafter.”

That is a sort of careless dismissal of his wife’s death, as something
that must have occurred, according to the common lot.

The irresolution and generally dejected tone of the Scottish King, as
presented by the actor, was much criticised, and severely too. There
was something “craven,” it was said, in this constant faltering and
shrinking. This, however, was the actor’s conscientious “reading” of
the part: he was not bound by the Kemble or Macready traditions, but
irresistibly impelled to adopt the highly-coloured “romantic” view of our
day. He made it interesting and picturesque, and, in parts, forcible.
Miss Terry’s Lady Macbeth filled everyone with wonder and admiration; as
in the case of her Queen Katherine, it seemed a miracle of energy and
dramatic inspiration triumphing over physical difficulties and habitual
associations. The task was herculean, and even those who objected could
not restrain their admiration.[49]

The pictures set forth in this wonderful representation linger in the
memory. The gloomy Scottish scenes, the castles and their halls, the fine
spreading landscapes, the treatment of the witches, and Banquo’s ghost,
were all but perfect in tone, and had a judicious reserve. There was
nothing overlaid or overdone. How admirably and exactly, for instance,
did the scene correspond to the beautiful lines:

    “This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air
    Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself.”

There painting and poetry went together! The banqueting-hall, the
arrangement of the tables, at right angles with the audience, had a
strange, barbaric effect, the guests being disposed in the most natural
fashion.

After the run of ‘Macbeth’ had ceased, the manager proceeded to carry out
a plan which had long been in his thoughts, and which many had suggested
to him. This was to give “readings,” in conjunction with Miss Terry,
of some of his plays. This would offer some respite from the enormous
outlay entailed by producing these great pieces at his theatre. One
could fancy that nothing could be more attractive than such “readings,”
the interest in the personality of the two great performers being so
generally diffused. He re-arranged “Macbeth” for this purpose, and set
off on a tour in the provinces. But though everywhere well received,
I think the plan did not command the full success that was expected.
There was a defect somehow in the plan: two characters seemed to rob the
performance of that _unity_ which is the charm of a reading. Further,
it was illustrated by the fine music, with orchestra, etc., and this
again disturbed the natural simplicity of a reading. The actor’s own
vividly-coloured imagination and tastes could not, in fact, be content
with the bald and _triste_ mechanisms of the ordinary reader: he tried
to impart what ornamentation he could. The experiment was not, however,
carried out very long.[50]

Some thirty years before, in the old Adelphi days, when “Ben” Webster
was ruling, a drama was produced, the work of a hard-working, drudging
dramatist, Watts Phillips. It was a pure melodrama, and people had not
yet lost their faith in the old devices. There was an honest belief
that villainy would be punished ere the end came. By the laws of such
pieces, the most painful situations were always contrasted with scenes
of broadest farce, which were supposed to relieve the excited feelings. I
well recall these humours. On the revival, however, all this was softened
away or abolished, and, I fancy, with some injury to the constitution of
the old piece.

The production of ‘The Dead Heart’ furnished one more instance of the
tact and abilities which have secured the manager of the Lyceum his high
position. Here was a piece of an old-fashioned kind, which, had it been
“revived” at an ordinary theatre, would have been found not only flat and
stale, but unprofitable for all concerned. Our manager, seeing that it
had dramatic life and situations, brought the whole into harmony with the
times, and, by the skilful _remaniement_ of Mr. Walter Pollock, imparted
to it a romantic grace. It is admitted that he himself has rarely been
fitted with a part so suited to his genius and capacities, or in which he
has roused the sympathies of his audience more thoroughly. It is only the
romantic actor that understands what might be called the _key_ of a play.

In this picturesque part of Robert Landry were exhibited no fewer than
four contrasted phases of character: the gay, hopeful young artist; the
terribly metamorphosed prisoner of nearly twenty years; the recently
delivered man, newly restored to the enjoyment of life; and, lastly,
the grim revolutionary chief, full of his stem purpose of vengeance.
This offered an opening for the display of versatile gifts, which were
certainly brought out in the most striking contrast. But it was in the
later scenes of the play, when he appears as the revolutionary chief,
that our “manager-actor” exhibited all his resources. Nothing was more
artistic than the sense of restraint and reserve here shown, which is
founded on human nature. A person who has thus suffered, and with so
stem a purpose in view, will be disdainful of speech, and oppressed, as
it were, with his terrible design. Quiet, condensed purpose, without any
“fiendish” emphasis, was never better suggested. Even when the drop-scene
is raised, and he is revealed standing by his table, there is the same
morose unrelenting air, with an impression that here was one who had just
passed through the fire, and had been executing an act of vengeance which
had left its mark.

In a drama like ‘The Dead Heart,’ music forms a fitting accompaniment
furnishing colour and appropriate illustration. It is almost
uninterrupted from beginning to end. M. Jacobi of the Alhambra furnished
some effective, richly-coloured strains to ‘The Dead Heart,’ alternately
gay and lugubrious. More, however, might have been made of the stirring
‘Marseillaise,’ which could have been treated in various disguises
and patterns as a sort of _Leitmotiv_, much as Litolf has done in his
symphonic work on the same subject.

A Scotch play—an adaptation of ‘The Bride of Lammermoor’—was now prepared
by Mr. Herman Merivale, a dramatist of much poetical feeling, but whose
course was marked by piteous and disastrous incidents. Buoyed up by the
encouragement and admiration of his friends, and of kindly critics who
found merit in all he did, he struggled on in spite of miserable health
and a too highly-strung nervous temperament. His work showed refinement
and elegance, but it was more for the reader than the playgoer. A gleam
of prosperity, however, came when Mr. Toole began to figure in the
writers grotesque pieces, ‘The Don,’ and others—to which, indeed, the
author’s wife had contributed some share.

The new piece, which was called ‘Ravenswood,’ had lain long in the
manager’s cabinet, where at this moment repose a number of other MSS.,
“commanded” and already purchased, from the pens of Wills, Frank
Marshall, and others. The latter had fashioned Robert Emmett into a
picturesque figure, the figure and bearing of the manager having no doubt
much that suggested the Irish patriot; but the troubled period of Land
Leagues and agrarian violence set in at the time of its acceptance with
an awkward _à propos_.[51]

There is a character, indeed, in which, as the tradition runs, he
formerly made almost as deep an impression as in ‘The Bells.’ This was
Bill Sikes, and we can conceive what a savagery he would have imparted to
it. It would seem to be exactly suited to his powers and to his special
style; though of course here there would be a suggestion of Dubosc. With
Miss Terry as Nancy here would be opened a realm of squalid melodrama,
and “Raquin-like” horrors.

There are other effective pieces which seem to invite the performance of
this accomplished pair. Such, for instance, is the pathetic, heartrending
‘Venice Preserved.’ Though there might be a temptation here for the
scenic artist—since Venice, and its costumes, etc, would stifle the
simple pathos of the drama. ‘The Taming of the Shrew’ has been often
suggested and often thought of, but it has been effectively done at this
theatre by another company. ‘The Jealous Wife’—Mr. and Mrs. Oakley—would
also suit well. There is ‘The Winter’s Tale,’ and finally ‘Three Weeks
after Marriage’—one of the most diverting pieces of farcical comedy that
can be conceived.

‘Ravenswood’ was produced on September 20, 1890. While its scenes were
being unfolded before us one could not but feel the general weakness
of the literary structure, which was unequal to the rich and costly
setting; neither did it correspond to the broad and limpid texture of
the original story. It was unfortunately cast, as I venture to think.
Mackintosh, who performed Caleb, was somewhat artificial; while Ashton
père and his lady, rendered by Bishop and Miss Le Thière, could hardly
be taken _au sérieux_. Irving infused a deep and gloomy pathos into his
part, and Miss Terry was, as ever, interesting, touching, and charming.
But the characters, as was the story, were little more than thinly
outlined. The scenes, however, unfolded themselves with fine spectacular
effect; nothing could be more impressive than the scene of the first
act—a mountain gorge where Ravenswood has come for the entombment of his
father, and is interrupted by the arrival of his enemy, Ashton. Beside
it the Merivale version appeared bald enough. The weird-like last scene,
the “Kelpie Sands,” with the cloak lying on the place of disappearance,
the retainer gazing in despair, was one of Irving’s finely poetical
conceptions, but it was more spectacular than dramatic. The truth is,
where there is so fine a theatre, and where all arts are supplied to set
off a piece in sumptuous style, these elements require substantial stuff
to support them, otherwise the effect becomes trivial in exact proportion
to the adornment.

Irving has been often challenged for not drawing on the talent of native
dramatists, and for not bringing forward “new and original” pieces.
The truth is, at this moment we may look round and seek in vain for a
writer capable of supplying a piece large and forcible enough in plot and
character to suit the Lyceum. We have Pinero and Henry Arthur Jones, but
they are writers of comedies and problem-dramas. Wills, in spite of his
faults, had genuine faith in the old methods. He was of the school of
Westland Marston. In this dearth of talent, it might be well for Irving
to give a commission to a French dramatist to work on whatever subject he
fancied, and have the piece adapted.

It was at the Christmas season of 1891 that the manager was enabled
to carry out a plan that had for years been before him—a revival of
‘Henry VIII.’ We can quite conceive how, as the fashion always was with
him, the play ripened as it were with meditation; how, as he walked or
followed the consoling fumes of his cigar in his chamber at Grafton
Street, each scene fell into shape or suggested some new and effective
arrangement, which again might be discarded as difficulties arose, or
as something happier occurred to him. The result of these meditations
was unquestionably a “large” and splendid setting of the play, which,
to my mind, whatever be the value of the opinion, is certainly one of
the finest, most finished, most poetical, and sufficient of the many
works that he has set before us.[52] There was a greater Shakespearian
propriety, and the adornments, however lavish, might all be fairly
justified. Most to be admired was the supreme elegance of touch found in
every direction—acting, scenery, dresses, music, all reflected the one
cultivated mind. The truth is, long practice and the due measuring of his
own exertion have now supplied an ease and boldness in his effects. To
appreciate this excellence we have only to turn to similar attempts made
by others, whether managers, or manager-actors, or manager-authors—and
we find only the conventional exertion of the scene-painter and
stage-manager. They have not the same inspiration.

This play, produced on January 5, 1892, was received with great
enthusiasm. It became “a common form” of criticism to repeat that it was
of doubtful authorship; that it was nothing but a number of scenes strung
together; that there was no story; that Buckingham vanished almost at the
beginning of the play; and that towards the end, Wolsey vanished also.
These, as I venture to say, are but ignorant objections; characters will
always supply a dramatic story, or a dramatic interest that amounts to a
story, and in the fate of Wolsey and of Katherine, gradually developed
and worked out, we had surely a story sufficiently interesting.

I have little doubt that Irving kept steadily in view the object the
great author had before him, viz., to present a page of history enriched
by all the suitable accompaniments of dress and manners and customs. In
this he was perfectly and triumphantly successful. We were taken into
the great chambers, and tribunals; shown the ecclesiastical pomp and
state, so difficult to conceive now; the processions passing through
the streets, and presented in an exceedingly natural and unconventional
fashion.[53] The drama was set forth fully, with every adjunct of dress,
furniture, scenes, and numbers of auxiliaries.

The scenery, offering wonderful perspectives of Tudor halls and
interiors, the arrangements of the courts and various meetings, were
original and very striking. Yet here I should be inclined to suggest
anew the objections often made to the modern system of large groupings
compressed into the small area of a stage, which, as it seems, is
opposed to the canons of scenic art.[54] These, too, seemed to acquire
new force from the arrangement of the “Trial scene,” as it was called,
which displayed a great hall with the daïs, seats for the Cardinal, the
King, etc. The result of thus supplying a great area by the system of
compression (I am speaking merely of the principle), is that the leading
figures become dwindled in scale and overpowered by the surrounding
crowd. The contrast with the older system is brought out by Harlow’s
well-known picture, where only the leading figures are grouped, and where
by consequence they stand out in greater relief. The spectator stands, as
it were, close beside them; but by the modern arrangement he appears to
be afar off, at the bottom of the hall, obtaining but a distant view of
them.[55]

When we consider what are the traditions of the two great characters, how
vivid they are, from the deep impressions left by the great brother and
sister on their contemporaries—an impression which has really extended
to our time—too much praise could hardly be given to the performance
of Irving and his gifted companion. Irving’s Wolsey was exactly what
those familiar with his other impersonations could anticipate—poetical,
elegant, and in many portions powerful. He was the churchman to
perfection, carrying his robes admirably; in the face there was a
suggestion of the late departed Cardinal Manning. All through the piece
there was that picturesque acting which fills the eye, not the ear, at
the moment when speech is at rest. It is thus that are confuted those
theorists, including Elia, who hold that Shakespeare is to be read, not
acted.

It is perhaps the power of suggestion and of stirring our imagination
that brings about this air of fulness and richness. Irving, when he
was not speaking, _acted_ the pomp and state and consummately depicted
the smoothness of the Cardinal. When he was lost to view you felt
the application of the oft-quoted line touching the absence of “the
well-grac’d” actor from the scene, and it was wonderful to think, as we
glanced round the brilliant _salle_—glittering with its vast crowd of
well-dressed, even jewelled, women (“Quite an opera pit!” as Ellison
would say)—to the fine stage before us, with its showy figures, pictures,
and pageants, that all this was _his_ work and of his creation!

There were many diverse criticisms on Irving’s conception of this famous
character; some held that it was scarcely “large,” rude, or overbearing
enough. His view, however, as carried out, seemed natural and consistent.
The actor wished to exhibit the character as completely overwhelmed by
adverse fortune; witness Macbeth, Othello, and many other characters. In
the last great soliloquy it was urged there was a want of variety. Still,
allowing for all traditional defects, it stands beyond contradiction that
it was a “romantic” performance, marked by “distinction,” and a fine
grace; and we might vainly look around for any performer of our time
who could impart so poetical a cast to the character. And we may add a
praise which I am specially qualified to give, viz., that he was the
perfect ecclesiastic: as he sat witnessing the revels, now disturbed, now
careless—there was the Churchman revealed; he was not, as was the case
with so many others, a performer robed in clerical garb.

Of Miss Terry’s Queen Katharine, it can be said that it was an
_astonishing_ performance, and took even her admirers by surprise.
She made the same almost gigantic effort as she did in ‘Macbeth’ to
interpret a vast character, one that might have seemed beyond her
strength, physical as well as mental. By sheer force of will and genius
she contrived to triumph. It was not, of course, the _great_ Queen
Katharine of Mrs. Siddons, nor did she awe and command all about her;
but such earnestness and reality and dramatic power did she impart to
the character that she seemed to supply the absence of greater gifts.
Her performance in the Court and other scenes of the persecuted, hunted
woman, now irritated, now resigned, was truly pathetic and realistic.
There may have been absent the overpowering, queen-like dignity, the
state and heroism, but it was impossible to resist her—it was her “way,”
and by this way she gained all hearts. It must be confessed that nothing
ever supplied such an idea of the talents and “cleverness” of this truly
brilliant woman as her victory over the tremendous difficulties of these
parts. The performance won her the sympathies of all in an extraordinary
degree.

So admirably had our manager been penetrated with the spirit of the
scenes, that he was enabled to present them in a natural and convincing
way, and seemed to revive the whole historic time and meaning of the
situation. This was particularly shown in the scene when Buckingham is
led to execution; his address to the crowd was delivered with so natural
a fashion, with such judicious and pathetic effect, that it not only
gained admiration for the performance, but brought the scene itself
within range of every day life. For, instead of the old conventional
declamatory speech to a stage crowd, we had some “words” which the
sufferer, on entering the boat, stopped for a moment to address to
sympathizers who met him on the way.

The music, the work of a young composer, Mr. Edward German, was truly
romantic and expressive; stately and richly-coloured. How wonderful, by
the way, is the progress made of late years in theatrical music! We have
now a group of composers who expend their talents and elegancies in the
adornment of the stage. The flowing melodies and stately marches of the
Lyceum music still linger in the ear.

It was in January, 1892, when he was performing in ‘Henry VIII.,’ that a
very alarming piece of news, much magnified by report, reached him. His
son Laurence was playing at Belfast in the Benson Company, and had by
some accident shot himself with a revolver; this casualty was exaggerated
to an extraordinary degree,—three local doctors issued bulletins; “the
lung had been pierced”—until the anxious father at last sent over an
experienced surgeon, Mr. Lawson Tait, who was able to report that the
wound was trivial, and the weapon a sort of “toy-pistol.” Much sympathy
was excited by this casualty. The manager has two sons, Henry and
Laurence, the latter named after Mr. Toole, who are now both following
their father’s profession.




CHAPTER XV.

1892.

‘KING LEAR’—‘BECKET.’


After presenting so many of Shakespeare’s great dramas, it was to be
expected that the manager could not well pass by what has been justly
styled the Titanic play of ‘King Lear.’ This had, indeed, always been
in his thoughts; but he naturally shrank from the tremendous burden
it entailed. It was prepared in his usual sumptuous style. There were
sixteen changes of scene and twenty-two characters, and the music was
furnished by Hamilton Clarke. The scenery was divided between Craven and
Harker, the latter a very effective artist of the same school. There
were some beautiful romantic effects: the halls, the heath, and notably
the Dover scenes, were exquisite. I doubt if their presentation has been
excelled by any preceding attempts. The barbaric tone and atmosphere
of the piece was conveyed to perfection, without being insisted on or
emphasized. It is only when we compare the ambitious attempts of other
managers who would indulge in effects equally lavish and sumptuous,
that we recognise the ability, ease, reserve, and force of the Lyceum
manager.[56] They, too, will have their “archæology” and their built-up
temples, designed by painters of repute, and crowds; but there is present
only the sense of stage effect and the flavour of the supernumerary.
The secret is the perfect subordination of such details to the general
effect. They should be, like the figures on a tapestry, indistinct, but
effective as a background. Charles Lamb’s well-worn dictum, that ‘Lear’
should never be acted, was trotted forth in every criticism. There
is some truth in this exaggerated judgment, because it can never be
_adequately_ presented, and the performance must always fall short of the
original grandeur. With his remarks on the pettiness of the stage-storm,
one would be inclined to agree, even on this occasion, when every art was
exhausted to convey the notion of the turmoil of the elements. The truth
is, an audience sitting in the stalls and boxes will never be seduced
into accepting the rollings and crashings of cannon-balls aloft, and the
flashing of lycopodium, as suggesting the awful warring of the elements.

‘Lear’ was brought forward on Thursday, November 10, 1892, and its
presentation was a truly romantic one. The figure had little of the
usual repulsive aspects of age—the clumsy white beard, etc.—but was
picturesque. The entry into his barbaric court, the strange retainers
with their head-dresses of cows’ horns, was striking and original. The
whole conception was human. The “curse” was delivered naturally. In
presenting, however, the senile ravings of the old monarch, the actor
unavoidably assumed an indistinctness of utterance, and many sentences
were lost. This imperfection was dwelt on in the criticisms with
superfluous iteration, and though the actor speedily amended and became
almost emphatically distinct, this notion seemed to have settled in the
public mind, with some prejudice to the success of the piece. Though
he was thus quick to remedy this blemish, distinctness was secured by
deliberation, and at some loss of effect. The actor’s extraordinary
exertions—for he was at the same time busy with the preparation of a new
piece—exhausted him, and obliged him for some nights to entrust the part
to another. But the real obstacle to full success could be found in the
general lugubrious tone of the character; the uninterrupted sequence
of horrors and distresses led to a feeling of monotony difficult for
the actor to vanquish. The public never takes very cordially to pieces
in which there is this _sustained misery_, though it can relish the
alternations of poignant tragedy attended by quick dramatic changes.
Cordelia, though a small part, was made prominent by much touching pathos
and grace, and the dying recognition by the old King brought tears to
many eyes.[57]

An interesting feature in Irving’s career has been his long friendship
with Tennyson, poet and dramatist, which lasted for some fifteen or
sixteen years. The actor showed his appreciation of the poet’s gifts by
the rather hazardous experiment of presenting two of his poetical dramas
to the public. We have seen what sumptuous treatment was accorded to
‘The Cup’; and in ‘Queen Mary’ the actor contributed his most powerful
dramatic efforts in the realization of the grim Philip.

The poet, however, made little allowance for the exigencies of the
stage. During the preparation of ‘The Cup,’ he contended eagerly for the
retention of long speeches and scenes, which would have shipwrecked the
piece. Yet, undramatic as most of his dramas are, a taste for them was
springing up, and not long before his death he had the gratification of
knowing that his ‘Foresters’ had met with surprising success in America.
No less than six pieces of his have been produced, and though the idea
prevails that he has been “a failure” as a dramatist, it will be found
that on the whole he has been successful. It may be that by-and-by he
will be in higher favour. But he will have owed much to Irving, not
merely for presenting his plays with every advantage, but for putting
them into fitting shape, with firm, unerring touch removing all that is
superfluous.

So far back as the year 1879 the poet had placed in Irving’s hands a
drama on the subject of Becket and the Fair Rosamund. It was really
a _poem_ of moderate length, though in form a drama, and the actor
naturally shrank from the difficulties of dealing with such a piece.
The “pruning knife” would here have been of little avail; the axe or
“chopper” would have to be used unsparingly. The piece was accordingly
laid aside for that long period; the lamented death of the poet probably
removed the chief obstacle to its production. It is said, indeed,
that almost one-half was cut away before it could be put in shape for
performance. On Monday, February 6, 1893, the actor’s birthday, this
posthumous piece was brought out with every advantage, and before an
assemblage even more brilliant than usual. It revived the memories of
the too recent ‘Henry VIII.,’ in which there is much the same struggle
between Prince and Bishop. The actor has thus no less than three eminent
Catholic ecclesiastics in his _répertoire_—Richelieu, Wolsey, and Becket;
but, as he pleasantly said, he could contrast with these an English
clergyman, the worthy Dr. Primrose, Vicar of Wakefield. Yet he admirably
and dramatically distinguished their several characters.

There is always a curiosity to have the curtain lifted, so that we may
have a glimpse of a play in the throes and troubles of rehearsal. Mr.
Burgin, in one of the magazines, gave a very dramatic sketch of how
things were conducted during the preparation of ‘Becket’:

“After Mr. Irving has grouped the men on the benches, he steps back
and looks at the table. ‘We ought to have on it some kind of mace or
crozier,’ he says—‘a large crozier. Now for the “make up.” All the
barons and everyone who has a moustache must wear a small beard. All the
gentlemen who have no beards remain unshaven. All the priests and bishops
are unshaven. The mob can have slight beards, but this is unimportant.
Now, take off your hats, gentlemen, please. Some of you must be old, some
young. Hair very short;’ and he passes from group to group selecting the
different people. ‘Now, I think that is all understood pretty well. Where
are the sketches for dresses?’

“The sketches are brought, and he goes carefully through them. Miss
Terry and Mr. Terriss also look over the big white sheets of paper.
The fox-terrier strolls up to the group, gives a glance at them, and
walks back again to Miss Terry’s chair with a slightly cynical look.
Then Mr. Irving returns to the groups by the benches. ‘Remember,
gentlemen, you must be arguing here, laying down the law in this way,’
suiting the action to the word. ‘Just arrange who is to argue. Don’t
do it promiscuously, but three or four of you together. Try to put a
little action into it. I want you to show your arms, and not to keep
them glued to your sides like trussed fowls. No; that isn’t half enough
action. Don’t be frightened. Better make too much noise rather than too
little, but don’t stop too suddenly. Start arguing when I ring the first
bell. As I ring the second bell, you see me enter, and stop.’ The dog
stands one bell, but the second annoys him, and he disappears from the
stage altogether, until the people on the benches have finished their
discussion.

“Mr. Irving next tries the three-cornered stools which are placed around
the table, but prefers square ones. The dog returns, walks over to the
orchestra, looks vainly for a rat, and retreats under the table in the
centre of the stage as if things were getting really too much for him.
But his resting-place is ill-chosen, for presently half-a-dozen angry
lords jump on the table, and he is driven forth once more. After a stormy
scene with the lords, Mr. Irving walks up the steps again. ‘When I say
“I depart,” you must let me get up the steps. All this time your pent-up
anger is waiting to burst out suddenly. Don’t go to sleep over it.’ He
looks at the table in the centre of the stage, and turns to a carpenter.
‘This table will never do. It has to be jumped on by so many people that
it must be very strong. They follow me.’ (To Miss Terry) ‘They’d better
catch hold of me, up the steps here.’

“Miss Terry: ‘They must do something. They can’t stand holding you like
that.’

“Mr. Irving: ‘No.’ The door opens suddenly at top of steps, and discovers
the crowd, who shout, ‘Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord.’

“The doors open and the crowd shout, but the effect is not good.

“Miss Terry: ‘It would be better if it were done at the foot of the
steps. The people needn’t show their faces as they do it, and the effect
will be so much better.’”

‘Becket’ contained thirty characters, and was set off by fine scenery
and excellent music, written specially by Professor Stanford, this not
being the first time his notes had been associated with the poet. Never
have Irving’s efforts been greeted with such overpowering, tumultuous
applause. At the end of every act there were as many as five “recalls.”
In such pieces, as well as in some of Shakespeare’s, there is always a
matter of interesting debate in fixing the era, dresses, architecture,
etc.—a matter perhaps of less importance than is supposed. Irving’s
conception of ‘Becket’ was truly picturesque and romantic; he imported
a pathetic tone, with a sort of gloomy foreboding of the impending
martyrdom, conveyed by innumerable touches. The actor has the art of
moulding his features and expression to the complexion of the character
he is performing nightly. Thus, in ‘Becket,’ it can be seen that he had
already assumed the meditative, wary look of the aspiring ecclesiastic.

It is evidence of the interest excited by ‘Becket,’ that a little
discussion arose between a Benedictine Father and another ecclesiastic on
the hymn, “Telluris ingens Conditor,” which was played in the cathedral
scene and through the piece. The Benedictine contended that it must have
been some older form of the hymn before the pseudo-classicalization
“of the Breviary Hymns in the sixteenth century.” “I do not suppose,”
he added, “that Mr. Irving’s well-known attention to detail extends to
such _minutiæ_ as these. The famous cathedral scene, in his presentment
of ‘Much Ado about Nothing,’ was received with a chorus of praise as a
marvel of liturgical accuracy. But I am told that to Catholic eyes at
least some of its details appeared incorrect.” Thus, to the monastery
even, does the fame of our manager’s efforts reach!

One of the most remarkable things connected with ‘Becket’ was the
unanimous applause and approbation of the entire press.[58] Even one or
two evening papers, which had spoken with a little hesitation, returned
to the subject a few nights later to correct their judgment and to admit
that they had been hasty. All confessed that they had been captivated by
the picturesqueness of the central figure.

Apart from his professional gifts, Irving is assuredly one of those
figures which fill the public eye, and of which there are but few. This
is owing to a sort of sympathetic attraction, and to an absence of
affectation. He plays many parts in the social scheme, and always does
so with judiciousness, contributing to the effect of the situation.
His utterances on most subjects are thoughtful and well considered,
and contribute to the enlightenment of the case. At his examination
by the London County Council, when many absurd questions were put to
him, he answered with much sagacity. His views on the employment of
children in theatres are truly sensible. More remarkable, however, are
his opinions on the science of acting, the art of management, and of
dealing with audiences and other kindred topics, which show much thought
and knowledge. He has, in truth, written a great deal, and his various
“discourses,” recently collected in a pretty little volume, do credit to
his literary style and power of expression.[59]

Here we must pause. We have seen what our actor has done, what a change
he has worked in the condition of the stage: what an elegant education
he has furnished during all these years. And though he has been
associated with the revival of the stage, and a complete reform in all
that concerns its adornment, it will be his greatest glory that he has
presented SHAKESPEARE on a grand scale, under the sumptuous and judicious
conditions and methods that have made the poet acceptable to English
audiences of our day.

There have been many laments over the fleeting, evanescent character of
an actor’s efforts. If his success be triumphant, it is like a dream for
those who have not seen. Description gives but the faintest idea of his
gifts. The writer, as it were, continues to write after his death, and
is read, as he was in his lifetime. But the player gone, the play is
over. The actor, it is true, if he be a personality, has another audience
outside his theatre. As I have shown in these pages, he can attract by
force of character the interest and sympathies of the general community.
Whatever he does, or wherever he appears, eyes are turned to him as they
would be to one on a stage. There is a sort of indulgent partiality in
the case of Irving. He is a dramatic figure, much as was Charles Dickens.
Eyes are idly bent on him that enters next. And this high position is not
likely to be disturbed; and though all popularity is precarious enough,
he has the art and tact to adapt his position to the shifty, capricious
changes of taste, and in the hackneyed phrase is more “up to date” than
any person of his time. The fine lines in ‘Troilus and Cressida’—the
most magnificent in Shakespeare, as they seem to me—should ring in every
actor’s ear, or indeed in that of everyone that enjoys public favour.
Alas! it must be his lot to be ever at the oar. There is no relaxing, no
repose; no coy retirement, or yielding to importunate rivalry:

    “To have done, is to hang quite out of fashion,
    Like a rusty mail in monumental mockery....
    For honour travels in a strait so narrow,
    Where one but goes abreast: keep, then, the path;
    For emulation hath a thousand sons,
    That one by one pursue: if you give way,
    Or turn aside from the direct forth-right,
    Like to an enter’d tide, they all rush by,
    And leave you hindmost;—and there you lie
    Like a gallant horse fallen in first rank,
    For pavement to the abject rear, o’er-run
    And trampled on; then, what they do in present,
    Though less than yours in past, must o’ertop yours.”




CHAPTER XVI.

1893.

‘KING ARTHUR’—CORPORAL BREWSTER—HONOURS.


When the theatre opened for the season, ‘Faust’ was revived to fill
the time, and it drew excellent and satisfactory “houses” until the
new piece was got ready. This, it was said, was rehearsed on board the
steamer on the way home. Our actor had long before him the idea of
playing the “spotless King,” and had the late Laureate been alive he
might have been tempted to shape his great poem into a play. As it was,
the versatile Comyns Carr was intrusted with the task, and, somewhat
to the surprise of the public, he who had been art-critic, manager of
Grosvenor and New Galleries, dramatist and designer of dresses, etc., for
the Lyceum, now came forward as a poet; and a very respectable poet he
proved to be, with harmonious mellifluous lines, effective from a stage
point of view. It must be said, however, that the play is altogether a
literary one, and rather lacks dramatic movement. It is really a series
of dramatic recitations set off by beautiful shows, processions, and
scenic views. The situations, too, scarcely brought about or led up to,
are effective enough when we reach them. The piece was no doubt “written
in the theatre” under inspiration of the manager, and supplied exactly
what he wanted. The scenery was designed by Sir E. Burne Jones, who
supplied some exquisite combinations or arrangements of colour, which
were certainly new to stage-land. The music was Sir Arthur Sullivan’s,
and there was later to be the unusual and unprecedented incident of no
fewer than _three_ knights—a musician, a painter, and an actor—combining
their talents in a single play. Beautiful was the opening scene with
the blue waters and the swimming maidens imported from ‘Rheingold,’
with the finding of the “Excalibur” contrived most skilfully. There
were grand halls and castles, and woodland groves, all exhibiting much
originality of touch, that unvarying effective grace and tact which made
the most of the materials. The characters were rather faintly outlined.
King Arthur and his queen are comparatively colourless; so is Elaine.
Mr. Forbes Robertson, who played Lancelot with picturesque power, was
early withdrawn, being bound by some other engagement. His successor, a
pleasing light comedian, lacks the weight necessary for the character.
Miss Terry was, as usual, touching and pathetic. So refined, so perfect
was the general treatment, that it attracted and drew larger and yet
larger houses.

As the season went on, the manager, following his favourite policy,
prepared a series of revivals on a gigantic scale. These were virtually
convenient rehearsals for the coming American tour. But the constant
changes of scenes, dresses, etc., involve an enormous strain. The
round of pieces included, within the space of a few weeks, no fewer
than eleven plays: ‘Faust,’ ‘King Arthur,’ ‘Louis XI.,’ ‘Merchant of
Venice,’ ‘Becket,’ ‘Much Ado about Nothing,’ ‘The Lyons Mail,’ ‘Charles
I.,’ ‘Nance Oldfield,’ ‘Corsican Brothers,’ ‘Macbeth.’ A new short
piece, ‘Journeys End in Lovers Meeting,’ by George Moore and John Oliver
Hobbes, which was to introduce Miss Terry, was also announced. The burden
of “staging” all these great works, in a short time, must have been
enormous. But it was only in this fashion that the revivals could be done
justice to.

It is a wonderful proof of our actor’s ability that, after so many years
of experiment in characters of all kinds, he should in almost his latest
attempt have made one of his most signal successes. I doubt if anything
he has hitherto tried has more profoundly impressed his audience than the
little cabinet sketch of Corporal Brewster in Dr. Conan Doyle’s ‘Story
of Waterloo.’ This he had first presented to a provincial audience, some
eight months ago, at Bristol, with such extraordinary effect that the
general audience of the kingdom felt instinctively that a great triumph
had been achieved. Everyone at a distance at once knew and was interested
in the old corporal. A second trial was made in London, for a charity;
and at last, on May 4 of the present year, it was formally brought
forward in the regular programme. There was what is called “a triple
bill,” consisting of Mr. Pinero’s early drama, ‘Bygones,’ this ‘Story
of Waterloo,’ and some scenes from ‘Don Quixote,’ Wills’s posthumous
work.[60]

This sketch of the old soldier is a fine piece of acting, highly
finished, yet natural and unobtrusive, full of pathos and even tragedy.
The actor excelled himself in numerous forcible touches, now humorous,
now pathetic. He gave the effect of its being a large history in little;
we had the whole life of the character laid out before us. It was
original, too, and the oddities were all kept in with a fine reserve.
The figure will always be present to the memory, a satisfactory proof
of excellence. There was one mistake, however, in giving the female
character to Miss Hughes, a bright and lively _soubrette_, who could not,
therefore, supply the necessary sympathetic interest, though she did her
best. Taking it all in all, Corporal Brewster is, in its way, one of
the most masterly things the actor has done, and it can be praised—ay,
extolled—without the smallest reservation.

It was followed by the scenes from ‘Don Quixote,’ and here, again, we
must admire that admirable power of conceiving a character in which
Irving excels, and in which all true actors should excel. It was admitted
that the piece was a “poorish” thing, but here was supplied the living
image of the hapless and ever interesting “Don,” who lived, moved, and
had his being before us, in the most perfect way. There was a general
dreaminess over him; his soul was so filled with high chivalrous visions
that he was indifferent to the coarsely prosaic incidents going on about
him. He filled the stage; the rest were mere puppets. The character, in
spite of the shortcomings of the piece, might be made one of his best.
“One of these days”—always an indefinite period—we may look to see him in
a vigorous, well-written drama on this subject.

And here it may be said that this long connection of Wills and his school
with the Lyceum has tended somewhat to the sacrifice of brisk dramatic
action, which is always enfeebled by an excess of poetical recitations.
There are still many fine subjects and fine dramas which would kindle all
the actor’s powers afresh and stir his audiences. What a fine piece, for
instance, could be made of Victor Hugo’s ‘Notre Dame’! We already see
our actor as the mysterious and romantic monk—one more addition to his
ecclesiastical gallery. What opportunities for scenery and music! One
of the most picturesque of stories is that of Theodore of Corsica, he
who dreamed of being a king and actually became one, and who died in the
King’s Bench Prison in the most piteous state of misery. We should like
to see him, too, as Rodin, in Sue’s ‘Wandering Jew,’ and, better still,
in ‘Venice Preserved,’ or in ‘Mlle. de Belleisle.’

After his twenty years’ fruitful work at the Lyceum—twenty years and
more of picturesque labour during which a new interest was created in
the stage—an official recognition was to be given of our actor’s high
position. The year 1895 will henceforth be notable as the year of the
first tardy honour ever bestowed on an English actor by the Crown. We
have had titled players in abundance on the stage, but they have not owed
their honours to the stage. It has been said that Sir Richard Steele and
Sir Augustus Harris are the only two titled managers. When, in May, the
usual list of what are called “birthday honours” came out, the public was
delighted to find their favourite included, in company with a poet, a
novelist, and a successful traveller. Few Government acts have given such
general satisfaction. There was a general chorus of appreciation. Already
a lecturer before the Universities and a doctor of letters, the leading
player of his time was now officially recognised.

To no class of the community was the honour more acceptable than to
his own profession. A meeting of actor-managers and others was held to
take some step “in recognition,” it was said, of the distinction. Mr.
Bancroft presided, and a provisional committee was formed, consisting of
Mr. Toole, Mr. Pinero, Mr. Beerbohm Tree, Sir A. Harris, Mr. Hare, Mr.
Wyndham, Mr. G. Alexander, Mr. Terry, Mr. Forbes Robertson, Mr. Terriss,
Mr. Howe, Mr. Brough, Mr. G. Conquest, and some others. Mr. Bashford
acted as secretary. Another meeting with the same end in view was called
of “proprietors, authors, managers.” All this was very gratifying. Not
less striking was the feeling with which the news was received abroad,
and his _confrères_ of the French comedy—the “House of Molière” as it
proudly and so justly boasts itself—lost not a moment in calling a
meeting and sending him a formal “act” of congratulation. This important
document ran:

                                            “Paris, _May 28, 1895_.

    “DEAR SIR HENRY IRVING,

    “The committee of the Comédie Française and the _sociétaires_
    of the House of Molière desire to send you their cordial
    congratulations, and to signify the joy they feel at the high
    distinction of which you have lately been made the recipient.
    We are all delighted to see a great country pay homage to a
    great artist, and we applaud with all our hearts the fitting
    and signal recompense paid to an actor who has done such
    powerful service and profound honour to our calling and our
    art. Accept, then, dear Sir Henry Irving, the expression of the
    deep sympathy as artists and the sincere devotion which we feel
    towards you.—(Signed) Jules Claretie, administrator-general
    and president of committee; Mounet Sully, G. Worms, Silvain,
    Georges Baillet, Coquelin cadet, Proudhon, etc., of the
    committee; S. Reichemberg, Bartet, B. Baretta Worms, Paul
    Mounet, Mary Kalb, Blanche Pierson, A. Dudlay, etc.,
    _sociétaires_.”

Looking back over this long period of nigh thirty years, we are
astonished to find this laborious and conscientious performer never
absent from his stage. Night after night, year after year, he is
still found at his post, defiant of fatigue or ill-health. Only on
one occasion, I think, owing to some affection of his throat, had a
substitute to take his place. The pressure and constant struggle of our
time, it may be, takes no account of weakness or failure; no one dares
relax, and as Mrs. Siddons declared the player’s nerves must be made of
cart-ropes, so must he have a constitution of iron or steel.

Notwithstanding this constant strain upon his time and labour, there
is no figure more conspicuous in the whole round of social duties and
entertainments. Wherever there is a gathering for the purpose of helping
his profession, he is to be found presiding or assisting. He takes his
share in the important movements of the day, and his utterances, always
judicious, useful, and valuable, are quoted abundantly.




CHAPTER XVII.

L’ENVOI.


Irving has always shown himself eager to plead for his profession, to
urge its claim as a wholesome and instructive moral influence that will
implant in the community elevating instincts of even a religious kind.
All our great actors have been forward in this way, notably Garrick,
Kemble, and Macready. The former’s reply to the bishop as to the success
and failure of their different styles of preaching is well known. In
these days, when we have that singular “Church and State Guild,” with
the pleadings of the Reverend Stewart Headlam, and of other clergymen,
in favour of the ballet, it is curious to find how this indulgent and
tolerant view is repaid by the introduction on the stage of grotesque
curates, vicars, and deans, the line being drawn at bishops, who now
figure in many a comic opera in absurd and even degrading situations. Our
actor is very earnest, and fondly believes that the day is approaching
when the stage, and its ways and works, will be recognised by the Church,
and by good people generally, as healthy, useful agents in the work of
reforming men and women. He is fond of repeating the Bishop’s remark to
him, when he asked why, with such a taste for the theatre, he did not
frequent it—“My dear Irving, I am afraid of the _Rock_ and the _Record_.”

In his numerous addresses at institutes, and before the Universities, he
has urged the same plea. And yet, with this skilful and loyal advocacy,
we have an instinct that the stage can have but small effect on the
masses, and does little beyond making them acquainted with certain
refining ideas and situations. As for its fostering moral or religious
impressions, by exhibiting “virtue triumphant and vice defeated,” that
seems to be rather fanciful. It is probable that the playwrights,
managers, actors, and audiences use the theatres for profit and for
amusement, not for self improvement in religion or morals. Even the
great classical works, such as those of Shakespeare, are set forward
with so much magnificence, show, and spectacle, that the teachings are
overpowered in the spectacle and general entertainment. But even granting
the contention that it may become a pure leaven in the profession, or
sweetening salt to purify the rest, who can maintain that the stage as
a whole, with its burlesques, “grotesques,” frivolities, fooleries, and
license of speech and manners, can be considered an edifying school for
morality and religion? What a deep impression, on the other hand, leaves
such a piece as ‘The School for Scandal’! what a genuine disgust for
deceit and insincerity! How it shows the danger of “playing with fire”!
What a pleasant sympathy is aroused with the natural, manly virtues!
Here is a certain sort of teaching if you will, and here, too, is there
an elemental morality. But in these days we unhappily not only lack the
talent to supply such comedies, but the public taste is debauched and
gorged with grosser dishes.

In his paper, addressed to the Church of England Temperance Society,
and read on March 3, 1876, Irving very valiantly pressed for the
formal recognition of his profession by the Church. “Make the theatre
respected by openly recognising its services. Let members of religious
congregations know that there is no harm, but rather good, in entering
into ordinary amusements, so far as they are decorous. Use the pulpit,
the press, and the platform to denounce not the stage, but certain evils
that find allowance on it. Change your attitude towards the stage, and,
believe me, the stage will co-operate with you,” etc.

It must be said, however, as regards this friendly invitation, that this
idea of the churches cordially recommending the stage and of the clergy
being seen in the stalls, and of bishops who would go to the theatre but
for fear of the _Rock_ and the _Record_, seems but a pleasant delusion.
Some few stray clerical visitants there are, no doubt; but in all ages
and climes the Church has found itself opposed to the stage, on the
ground that in the majority of theatres is found what is destroying and
corrupting. As I have said, the pieces in which anything instructive, or
even elevating, is set forth are but few.

Irving has collected his various addresses in a charming little volume,
“The Drama,” 1893. Here, in an exceedingly persuasive and graceful
style, he has expounded the principles of his art. On every point he has
something to say, and all is marked by judiciousness and a temperate
reserve. He does not adopt Diderot’s well-known theory. How true, for
instance, is this: “Nor do I think that servility to archæology on
the stage is an unmixed good. Correctness of costume is admirable and
necessary up to a certain point, but when it ceases to be ‘as wholesome
as sweet’ it should, I think, be sacrificed. The nicest discretion is
needed in the use of the materials which are nowadays at the disposal
of the manager. Music, painting, architecture, costume, have all to be
employed, with a strict regard to the production of an artistic whole
in which no element shall be obtrusive.” When ‘Much Ado about Nothing’
was produced, there was a scene representing a cedar walk, and a critic
discovered that there were no cedars in England until fifty years later,
on which he comments—“Absolute realism on the stage is not always
desirable, any more than the photographic reproduction of Nature can
claim to rank with the highest art.”

A little bit of pleasant comedy is found in a recent speech of his at the
dinner of the Cabdrivers’ Benevolent Association in June last. He had
always a friendly feeling for this hard-worked body of men, as he told
his audience autobiographically: “I have spent a great part of my life
in cabs. There was a time, indeed, when a hansom, by a slight stretch
of the picturesque, might have been described as my address. That was
in the days of youth and high spirits. But there comes a moment in the
experience of all of us when the taste for adventure is satiated, when we
are no longer eager to sit under the charioteer of the sun, and snatch a
fearful joy from sharp corners and a sudden congestion of the traffic.
So when the decisive moment came for me I dropped the hansom and took
up with the growler. I remember that my first appearance in that staid
and unambitious vehicle excited a certain amount of feeling amongst my
old friends the hansom cabmen. There were letters of remonstrance. One
correspondent, as genial a humorist as Gentleman Joe, hinted that to be
seen in a growler was equivalent to being dead, and I think he offered
to paint my epitaph on the back. I must say that I am very comfortable
in a growler, except when the bottom drops out almost as suddenly as if
it were a gold mine. That accident once happened to a friend of mine
whose professional business compelled him to make a quick change of dress
in the cab, and as it was a light summer evening the passers-by were
astonished to see a pair of white legs running under the vehicle, and not
apparently connected with the horse.”

Again a pleasant sketch: “Taking them as a body, the cabmen are as
industrious and deserving a class as you can find in the community.
There still lingers amongst them, perhaps, some of the old spirit which
prompted the cabmen to expostulate rather forcibly with Mr. Pickwick. And
considering the vast area in which these public servants have to work,
and the elasticity of the four-mile radius in the minds of some citizens,
the friction is surprisingly small. Not a few of us have known cabmen
whom we held in special regard. There was one affable driver that I
invited to the Lyceum, giving him the money for admission. The next time
I saw him I said, ‘Well, and how did you like the play?’ He hesitated for
a moment, choosing, as I thought, the most grateful words to express his
pleasure and admiration, and then he said, ‘Well, sir, I didn’t go.’ ‘You
didn’t go! Why not?’ ‘Well, sir, you see, there’s the missus, and she
preferred the Waxworks.’

“A friend of mine, a great ornament of the medical profession, used to
tell a story of the cabman who drove him regularly on his rounds for
some years, and always spoke of him with affectionate familiarity by
his Christian name. The time came for the rising surgeon to set up a
brougham, and with much reluctance he broke this news to his good friend
the cabby, who responded with cheerful alacrity, ‘Oh, you’re going to get
rid of me, are you? Not a bit of it—I’ll drive that brougham.’ And drive
it he did, till he became too old and infirm for the duty. ‘Ah, well, I
must give it up,’ he said one day; ‘I ain’t fit for it any longer.’ ‘Dear
me,’ said the doctor, in great concern, ‘I am very sorry, very sorry
indeed. And what are you going to do?’ ‘What am I going to do? What are
_you_ going to do for me? Don’t you fear—I’ll never leave you!’ And he
spent the rest of his days on a pension. That story has always seemed to
me to put the spirit of charity and goodwill in a thoroughly practical
light. You can scarcely get through life in this town without a sense of
your dependence on cabby’s skill and endurance, and with as grateful an
obligation to him as that of the voyager to the pilot amidst the reefs in
a storm. In this labyrinth of London, it is rare for cabby not to know
his way. I have never ceased to wonder at the cabman’s dexterity of eye
and hand—unrivalled, I venture to say, in any other capital in Europe.
And when you consider how small is the proportion of accidents in this
vast business of locomotion, you may cheerfully grant that cabby has some
claim upon your respect and generosity.”

I think the whole “key” of this is admirably appropriate, and the touch
of the lightest.[61]

At dinners and meetings he often glides into lively recollections of his
early days, related in an unaffected style, as when, not long since, he
told his lieges at Bristol: “My recollections of Bristol carry me back
to the days when my father told me stirring tales of the great Bristol
Riots, which had brought him the honours of a special constable. I think
I wanted to grow up to be a special constable too, and I had great hopes
that Bristol would kindly become sufficiently riotous to favour that
ambition. But I also had a turn for natural history, and it is indelibly
stamped upon my memory that on one occasion, when I was about four years
old, I made a little excursion by myself from St. James’s Barton to
Redcliffe Street in order to study a stag’s head which projected as
a sign from a certain house, where I was found by my anxious mother
peacefully contemplating the head of the antlered beast and wondering why
on earth he smelt so strongly of tallow. It was soon after this incident
that I witnessed a great event in the history of Bristol, the launching
of the steamship _Great Britain_. There was a vast throng of people to
see this mighty vessel, but the one thing which monopolized my attention
was the moustache of Prince Albert, who presided over the ceremony. I
was fired by an unquenchable longing to possess a similar ornament, and
I consulted a friend of mine, a chemist, who kept a particular brand
of acid-drops which I patronized at that time, and who consented to
make a moustache for me. It was a long business, and when I impatiently
inquired how it was getting on, he used to explain that he was growing it
somewhere at the back of his shop. Well, one day I demanded it with an
imperious energy which was not to be resisted, so he put me on a chair
and adorned my upper lip with burnt cork, with which I went home feeling
much elated, though a little disturbed by the demonstrations of the
juvenile public on the way. I have sometimes wondered whether it was that
burnt cork—the earliest of the rites in honour of Thespis—which gave my
career the bent that has brought me among you to-day. If my distinguished
colleague, Miss Ellen Terry, were here, she could tell you many stories
of the Bristol Theatre, in which I may almost say she was cradled.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Such is an imperfect picture of a really remarkable man, who has left a
deep impression on his contemporaries. It was lately written of him by
one not always inclined to be partial to him: “We find the quality of
nobility to be the keynote of his character. No one ever accused him of
a mean or low act. His instincts are, to use a word that has been often
applied to them, ‘princely.’ He has in him that curious combination of
gentleness and dignity which used to be called ‘the grand style.’ Without
being tortuous in his methods, he is instinctively diplomatic, and there
are suggestions of delicacy, almost of asceticism, in his physique,
which convey an impression of refinement and possible self-denial.” Such
a character as this given of some stranger unknown would irresistibly
attract and make us eager to know him. And the author of animated
pictures of society in the various capitals adds these touches: “Whatever
he does is done on a great, even a grand, scale, and done without
ostentation, without violating any of the laws of good taste. His figure
is interesting, and not wanting in distinction. His manner is polished
and gentle; his voice, off the stage, always agreeable, and his style
peculiarly winning.”


THE END

BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.




FOOTNOTES


[1] Long after, in his prosperity, he recalled to American listeners an
excellent piece of advice given him by this actress. He was speaking of
the invaluable practice of revealing thoughts in the face before giving
them utterance, where, he said, it “will be found that the most natural,
the most seemingly accidental, effects are obtained when the working
of the mind is seen before the tongue gives its words. This lesson was
enjoined on me when I was a very young man by that remarkable actress,
Charlotte Cushman. I remember that when she played Meg Merrilies I was
cast for Henry Bertram, on the principle, seemingly, that an actor
with no singing voice is admirably fitted for a singing part. It was
my duty to give Meg Merrilies a piece of money, and I did it after the
traditional fashion by handing her a large purse full of coin of the
realm, in the shape of broken crockery, which was generally used in
financial transactions on the stage, because when the virtuous maiden
rejected with scorn the advances of the lordly libertine, and threw his
pernicious bribe upon the ground, the clatter of the broken crockery
suggested fabulous wealth. But after the play, Miss Cushman, in the
course of some kindly advice, said to me, ‘Instead of giving me that
purse, don’t you think it would have been much more natural if you had
taken a number of coins from your pocket and given me the smallest? That
is the way one gives alms to a beggar, and it would have added greatly to
the realism of the scene.’ I have never forgotten that lesson.”

[2] It is not surprising that many more should have been found to claim
the credit of “discovering” Henry Irving. Mr. W. Reeve writes: “A long
talk again with Miss Herbert. As I have two theatres on my hands and a
company, decided not to go. She seemed very disappointed; asked me what
she should do. Thought of Henry Irving, who followed me in Manchester;
advised her to write to Mr. Chambers; promised to do so as well, if
engaged, for Mr. Knowles to release him. Wrote to Chambers about Irving.”
All which, as I know from the best authority, is somewhat imaginative.
The engagement was entirely owing to Boucicault.

[3] Related in one of his conversations with Mr. Joseph Hatton. I have
heard Mr. Walter Lacy describe the modest, grateful fashion in which
our actor received some hints given him at rehearsal by this old and
experienced performer as to the playing of his part.

[4] I may be allowed to refer those who would learn the importance of
this agent of “facial expression” to a little treatise of my own, _The
Art of Acting_—lecture at the Royal Institution, where it is fully
discussed.

[5] Of this night, my friend Mr. Arthur A’Beckett has recently
recalled some memories: “All the dramatic critics were assembled. John
Oxenford—kindest of men and ripest of scholars—for the _Times_, E. L.
Blanchard for the _Daily Telegraph_, John Hollingshead (still amongst
us), the predecessor of my good friend Moy Thomas of the _Daily News_,
Leicester Buckingham for the _Morning Star_, Desmond Ryan (I think)
for the _Standard_, Heraud for the _Illustrated London News_, Tomlins
or Richard Lee for the Advertiser, and Joseph Knight (again one of our
veterans) for the _Sunday Times_. There were others—Clement Scott, W. S.
Gilbert, Andrew Halliday, Tom Robertson, Harry Leigh, Jeff Prowse, Tom
Hood—all members of the Savage Club in the days before clay-pipes went
out of fashion. We were assembled to see a new piece by Dion Boucicault,
then one of the most prolific of dramatists. Well, we were waiting for
the curtain to draw up on the first act of the new play. It was called
‘Hunted Down,’ and it was buzzed in the stalls that Dion had picked up
a very clever young actor in the provinces, who, after a short career
in town, had made his mark in Manchester. He was called Henry Irving.
Then there was another comparatively new name on the bills—Ada Dyas.
The piece had a strong plot, and was fairly successful; but, assisted
by the title, I believe it was a fight against long odds. A repentant
woman ‘with a past’ was hunted down. I fancy Miss Herbert (one of the
most charming actresses that ever trod the boards) was the ‘woman with
the past,’ and that it was she who was ‘hunted down.’ But, although my
impressions of the play are vague and blurred, I can see Henry Irving as
the most admirable villain—cool, calm, and implacable—and Ada Dyas as his
suffering wife. They stand before me as I write, two distinct figures. Of
the rest of the piece, I repeat, I remember next to nothing.”

[6] At this time I happened to be living in Dublin, and recall with
pleasure the comedian’s striking face and figure, and the entertainment
that he imparted. Once buying a newspaper in a shop that was close by the
fine old Theatre Royal, since destroyed by fire, a “characteristical”
pair entered, whom I recognised from having seen them on the stage. I
was particularly struck with the pale, well-marked features, the black
flowing hair, the dress of correct black, the whole very much suggesting
Nicholas Nickleby, or some other of Dickens’ “walking gentlemen.” There
was something strangely attractive about him, and a courteous, kindly
tone to the owner of the shop as he made his purchase. When the pair
had departed the lady’s tongue “grew wanton in his praise.” “Oh, but
Mr. Irving,” she said enthusiastically, “he is the _one_; a perfect
gentleman! Every morning he comes in to buy his newspaper, and he do
speak so _nicely_. I _do_ think he is a charming young man,” etc.

[7] The good-looking Montague, following the invariable development,
seceded from the management and set up a theatre for himself. This not
proving successful, he went to America, where he died early.

[8] It has been stated, I know not with what truth, that he was engaged
at a salary of £15 a week, which was raised on the success of ‘The Bells’
to £35.

[9] Originally the piece opened with the second act, and the manager was
said to have exclaimed: “Oh, bother politics! give us _some domestic
business_.” This led to the introduction of the tranquil, pastoral
scene at Hampton Court. The closing scene, as devised by the author,
represented the capture of the king on the field of battle. “Won’t do,”
said the “Colonel” bluntly; “must wind up with _another_ domestic act.”
Sorely perplexed by this requirement, which they felt was correct,
both author and actor tried many expedients without success, until one
evening, towards the small hours, the manager, who appeared to be dozing
in his chair, suddenly called out: “Look at the last act of ‘Black-eyed
Susan,’ with the prayer-book, chain, and all.” All which may be
legendary, and I give it for what it is worth.

[10] I recall the manager’s complacent anticipation of the success of his
_coup_. “Clayton,” he said, “was a clever, spirited fellow, and would
assuredly make a hit in the part.” He certainly played respectably,
and made up by earnestness what he lacked in other points. He was
particularly proud of his own “make up.” But his inharmonious voice was
against him, and it was impossible to “take him” seriously.

[11] “_Lyceum.—Charles I., Mr. Henry Irving._ The profound admiration
that has been manifested by all classes (for the past four months) in
this noble poetic play, and the unqualified approval bestowed by the
most illustrious auditors upon Mr. Henry Irving’s great creation of the
martyr-king, have marked a new era in public taste. The manager is proud
to be able to announce that the immense audiences nightly assembled
render any change in the performances impossible.—_Miss Isabel Bateman_,
in her tender and exquisitely pathetic portraiture of Queen Henrietta
Maria.—_Mr. George Belmore_, in his vigorous and masterly assumption of
Oliver Cromwell.” Thus the modern Elliston.

[12] I have seen in an old criticism a notice of a leading performer who
in similar fashion “condescended”—so it was phrased—to the part of the
Ghost, and whose impersonation was declared to be “more than usually
_gentlemanlike and reputable_.”

[13] Old Cibber thus grumbled at Garrick’s rise, and other quidnuncs at
Kemble’s; and when Edward Kean came, there was the old prompter, who,
when asked his opinion if he were not equal to Kemble, said: “Very clever
young man indeed, very clever; but Lord bless you, sir, Mr. Kemble _was a
different thing altogether_.”

[14] I have a vast collection of these things, filling some fourteen
great folio volumes—an extraordinary tribute to the actor’s success.

[15] At the close of the performance, Mr. Chippendale presented to
him the sword used by Kean when playing Richard. Later a friend gave
him “the George,” which the great actor also wore in the part. Lady
Burdett-Coutts, always one of his great admirers, added Garrick’s ring,
“in recognition of the gratification derived from his Shakespeare
representations, uniting to many characteristics of his great
predecessors in histrionic art (whom he is too young to remember) the
charm of original thought.” I may add that I was the medium of conveying
to Irving Macready’s dress as Virginius, at the request of Mrs. John
Forster, to whose husband it had been given by the great tragedian, with
the accompanying “tinfoil dagger” with which he used to immolate Virginia.

[16] One night, during the performance of ‘Hamlet,’ something was thrown
from the gallery on to the stage. It fell into the orchestra, and for
a time could not be found. A sad-looking working-woman called at the
stage-door to ask about it, and was glad to learn it was found. It was
only a cheap, common thing. “I often go to the gallery,” she said, “and
I wanted Mr. Irving to have this. I wanted him alone in the world to
possess it.” “This,” he added, telling the story, “is the little trinket
which I wear on my watch-chain.”

[17] Her valedictory address ran: “Mrs. Bateman begs to announce that
her tenancy of the Lyceum Theatre terminates with the present month. For
seven years it has been associated with the name she bears. During the
three years and a half that the business management has been under her
special control, the liberal patronage of the public has enabled her
to wind up the affairs of each successive season with a profit. During
this period ‘Macbeth’ was produced for the first time in London without
interpolation from Middleton’s ‘Witch.’ Tennyson’s first play, ‘Queen
Mary,’ was given; and Shakespeare’s ‘King Richard III.,’ for the first
time in London from the original text. Mrs. Bateman’s lease has been
transferred to Mr. Henry Irving, to whose attraction as an artist the
prosperity of the theatre is entirely attributable, and she confidently
hopes that under his care it may attain higher artistic distinction and
complete prosperity. In conclusion, Mrs. Bateman ventures to express
her gratitude for the kindness and generosity extended to her by the
public—kindness that has overlooked many shortcomings, and generosity
that has enabled her to faithfully carry out all her obligations to the
close of her tenancy.—Lyceum, August 31, 1878.”

[18] It was built in 1830, so it is now over sixty-five years of age. The
lease, held from Lord Exeter, has not many years to run—some twenty or
so, I believe.

[19] He was described by a friend as “always just arrived by the mail in
time to see the fish removed, or as going off by the early coach after
the last dance at four in the morning.” He wrote his own epitaph—

    “Here lies Samuel Beazely,
    Who lived hard and died easily.”

[20] The actress is of a genuinely theatrical family. Readers of Scott’s
Life will recall the clever, industrious Terry, who was long connected
with the Edinburgh stage, and had himself adapted so many of the Scott
novels. Miss Terry’s father was also long connected with the Edinburgh
stage; her three sisters, her brother, her two children, have all
found their way to the “boards.” Even the precocious child performer,
Minnie Terry, is different from other prodigy children, and imparts a
distinction to what is usually a disagreeable sort of exhibition. I
take from the pages of _The Theatre_ the following minute account of
Miss Terry’s career:—“Miss Ellen Terry was born at Coventry on February
27, 1848. Her first appearance on the stage was made at the Princess’s
Theatre, under the management of Mr. Charles Kean, on April 28, 1856.
On October 15 of the same year she appeared as Puck in the revival of
‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’ In Mr. Kean’s production of ‘King John,’
on October 18, 1858, she acted the part of Arthur. She next appeared at
the Royalty and Haymarket Theatres, and at the latter house she played
in ‘Much Ado About Nothing.’ In March, 1863, she acted Gertrude in ‘The
Little Treasure,’ at the Haymarket. She then acted at the Queen’s Theatre
in Long Acre, where, on October 24, 1867, she sustained the character
of Rose de Beaurepaire in ‘The Double Marriage,’ also in ‘Still Waters
Run Deep’; and, on December 26 of the same year she acted for the first
time with Mr. Henry Irving, playing Katherine to his Petruchio in ‘The
Taming of the Shrew.’ Miss Terry then retired from the stage for some
years, reappearing on February 28, 1874, at the Queen’s Theatre, as
Philippa Chester in ‘The Wandering Heir.’ On April 18 of the same year
she acted Susan Merton in ‘It’s Never Too Late to Mend,’ at Astley’s
Theatre, a performance which the _Daily News_ thought worthy of ‘especial
mention.’ Miss Terry’s first ‘hit,’ however, was made in April, 1875,
when she acted Portia in ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ at the Prince of
Wales’s Theatre. At the same theatre, in May following, she acted Clara
Douglas in ‘Money’; and on August 7, 1875, she appeared at the Princess’s
Theatre, for one night only, as Pauline in ‘The Lady of Lyons.’ In
November following she acted Mabel Vane in ‘Masks and Faces’; and in
May, 1876, she played Blanche Haye in ‘Ours,’ at the Prince of Wales’s
Theatre. Going to the Court Theatre, in the autumn of the same year, she
appeared in ‘The House of Darnley,’ and represented Lilian Vavaseur in
‘New Men and Old Acres.’”—Her first appearance was not in 1856, as so
many have set down, but in 1854. This was in the part of one of the young
princes “murdered in the Tower,” though it has been often stated that
the part was the child one of Mamilius in ‘The Winter’s Tale.’ This was
ascertained by my late friend Dutton Cook, one of the most painstaking
and accurate of men.

Two rival houses in Coventry at this moment claim to be her birthplace.
A greengrocer, at No. 5, Market Street, displays a plate or placard,
announcing that she was born in his house: while a haberdasher, at No.
26, over the way, protests that “This house is the original birthplace of
Miss Ellen Terry, _and no other_. Observe the name, _Terry House_.” Two
other householders make the same claim. But an “old nurse” declares for
No. 5.

[21] Time moves so quickly on that many will have forgotten that the
popular writer Pinero, whose dramatic works are now in such demand, was
at this time an obscure, painstaking actor, and one of the first to take
service in Irving’s _corps_. By-and-by he brought the manager some slight
pieces, such as ‘Daisy’s Escape,’ to serve as _levers de rideau_. These
were neatly written and full of spirit. He thus practised his pen, and,
as the stage was of large size, had to aim at broad, bold effects, a
treatment which has been of material service in his more formal pieces.
To his efforts as an actor we can scarcely extend the admiration we
have for his writings; and his performance of Sir Peter Teazle at the
Haymarket was a strange, wonderful thing.

[22] Amiable and forbearing as Irving has always shown himself to his
subordinates, he can be resolute in seeing that what he wishes or wants
is carried out. Schemes of scenery found available on trial have again
and again been condemned because they failed to bring about the effect
desired. This, however, is the secret of the unity and homogeneousness of
his productions. It is admitted that even in the matter of the elaborate
orchestral music, which we might fancy he would leave to the professors,
he has much to say and alter. It may strike him as not being suited to
the situation. Fresh experiments will have to be made, to be also set
aside, to the despair of the composer. Then the _difficile_ manager will
be heard to attempt, vocally, some rude outline of what he desires, and
this rude suggestion the ready musician will grasp and put into shape,
and it will be agreed _nem. con._ that somehow this last attempt suits
the situation exactly. This sense of perfect propriety _in omnibus_ is a
“note” of our manager’s character.

[23] Once, at Edinburgh, during a performance of ‘The Merchant of
Venice,’ the students of the University had been very tumultuous, and
scarcely a word was heard of the first scenes. Suddenly the drop-scene
descended, and the actor appeared. There was silence when, with perfect
good-humour and firmness, he said that, owing to some misunderstanding,
the first portion of the piece had not been heard by the audience, and
that he was now going to recommence the whole from the beginning. And so
it was done.

[24] Arthur Matthison, a quaint, clever American, who had written some
successful dramas, was chosen to play “the double” of the leading actor:
that is, after passing behind the “practicable” tree, he was to emerge,
taking care to keep his back to the audience. Unluckily for stage
effect, no known art will help “to dodge Nature” in such points. She
has no _replicas_ in her store: makes everything distinct. And it is
significant of the strong individuality which belongs to the whole body
as well as to the face, that the eye will at once note the difference
of expression in the outline of the figure, arms, etc. I believe no two
people could be found so alike in their general appearance as to be
indistinguishable—thus illustrating the late Mr. Carlyle’s quaint phrase
when speaking of someone whose character he had interpreted unfavourably,
“_I knew it by the twist of the hip of him_.”

[25] A curious little controversy arose as to the authorship of the
_Ghost Melody_. It was claimed for Mr. Stöpel, who was acting as _chef
d’orchestre_ at the Théâtre Historique when the play was originally
produced. Another claim was made for Varney, author of the stirring
hymn, _Mourir pour la patrie_. Oddly enough, Stöpel, who was then at the
Adelphi, could not be got “to say yes or no.” “He was amused,” he said,
“at the importance attached to such a trifle, and could, if he chose, set
the matter at rest in a few words.” But he did not. Still, there used to
be a pianoforte piece by one Rosellen—a _Reverie_—which certainly began
and went on for many bars in the same fashion. However, a copy of the
music of the _Ghost Melody_, arranged for the pianoforte, and published
in 1852, was unearthed, which bore on its title the words: “Composed by
M. Varney, of the Théâtre Historique: arranged by R. Stöpel, director
of the music at the Princess’s Theatre.” This settled the point, and it
explained the ambiguous declaration of the arranger. We must assuredly
give the whole credit of this air to Varney.

[26] One agreeable night which was spent behind the scenes enabled me to
study the admirable arrangements by which this complicated operation was
carried out with smoothness and success.

No sooner has the drop-scene fallen—and a person always “stands by” to
see that the huge roller is kept clear of careless spectators—than a
busy scene sets in. Instantly men emerge from every side; the hills and
banks, the slopes leading down the hill, the steps and massive pedestal
that flank the entrance to the Temple on the right, are lifted up and
disappear gradually; the distant landscape mounts slowly into the air;
the long rows of jets are unfastened and carried off—in three or four
minutes the whole is clear. At this moment are seen slowly coming down
from aloft what appear to be three long heavy frames or beams—two in
the direction of the length, one across the whole breadth of the stage.
These make a sort of enclosure open on one side, and form the pediment
or upper portion of the Temple meant to rest on the pillars. Soon busy
hands have joined these three great joists by bolts and fastenings; the
signal is given, and it begins to ascend again. Meanwhile, others have
been bringing out from the “scene dock” pillars with their bases, and
arranging them; and as the great beams move slowly up to their place,
they hoist with them the columns, attached by ropes which pass through.
By this time all the columns are swinging in the air; another moment and
they have dropped into their places in the pedestal. The place of each
pedestal is marked on the floor. In a few moments everything is fitted
and falls into its place, with an almost martial exactness. Then are seen
slowly descending the other portions of the roof, sky-borders, etc., all
falling into their places quietly and with a sort of mysterious growth.
We have glimpses in the galleries aloft of men hauling at ropes and
pulleys, or turning “drums.” Finally the whole is set and complete, and
men bear in the altars and steps and the enormous idol at the back—over
twenty feet high. It is worth while looking close even at the sound and
effective modelling of the raised classic figures that encircle the lower
portions of each column, all in good relief, such as we see in Mr. Alma
Tadema’s pictures. The variety and richness of these are surprising, and
they fairly bear a close inspection. They are coloured, too, with that
ivory tone which the older marbles acquire. All this was wrought in the
property-room, and worked in clay; the figures were then plastered over
with paper, or _papier-mâché_, a material invaluable to the scenic artist
as furnishing relief and detail so as to catch the lights and shadows,
having the merit of being exceedingly light and portable, of bearing
rough usage and knocking about, which carved wood would not. The idol,
now looming solemnly at the back, is formed of the same material. It is
curious to find that the pillars and their capitals are all constructed
literally in the lines of perspective, as such would be drawn on a flat
surface; they diminish in height as they are farther off, and their top
and bottom surfaces are sloped in a converging line. Thus the “building”
stood revealed and complete, and round the pillars ran an open space,
enclosed as it were by the walls. What with the gloom and the general
mystery, the whole would pass, even to those standing by, as a very
imposing structure.

[27] One morning, during the preparations, I found myself in the
painting-room, where Mr. Craven was busy with one of the interesting
little models of scenery by which the effect can be tested. The reader
may not know that the scenic artist has his model theatre, a foot or
so wide, but made “to scale.” He has also ground-plans of the stage,
showing all the exits, etc., also done to scale. By these aids the most
complicated scenes can be designed and tried. I was struck with the
careful, conscientious fashion in which the manager discussed a little
Venetian scene, rudely painted in water-colours, which had just been
set. He saw it in connection with the entrances of the actors, and was
not quite satisfied with the arrangement. He tried various devices, and
proposed a gateway, which entailed making a new design. This he suggested
to the painter with pleasant persuasion and kindly apologetic courtesy,
but was, as always, firm in his purpose. If a second experiment did not
satisfy, it must be tried again. _Suaviter in modo_, etc., is certainly
his maxim.

[28] This performer is associated with the best traditions of the good
old school; and is linked with many interesting associations. It is
curious, too, to think that he belongs, or belonged, to the Society of
Friends. We have, and have had, a good many Jews upon the stage, but a
Quaker is a rarity. When he was in America, he related the story of his
life to an inquirer: “I was attending a public school in Yorkshire. It
was a Quaker school at Ackworth, although boys not of Quaker parentage
attended it. Somehow I was always selected to recite some piece for
the visitors—some of those old pieces, you know, such as _The Roman
Gladiator_, or _Paul before Agrippa_. In this way I acquired my first
liking for the stage. One night I went with my cousin John to the Old
Drury Lane Theatre to see Kean, who was then creating a _furore_ by his
magnificent acting. In those days, you know, they sold good seats in the
gallery for a shilling; so I and my cousin Jack paid our shilling—the
usual half-price—and went into the gallery. I shall never forget that
night. The playing opened, I think, with the third act. I see Kean as
plainly as if it were only yesterday. There he sat, a small man, upon his
throne in the middle of the stage. Well, after leaving the theatre, Jack
and I had to cross a bridge on our way home. I sat down in the recess of
the bridge, almost overcome by my emotion, and said, ‘John, I am going to
be an actor.’ He tried to dissuade me, and laughed at the folly of the
idea, but my mind was made up.” One of the most striking incidents at
a recent production of ‘King Lear’ was the ‘ovation,’ as it is called,
which greeted the veteran as he presented himself in a small character.

[29] For a time the house was “on crutches,” as it is called, an
operation of considerable architectural delicacy. In the great
“cellarage” below the stage, huge storehouses filled with the rubbish of
half a century, were discovered masses of decayed peacocks’ feathers,
which much perplexed the explorers and everybody else, until it was
recalled that these were the antique “properties” used by Madame Vestris
in one of her Planché burlesques. The labour was herculean, and the
indefatigable Bram Stoker threw himself with heart and soul into the
business. We might lament, however, that the beautiful interior suffered
somewhat in the later alterations. The elegant contour was disturbed;
the double pillars, which recurred periodically in the dress tier, were
reduced to a single one. The fine entrance-hall lost its symmetry from
being enlarged. But such sacrifices are absolutely necessary, and are not
the first that have had to be made under “the form and pressure of the
time.” The alterations cost a very large sum indeed, but our manager has
always been an improving tenant, and has periodically laid out vast sums
on the improvement and decoration of his house.

[30] Mr. Labouchere, a shrewd observer, a friend and admirer of the
actor’s abilities, always speaks out his opinions in plain, blunt terms:
“An actor must, in order to win popularity, have mannerisms, and the
more peculiar they are, the greater will be his popularity. No one
can for a moment suppose that Mr. Irving could not speak distinctly,
progress about the stage after the fashion of human beings, and stand
still without balancing to and fro if he pleased. Yet, had he not done
all this, he would—notwithstanding that there is a touch of real genius
about his acting sometimes—never have made the mark that he has. He
is, indeed, to the stage what Lord Beaconsfield was to politics. That
exceedingly able man never could utter the resonant clap-trap in which
he so often indulged, and which made men talk about him, without almost
showing by his manner that he himself despised the tricks which gave him
individuality. Were Mr. Irving at present to abate his peculiarities,
his fervent worshippers would complain that their idol was sinking into
mere common-place. Therefore, as I sincerely hope that, for his sake, the
idolaters will continue to bow down before him and fill his treasury, I
trust that he will never change.” There is a cynical flavour in this, and
it is not very flattering to the audience, but underlying it there is
some truth.

[31] A rapturous article from a Liverpool critic, Mr. Russell, had
appeared in _Macmillan’s Magazine_, which was, indeed, somewhat
indiscriminating in its praises of the Lyceum ‘Romeo and Juliet.’

[32] Mr. Forbes Robertson, who is painter as well as actor, depicted this
striking scene on canvas, giving portraits of the performers. It has been
engraved (or rather “processed”) with very happy result.

[33] It was an unusual tribute to the interest excited in every direction
by the actor’s personality, that in the December of this year the lady
students at University College should have chosen him for the subject of
a formal debate, under the presidency of the clever Miss Fawcett. The
thesis set down was, “That Henry Irving has, by his dramatic genius,
earned his place as foremost among living actors,” and the discussion
was begun with much spirit and fluency by Miss Rees, who proceeded to
give an analysis of his Hamlet and other characters, contending that
his extraordinary _success_ was a proof of his merit. The opposition
was led by Mrs. Brooksbanks, who fairly and unsparingly attacked the
actor for his mannerisms and various defects. After a reply from Miss
Rees, the original motion was put to the ladies, and was carried by a
slender majority. The actor must have read these proceedings, which were
flattering enough, with much enjoyment.

[34] An idea of what a “tremendous” business this was may be gathered
from a single detail. A well-known experienced wigmaker from Covent
Garden, with two assistants, was engaged to look after the _coiffures_
of the company, and these “artists in hair” had under their charge a
collection of wigs, entirely new, no fewer than eleven hundred in number.
On a later visit there were fifteen hundred wigs!

[35] Where it now hangs over the chimneypiece in the Guests’ Room. It
is not so successful as many others of Millais’ works; it is rather
sketchily painted, and lacks force and expression. The late Mr. Long
painted the actor as Hamlet and Richard III. These are not very striking
performances, but they are refined and interesting portraits. Mr.
Whistler produced an extraordinary one of him as Philip II., strangely
“shadowy” but powerful, and of preternatural length. A number of artists
of less pretension have also essayed to limn the actor; but all have
failed to sketch the mobile, delicate expression of the lips. Boldly
daring, I myself have fashioned a bust of him in terra-cotta.

[36] It is said that the origin of the acquaintance between Irving and
this statesman was an accidental encounter in the street, when the
latter, with a sympathetic impulsiveness, stopped Irving and introduced
himself. He has since been an assiduous frequenter of the Lyceum, and
in his eighty-third year was seen in the stalls or behind the scenes,
following the course of ‘Henry VIII.’ with unabated interest.

[37] These newspapers were sent to me without interruption through the
whole tour by Irving’s direction.

[38] A description of a “first-night” at the Clement Street Opera House
is worth quoting here:

“Ladies took their place in line and waited for hours to get tickets for
the opening performance. The face of the tall and genial Bram Stoker,
Mr. Irving’s agent, wore a broad smile as, standing in the vestibule,
he noticed the swelling crowd passing between the continually swinging
doors. The array of regular first-nighters was up to the notch, and all
the familiar faces, not only those most looked for with the lorgnettes,
but those that vanish between the acts, were there. Tall Tom Donaldson,
one of Blaine’s lieutenants, whose wife and daughter were in one of the
boxes, was leaning against the wall talking to Judge William Haydon,
formerly of Nevada, one of the oldest theatre-goers in the United States,
who saw Edmund Kean play Hamlet, and thinks Irving the best actor he
has seen since. Joseph F. Tobias, ruddy, genial, and Chesterfieldian as
ever, was shaking hands at every turn, and L. Clark Davis, in immaculate
evening dress and pearl studs, but with the inevitable Bohemian hat, was
the centre of a chatty group. Charles E. Cramp and Horace Warding were
talking to Dr. Thomas H. Andrews, who has the largest theatrical practice
of any physician in Philadelphia, and has been called to attend half the
stars who have appeared here in recent years. Almost every well-known
first-nighter was on hand, and the invariable sentiment was that this
was the big event of the present year. There were many well-known people
who are not often seen at the theatre, notably Daniel M. Fox, Director
of the Mint, who sat in the centre aisle, near the stage, with a party
of friends, and appeared to enjoy the performance very much. Just back
of him was a large party from Bethlehem, Pa. John R. Jones, the Bible
publisher, had with him Miss Jones, in a stunning gray imported costume,
one of the most artistic in the theatre. Robert W. Downing had quite a
party. There were several large theatrical parties. The most noticeable
was the one given by Miss K. N. Green, which included many attractive
ladies. Ex-Attorney-General Brewster was the centre of quite a large
party in the orchestra, including several ladies. A very beautiful bevy
was the party given by Miss Hattie Fox, daughter of George S. Fox, which
numbered thirty-five. They all had seats in the orchestra circle. Some of
the most fashionable people had to be content with seats upstairs, and
there was one party of young ladies in the family circle who were in full
dress and went direct in carriages, at the close of the performance, to
the dancing-class.”

[39] When the piece was first given at the Court Theatre, there was a bit
of realism that was almost too conscientious. The little family music was
accompanied on a genuine old harpsichord, which, it was gravely announced
in the bill, was actually dated 1768, about the period of the novel, and
was of course, “kindly lent” by the owner.

[40] It is but fair to add that Mr. Conway was suffering from the
approach of a serious illness, which declared itself shortly after.

[41] I recall a Sunday morning during this visit, when a message arrived
from the manager asking me to join a festive party to Dorking, to which
he had invited some members of the French comedy. At the Garrick Club,
the favourite coach, “Old Times,” was waiting, and presently it was
“Buzz!—here come the players.” A delightful drive it was, and a truly
enjoyable day. There was Mounet Sully, the fervent stage lover—then,
it was whispered, the prey of a hopeless attachment to the gifted
“Sarah”—the _spirituel_ Delaunay, still a _jeune premier_ in spite of his
years; with two or three others of the _corps_. Of the party were also
my friend Mr. Walter Pollock, with his genial, well-cultured father, the
late Sir Frederick; Campbell Clarke, French correspondent to the _Daily
Telegraph_, and some other _littérateurs_. There was the drive down to
the inviting little town, with a lunch at the old inn, some wanderings
about its leafy lanes, and a return in the evening to the club, where
the host gave a banquet, at which speeches in French and English were
delivered. The interesting strangers took away with them the lasting
impression that he was “truly a sympathetic personage, with a great deal
of French grace and _bonhomie_ in his nature.”

[42] This also seemed rather unintelligible to the audience; but its
secret was the secret of the creator or originator of the part. Such
devices are really significant of something dramatic that has actually
prompted them; they become an expression. The revived “business,”
therefore, will not serve unless the original spirit attends it. This
squeaking snuff-box was a note of _diablerie_, introduced with strange
sudden spasms at unexpected moments, and corresponded to the twitches
and spasms of Macaire’s mind. For the manager I collected much of old
Lemaître’s business, with those curious chants with which the robber
carried off his villainies. Jingle and Job Trotter were certainly
modelled on Macaire and his man; for the piece was being played as
_Pickwick_ came out.

[43] We may at least admire this writer’s perseverance and intrepidity,
who from that time has never relaxed his efforts to win the approbation
or secure the attention of the public. One could have wished him better
success with his later venture and most ambitious attempt, the management
of the Avenue Theatre, where he introduced his own piece illustrative of
“modern English Life,” with which his critics—for whom, like the sapper,
nothing is sacred—made merry. He is not likely to be daunted by this, and
I have little doubt he will “arrive” at last.

[44] The quaint name of this club, “the Kerneuzers,” was suggested by
a simple attendant, who actually so described the members; it was his
pronunciation of the word “connoisseurs.”

[45] Once, when visiting Stratford-on-Avon with Toole, he saw a rustic
sitting on a fence, whom they submitted to an interrogatory. “That’s
Shakespeare’s house, isn’t it?” it was asked innocently. “Ees.” “Ever
been there?” “Noä.” “How long has he been dead?” “Dunno.” “What did he
do?” “Dunno.” “Did he not write?” “Oh yes, he did summat.” “What was it?”
“Well, I think he writ _Boible_.” A pleasantry that both the players once
contrived in Scotland, at the expense of an old waiter at a hotel, is of
a higher order of merit than such hoaxes usually offer. At this country
inn they had noted that the spoons, forks, etc., seemed to be of silver,
and with some artfully designed emphasis they questioned the waiter about
the property. As soon as he had gone out, they concealed all the plate,
and, having rung the bell, jumped out of the window, which was close to
the ground, and hid themselves in the shrubbery. The old man re-entered:
they heard his cries of rage and astonishment at the robbery, and at the
disappearance of the supposed thieves. He then rushed from the room to
summon the household. The rest of the story is worth giving in Irving’s
words, as reported by Mr. Hatton.

“We all crept back to the room, closed the window, drew down the blind,
relighted the gas and our cigars, put each piece of silver back into its
proper place, and sat down to wait for our bill. In a few minutes we
heard evidently the entire household coming pell-mell to the dining-room.
Then our door was flung open; but the crowd, instead of rushing in upon
us, suddenly paused _en masse_, and Sandy exclaimed, ‘Great God! Weel,
weel! Hae I just gane clean daft?’

“‘Come awa’, drunken foo’, come awa’!’ exclaimed the landlord, pulling
Sandy and the rest back into the passage and shutting the door.”

[46] Quite a number of relics of great actors have, as we have already
shown, found their way to Irving’s custody; and there is always something
pleasant for him to think of when he recalls the presentation. Thus on
his visit to Oxford he had spoken of the last days of Edmund Kean, who
had died in sore straits. A few days later he received a purse of faded
green silk found in the pocket of the great actor just after his death,
and found empty. It had been given by Charles Kean to John Forster, and
by him to Robert Browning. Edmund and Charles Kean, Forster, Browning,
and Irving form a remarkable pedigree. “How can I more worthily place
it,” wrote Browning, “than in your hands, if they will do me the honour
to take it, with all respect and regard?”

[47] One of these many “snappers-up of trifles” described the nightgown
worn by Lady Macbeth in her sleep-walking scene, which was all of wool
knitted into a pretty design. Mrs. Comyns Carr designed Miss Terry’s
dresses, which certainly did not lack bold originality. There was the
curious peacock blue and malachite green dress which contrasted with the
locks of copper-coloured hair, from which the half American artist, Mr.
Serjeant, formed a striking but not very pleasing portrait.

[48] It was likely that the majority of these persons were incapacitated
by age from forming a judgment on this matter; but it was curious that
I should have conversed with two persons at least who were capable of
making the comparison. One was Mr. Fladgate of the Garrick Club, a most
interesting man, well stored with anecdotes of Kemble, Kean, and others,
who once, in the library of the club, gave me a vivid delineation of
the good John’s methods in ‘The Stranger.’ The other was Mr. Charles
Villiers, who is, at the moment I write, in about his ninetieth year. A
most characteristic incident was a letter from the veteran Mrs. Keeley,
with much generous criticism of Miss Terry’s performance, thus showing
none of the old narrow spirit which can only “praise bygone days.” She
frankly added that until visiting the Lyceum she had never witnessed a
performance of the play from one end to the other, though she had seen
many a great performer in it, and had herself performed in it. This
recalls Mrs. Pritchard, one of the great Lady Macbeths, who, as Dr.
Johnson said, had never seen the fifth act, as it did not fall within her
part.

[49] Charles Reade’s strange, odd appreciation of this gifted, mercurial
woman is worth preserving:

“Ellen Terry is an enigma. Her eyes are pale, her nose rather long, her
mouth nothing particular, complexion a delicate brick-dust, her hair
rather like tow. Yet, somehow, she is _beautiful_. Her expression _kills_
any pretty face you see beside her. Her figure is lean and bony, her hand
masculine in size and form. Yet she is a pattern of fawn-like grace.
Whether in movement or repose, grace _pervades the hussy_. In character
impulsive, intelligent, weak, hysterical—in short, all that is abominable
and charming in woman. Ellen Terry is a very charming actress. I see
through and through her. Yet she pleases me all the same. _Little Duck!_”

This suggests the old rhyme:

    “Thou hast so many pleasing, teazing ways about thee,
    There’s no living with thee or without thee.”

[50] It was interesting to note, at a St. James’s Hall performance, June
25, the pleasant, eager vivacity of the actress, who, familiar as she was
with the play, seemed to be repeating with her lips all the portions in
which she was not concerned. In the more dramatic portions, it was plain
she was eager to be on the scene once more. As she sat she anxiously
waited for the orchestra to come in at their proper places, sometimes
giving them the signal. This very natural behaviour interested everyone.

[51] Another play was written for him on the subject of ‘Mahomet,’ which
he was inclined to bring out; but here again authority interposed,
and “invited him,” as the French so politely have it, to abandon his
purpose. It was at the end of the summer season of 1879 that our manager,
after naming these pieces, spoke of others which he had in reserve,
either revivals or wholly new ones. It is interesting to think that
he had thought of the stormy and pathetic ‘Gamester,’ which has ever
an absorbing attraction; ‘The Stranger’ also was spoken of; but their
treatment would have offered too many points of similarity to Eugene
Aram and other characters of “inspissated gloom.” On this occasion, when
speaking of “the romantic and pathetic story” of Emmett, he announced a
drama on the subject of Rienzi, which his friend Wills had prepared for
him, but which has never yet seen the light. Years have rolled by swiftly
since that night, and the author has often been heard to bewail the
delays and impediments which hindered the production of what he no doubt
considered his finest performance. Another great drama long promised and
long due is ‘Coriolanus,’ for which Mr. Alma Tadema has designed scenery.

[52] An American lady, a Californian artist, was the first to enter the
pit for the opening performance of ‘Henry VIII.’ at the Lyceum. “I and
a friend went with our camp-stools and took our places next the door at
ten o’clock in the morning. We were provided with a volume of _Harper’s
Magazine_, a sketch-book, writing-paper, and a fountain-pen, caricatures
of Henry Irving, and much patience. A newspaper spread under the feet and
a Japanese muff warmer, with sandwiches and a bottle of wine, kept us
comfortable. Two ladies were the next comers, and shortly a crowd began
to collect. Real amusing it was, but not very elegant. After about two
hours Mr. Bram Stoker came and had a look at us, and cheered our hearts
by telling us that tea would be served from the neighbouring saloon
(public-house). At last, at seven o’clock, we were rewarded for our
patience by getting seats in the front row. The play was superb, and the
audience—well, everyone looked as if he had done something.”

[53] As an instance of the manager’s happy touch in a trifling matter, we
might name the State trumpets constantly “blaring” and sounding as the
King approached, which offered nothing of the usual “super” arrangement.
The men seemed to tramp along the street as though conscious of their own
dignity, warning those whom it might concern to make way for their high
and puissant lord.

[54] It was publicly stated that the “mounting” of this play had cost
£15,000, and that the weekly expenses were some £800. The manager wrote
to contradict this, as being altogether beyond the truth; though, he
added, with a sigh, as it were, that he heartily wished the second
statement were true, and that the expenses could be put at so low a
figure.

[55] According to one writer, “an emissary was sent to Rome to acquire
a Cardinal’s robe. After some time a friend managed to secure one of
the very period, whereupon an exact copy, ‘both of colour and texture,’
was made. A price has to be paid for scenic splendours in the shape of
the delays that they necessarily occasion. Thanks to the ingenuity of
stage-carpenters and machinists, these delays at the Lyceum are reduced
to a minimum time. ‘Henry VIII.’ being not one of the longest of the
plays—though it is one-third longer than ‘Macbeth’—the text at the Lyceum
has been treated with comparative leniency. ‘Hamlet,’ on the other
hand, which comprises nearly four thousand lines, cannot on the modern
system of sumptuous mounting possibly be given in anything approaching
its entirety.” As a fact, very nearly one-half the play disappears
from the modern acting copies. My friend Mr. W. Pollock, in a paper in
the _National Review_, has justly urged in this connection that half a
‘Hamlet’ is better than no ‘Hamlet’ at all.

[56] To illustrate his most recent productions, the manager is accustomed
to issue what is called “a souvenir,” an artistic series of pictures of
the scenes, groupings, etc. It may be added, as a proof of the pictorial
interest of the Lyceum productions, that in little more than a week
after the first performance of ‘Becket’ no fewer than five-and-twenty
illustrations, some of great pretension, had appeared in the papers.
On the first night of ‘Lear’ a marchioness of artistic tastes was seen
making sketches, which were published in an evening paper.

[57] One touch, which might escape the superficial, showed the fine,
delicate sense of the manager. The scene where Kent is exhibited in the
stocks has always suggested something grotesque and prosaic. It was here
so dignified in its treatment as to become almost pathetic. I may add
here that the deepest strokes of Shakespeare, not being on the surface,
are apt to escape us altogether, save when some inspired critic lays his
finger on them. The faithful Kent at the close is brought to his master’s
notice, who does not recognise him. Here Lamb points out how noble is
Kent’s self-sacrifice in not bringing himself to the King’s recollection.

[58] On March 18, 1893, Irving and his whole company were bidden to
Windsor Castle to play ‘Becket’ before her Majesty. A theatre was fitted
up in the Waterloo Chamber; special scenery was painted; the Lyceum was
closed; and the company, 170 strong, was transported to Windsor and
brought back on the same night. The performance was given with much
effect and to the enjoyment of the Queen. Some three or four years
before, a no less interesting entertainment was arranged at Sandringham
by the Prince of Wales, who was anxious that her Majesty should see the
two favourite performers in their most effective pieces—‘The Bells’
and the “Trial scene” in ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ The outlay of time,
trouble, and skilful management to provide for all the arrangements
within a short space of time can scarcely be imagined. The pecuniary
cost, owing to the closing of the theatre, transport, etc., was serious.

[59] An Irving “Bibliography” would fill many columns, and would
include a vast quantity of controversial writing—attacks, defences,
and discussions. Besides his official discourses, he has written many
agreeable papers in the leading “monthlies.” I have already spoken of
the “skits” and personalities which followed his early successes, and
which he encountered with excellent temper and a patient shrug. These
have long since been forgotten. At attempts at “taking him off,” though a
favourite pastime, he could afford to smile; though when it was carried
beyond legitimate bounds, as in the instance of the late Mr. Leslie, he
interposed with quiet firmness, and put it down in the interests of the
profession. An American burlesque actor, named Dixie, with execrable
taste gave an imitation of him in his presence. More curious is the
unconscious imitation of him which is gaining in the ranks of the
profession, and which has had some droll results. Thus one Hudson—when
playing the Tetrarch in ‘Claudian’ in the States—was so strangely like
him in manner and speech, that it was assumed by the American audience
that he was maliciously “taking him off.” His own company have caught up
most of his “ways” and fashions—notably Haviland, and even Alexander.
At the opening of ‘Vanderdecken,’ two at least of the performers were
mistaken for him—from their walk—and had a “reception” accordingly.

[60] This “triple bill” is an unmeaning term, for a triple bill means, if
anything, three bills in one, and not, as is supposed, a single bill in
three parts.

[61] In this connection there is a characteristic story told of our
actor. He was driving in a hansom one night to the Lyceum when the
‘Merchant of Venice’ was running. In a fit of absence of mind he tendered
a shilling for his fare, whereas it should have been eighteenpence or
two shillings. Whereupon the cabby, who had recognised his man, burst
out: “If yer plays the Jew inside that theayter as well as yer does
outside, darned if I won’t spend this bob on coming to see yer.” It is
said he was so delighted with the retort that he promptly gave the man
half-a-sovereign.




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