whether in the larger entertainments which he sometimes gave on
the stage of the Lyceum, or in the more intimate gatherings in the
Beefsteak Room, he presided with admirable grace over a company that
was often strangely varied in its composition--the most distinguished
statesmen, soldiers, and men of letters, meeting in happy association
with chosen members of his own profession. Two little incidents recur
to me which illustrate in their different ways that sense of humour,
sometimes innocently mischievous, and sometimes again employed for a
long settled purpose of deliberate attack. The first of these occasions
was a dinner given in honour of the members of the Saxe-Meiningen
company on the stage of the theatre. I had been driving with him during
the day, and happened to mention, to his manifest surprise, that I had
not seen their great performance of the play of _Julius Caesar_ which
was making a considerable stir in London. He said nothing more at the
time, but at the end of the evening’s feast, after having himself in a
few words gracefully welcomed his distinguished guests, he announced
that he would now call upon Mr. Comyns Carr, who he felt sure would
do ample justice to the exquisite art of these German players. I can
see now the smile upon his face as he sat down, and left me to my
task, of which I acquitted myself with at least so much skill, that he
was the only one among those present who was aware that I was wholly
unacquainted with the subject I had been summoned to discuss.
The other incident to which I have referred had a more serious import.
During his first visit to America his feelings had been gravely
outraged, and not on his own account alone, by a series of scandalous
articles which had appeared in one of the most popular of New York
journals. Our party that evening at supper in the Beefsteak Room
included a popular American Colonel, a great friend of Irving’s, and,
as Irving well knew, a great friend also of the wealthy proprietor of
this offending journal. The scene was wholly characteristic of Irving,
who rarely forgot an injury, although he was content sometimes to lie
long in wait for the fitting occasion to strike a counter-blow. In a
genial prelude he led our American friend on in a growing crescendo of
praise of the amiable qualities of the wealthy newspaper proprietor.
“You know so-and-so,” he innocently remarked to his guest, as he
settled himself down in his chair, in an attitude that not uncommonly
conveyed to those who knew him that danger might be impending. “Know
him!” replied the innocent Colonel, “I have known him all my life.”
“Quite so,” said Irving; “good fellow, isn’t he?” “Good! He’s one of
the very best fellows that was ever born.” “The kind of man,” pursued
Irving, “who would never do an ungenerous or an unkind thing?” And at
this, lured on to his doom, the unsuspecting Colonel burst forth in
such unrestrained eulogy of his friend, as to depict for the admiration
of those present a character of almost unchallenged perfection. “No
doubt; no doubt,” responded Irving; “no doubt he is all that you say”;
and then, in words all the deadlier for the perfect quietude of tone in
which they were uttered, he added: “But he is also one of the damned’st
scoundrels that ever stepped the earth.” The genial Colonel was not
unnaturally taken aback; but before he could make any show of defence,
Irving had whipped from his breast-pocket the series of offending
articles, and, handing them across the table, made the simple comment,
“I thought, old friend, you might be interested to see them.”
It was, I think, in the beginning of the year 1892 that Irving invited
me to write for him a play on the subject of King Arthur. The theme had
long been in his mind, and before his death Mr. Wills had completed a
version, which proved, however, unacceptable to the actor. At first
Irving thought that I might find it possible to recast and remodel
Wills’s work; but it was afterwards agreed between us that I should
be free to work out my own design. When my task was completed, Irving
and Miss Terry came one night to dine with us in Blandford Square. He
brought with him also his little dog Fussy, the constant companion of
many years. And when dinner was over, he settled himself down in an
arm-chair, with the dog upon his knees, prepared for an ordeal that
is never wholly agreeable either to the author or his auditor. I know
that I was nervous enough, as I always am on such occasions; and when
I was about half-way through, the audible sounds of snoring which
reached my ears made me fancy in my morbid state of sensitiveness that
I had failed to grip or to hold the attention of the man I so strongly
desired to please. Still I plodded on, not daring to lift my eyes
from the book, and still the stertorous sounds continued, until at
last, exasperated beyond endurance, I closed the book, with the abrupt
announcement that I felt it useless to go on. “What do you mean?”
inquired Irving, in blank amazement. “Why, you were asleep,” I replied;
but even as I spoke, I perceived the ridiculous blunder into which I
had fallen, for the snoring still continued without interruption, and,
lifting my eyes, I saw Miss Terry, with laughing gesture, pointing to
the sleeping terrier still resting upon Irving’s knees. I had “tried it
on the dog,” and it was the dog I had failed to please.
My association with Irving during the preparation of _King Arthur_
was wholly interesting and delightful. I had been warned by those who
had long worked with him in the theatre that Irving was intolerant of
interference, and that I would do well not to assume any position
of authority in the direction of the rehearsals. My own experience,
however, completely belied this warning; from the first he treated me
with the utmost consideration, and invited, rather than repressed,
the suggestions I had to make. His own work at rehearsal was always
deeply interesting to watch, though it often revealed little more than
the mechanical part of his own performance. This, however, he fixed
with absolute exactitude, and the minute invention of detail which he
displayed sufficed to suggest that in his own private study of the
part this fabric of mechanism was already wedded to the emotional
message he intended to convey. As a rule, he was word-perfect before
the rehearsals of any play began, and this left him free to bestow
infinite patience and pains upon the work of others. He would go
through the whole of any one of the minor parts, instructing the actor
in every detail of gesture and movement; and when it came to scenes in
which he himself was concerned, he knew precisely--and could precisely
realise--the pace and the tone that were needed to achieve the effect
he desired.
A SENSE OF HUMOUR
I suppose no man at this time of day would have the temerity to
hazard a definition of humour. It has been often attempted, never,
however, with any convincing success; and sometimes with such cumbrous
elaboration of thought as to leave upon the reader only the desolating
impression that the philosopher was wholly lacking in the quality which
he sought to define. Nor is its presence so common even in those who
most loudly deplore its absence in others. I have heard the dullest of
men lament the fact that God has denied it to women, and the fleeting
smile with which such an announcement is sometimes received by their
wives goes far to prove that even the intimate association of marriage
has not sufficed for the full appreciation of character.
In its larger and more elemental forms humour is certainly one of the
rarest of human attributes; and even the appreciation of humour in
that broader and deeper sense is not quite so common as is generally
supposed. There is quite a considerable body of seemingly educated
opinion which would concede to Shakespeare every gift except the gift
of humour; persons who would regard Falstaff as a quite inconsiderable
creation, and who would dismiss Dogberry and the nurse in _Romeo and
Juliet_ as negligible portraits in the great Shakespearean gallery.
Once I remember hearing this view put forward very confidently in the
presence of a brilliant essayist, whose grave demeanour gave the critic
some ground for the belief that his unfavourable opinion would meet
with ready acceptance. After holding forth at some length upon what he
deemed to be this rather puerile aspect of Shakespeare’s genius, he
ventured at the finish upon the direct inquiry: “Now what, sir, do you
think of Shakespeare’s humour?” To which the reply came in very quiet
tones: “Well, the trouble is, there is no other.”
The proposition need not be taken too literally, but it contains a
truth that cannot be ignored. Shakespeare’s humour is as directly and
as legitimately the fruit of his wide and deep love of life as the
most sublime of his tragic creations. The mind that drew the portrait
of Falstaff owns and claims the same large handwriting as that which
revealed the character of Macbeth; in both there is an equal measure
of mastery. And that, naturally, suggests an element in humour
which, without risking the imprudence of definition, may be said to
separate it from mere wit. The man of wit may distinguish and reveal
the incongruities of life but the humorist, not only perceives them,
but loves the characters in which they reside. Among the humorists I
have met, this essential gift of sympathy has always, as it seems to
me, been a constant and dominating force. It was not my fortune to
know Charles Dickens, but his transcendent humour may be said to have
dominated all who came within the reach and range of his genius; and it
may surely be said of him, as it may be said of Shakespeare, that he
not only saw where the sources of laughter lay, but that he loved the
thing he made laughable.
This was equally true of Bret Harte, who in our talks together would
always willingly own his obligations to the great master; and there
is certainly no more touching tribute to Dickens’s genius than is
contained in the little poem with which Bret Harte greeted the news
of his death. As is not uncommon with men of creative humour, Bret
Harte, in ordinary converse, gave little hint of its possession. A
man of grave and reticent bearing, he made no attempt to shine as a
talker; and as far as my experience went, rarely sought to draw the
conversation into literary channels. He deliberately, as it would
seem, kept all that concerned his work as an artist in a world apart;
and his charm in companionship--which was not inconsiderable--suggested
rather the tenderness and sympathy in his outlook on life than his
equal gift of humorous appreciation. Those earlier meetings of the
Kinsmen Club, of which Bret Harte was a member, brought together many
humorous spirits, and amongst them George du Maurier and poor Randolph
Caldecott, who, although he too owned a grave exterior, partly due to
frailty of health, could on occasion break out into a frolic mood that
was irresistible in its sense of fun.
But the draughtsmen for _Punch_ in those days, even when, as in the
case of du Maurier and Charles Keene, they could boast a higher measure
of purely artistic accomplishment, were hardly comparable in their
grasp of what is essentially comic in character with their predecessor,
John Leech; and if we turn from the work they produced to the men
themselves, it was not the possession of a sense of humour which formed
the main element in the social charm they exercised. Du Maurier, in his
conversation, never sought to exhibit or to exploit this particular
side of his talent; and in our many talks upon the subject of art it
was evident that he was rather on the alert to recognise what was
seriously beautiful in the work of his contemporaries. He never tired
in praise of Millais whom, I think, he ranked as the supreme master of
his time; and, on the other hand, he never quite settled in his mind,
even up to the end of his life, what measure of welcome to accord to
the widely different gifts of Rossetti and Burne-Jones.
But although his talk was, for the most part, serious in tone, he could
show himself on occasion to be possessed of the wildest high spirits,
and it was then he most clearly revealed the qualities that were
distinctively his in virtue of his partly foreign extraction.
Indeed among the men who practised this branch of art, I have known
only two who in personal intercourse gave any complete indication of
the humorous powers they possessed. Perhaps neither Phil May nor Fred
Barnard have yet received their full meed of praise, and yet in them,
rather than in their better known contemporaries, the tradition of
the earlier humorists survives. In one sense they may be said to have
shared between them the mantle of John Leech, and they possessed this
quality in common, that their perception of the sources of laughter
in life was as clearly betrayed in personal association as in the
work that came from their hand. Phil May’s face was in itself a
highly-coloured print that made an instant appeal to any one endowed
even with a most rudimentary sense of humour, and his talk, though it
affected no brilliancy, very clearly revealed the fact that the little
pageant of life which came within the range of his vision struck itself
at once into humorous outline. He hardly saw life, indeed, in any other
frame, and the few finely selected lines with which he registered
the images that presented themselves to his imagination seemed by
instinctive preference to exclude and to dismiss those graver realities
that were not his especial concern. And yet so keen and so sure was his
touch of life that now and again his hand would outrun his purpose, and
leave, even upon the slightest drawing, a suggestion of almost tragic
import underlying its laughing message. Fred Barnard was a humorist
through and through--at work or at play his eye lighted unerringly on
whatever might enrich his humorous experience, and he was quick to
detect, though never with any lack of urbanity, the little foibles of
those with whom he was brought into contact.
But I suppose it is to the stage that one’s thoughts must naturally
turn for the most telling exposition of this particular quality. Nearly
all the comedians I have known have seemed to accept it as a part of
the duty which their profession imposes on them, that they should be
as amusing in the world as in the theatre. It cannot be said, according
to my own experience, that they have always been successful, and I may
even go so far as to say that the laboured efforts of the wilfully
comic man mark off in remembrance some of the dullest hours I have
passed. The penalty of the perpetual jester very often, as one would
think, a grievous burden to himself, falls sometimes with even heavier
incidence upon those he has doomed to be amused.
I know it is a prevalent belief among Americans that we English are
wholly devoid of that sense of humour in which many of their own
countrymen undoubtedly excel; and it may perhaps, therefore, shock them
to learn that, to a taste differently educated, the unremitting efforts
of some of their professional jesters are apt on occasion to appear a
little overstrained. But in some natures the appetite for the ceaseless
flow of comic anecdote is swiftly satisfied, and the man who will
insist upon unpacking his wallet of well-worn stories for the intended
delight of his fellows may, if he is not watchful of the effect he
is producing, induce in the mind of his audience a mood of settled
sadness, that not even the genius of a Dickens could lift or lighten.
This haunting fear lest conversation should at any point take a
serious note--which I cannot help thinking characteristic of many
Americans--is often to be found in our own country in the person of
the comedian by profession. It existed perhaps in a lesser degree in
J. L. Toole than any other representative of his calling whom I have
intimately known. What rendered Toole delightful in companionship was
rarely anything memorable that he said, for he made no effort to pose
as a wit, and his reminiscent humour, which he could always summon at
need, was for the most part introduced in illustration of some point
of character humorously perceived and presented. There are critics who
have questioned his appeal as a comedian in the theatre, but no one
brought into personal contact with him could be left in any doubt as
to the swiftness and sureness of his vision in detecting and enjoying
the little foibles of those around him. In any company, whatever its
composition, his mind got quickly to work upon each individuality in
the group; and, although he might not join largely in the conversation,
he loved to impart to the companion by his side his keen sense of
enjoyment of the conflict and interplay of character as it presented
itself at the table.
Toole was a constant guest at those pleasant little suppers in the
Beefsteak Room of the Lyceum Theatre over which Irving so gracefully
presided; and if one had the good fortune to be his neighbour it was
always delightful to watch the expression of his swiftly-glancing,
laughing eyes and mobile mouth, as they mirrored, in hardly-restrained
amusement, his inward enjoyment of the changing humours of the
scene. Nothing characteristic escaped him, however widely divergent
the personalities that came within the range of his vision; but his
quickness of perception, ever ready to register and record the little
foibles of each member of the company, bred in him no feeling of
resentment, but seemed rather to add to the rich store of enjoyment
which, in his happier moods, life always afforded him. I say in his
happier moods, because even in the earlier days of our friendship, when
his vitality was unimpaired, his exuberant high spirits were subject to
sudden clouds of deep depression that seemed for the time to banish all
laughter from his life.
Like Irving, he was an inveterately late sitter, and the many
occasions that found them together--either at the theatre or at the
Garrick Club--rarely witnessed their parting till the morning hours
were far spent. In Toole’s case, I know, this reluctance to break in
upon the long duration of these social hours sprang in part out of a
haunting terror of the sadder thoughts that might overtake him when
he was driven back upon himself. He would often confess to me, as
we drove home, his constant dread of these night fears, that were
chiefly dominated at that time by the recurring image of his only son,
whose early death remained with him to the end as an ineffaceable
source of sorrow. And yet, while we talked of these sadder things, it
was sometimes irresistibly comic to notice, as we drew towards his
house, how this deeper grief would then be exchanged for a terror
of a nearer kind, for he was always at these moments very conscious
that his persistently late habits--so often repented of, but never
reformed--would surely draw down upon him severe domestic rebuke. And
even when the cab had reached his door, he would hold me prisoner in
whispered converse in order to postpone, as long as he could, the dread
moment when he would have to face the salutary lecture that was in
store for him.
But for the most part he was the gayest and most light-hearted of
companions, forcing out of the most unhopeful material a rich yield of
fun and frolic. At home or abroad he was never at a loss for the means
of filling an empty day. Sometimes, in his ceaseless tendency towards
practical joking, he would place himself in positions that other
men might have found embarrassing and even dangerous. But there was
something so infectious in his humour, and in his good humour, that
even on the Continent, where he could speak no language but his own,
he was always able to extricate himself with success from difficulties
that would have left many graver men without resource.
He dearly loved the excitement of the gaming table, whether at Monte
Carlo or elsewhere; and I remember, during a holiday that we passed
together at Aix-les-Bains, that he did his best to imperil the good
effects of his cure by his constant attendance at the Cercle and the
Villa des Fleurs. It was difficult to drag him from the table, however
late the hour, for his pathetic reply to every remonstrance took the
form of a solemn promise that he would absolutely go to bed as soon as
the little pile before him was exhausted; a reply, the humour of which
he was himself only half-conscious, for it pointed to the inevitable
loss that was the final result of all his gambling transactions. After
a night wherein he had been more than usually successful in exhausting
the ready cash he carried about him, we made our way in the morning to
the little bank in the main street of Aix-les-Bains, in order that he
might make a fresh draft upon his letter of credit.
But he did not at once reveal to the clerk in charge his serious
intent. Tapping lightly at the closed window of the _guichet_, he
inquired, in broken English, which he appeared strangely to believe
would be somehow comprehensible to his foreign interlocutor, whether
the bank would be prepared to make him a small advance upon a
gold-headed cane which he carried in his hand. The request, as might
be supposed, was somewhat briskly dismissed, and the little window was
abruptly closed in his face. Toole retired apparently deeply dejected
by the refusal of his prayer; but in a few minutes he returned to the
attack, having in the meantime provided himself with fresh material for
a new financial proposition. Hastening out into the little market that
lay near the bank, he hurriedly purchased from one of the fish-stalls
a small pike that had been caught in the lake, and, having added to
this a bunch of carrots, he returned to the bank, where he carefully
arranged these proffered securities on the counter, enforced by the
addition of his watch and chain, a three-penny bit, and a penknife.
When all was ready he again tapped softly at the window, and, in a
voice that was broken by sobs, implored the clerk, in view of his
unfortunate position, to accept these ill-assorted articles in pledge
for the small sum which was needed to save him from starvation. The
clerk, by this time grown indignant, requested him to leave the
establishment, explaining to him in emphatic terms, and in such
English as he could command, that they only made advances upon circular
notes or letters of credit. At the last-named word Toole’s saddened
face suddenly broke into smiles, and, producing his letter of credit,
he handed it to the astonished clerk, with the added explanation that
he would have offered that at first if he had thought the bank cared
about it, but that the porter at the hotel had told him the bankers of
Aix liked fish better.
This is only a sample of the kind of adventure that Toole loved to
create for himself and which he carried through with the keenest
zest and enjoyment. His invention in such matters never flagged, and
I have often been his companion through the whole of an idle day,
during which he would keep us both fully employed in the prosecution
of these boyish frolics, that may seem foolish enough in narration,
but were irresistible in their appeal, owing to the unalloyed pleasure
they brought him in their progress. I have known many men who deem
themselves adepts at this kind of sport, but none who were so
convincing in their methods--none, certainly, who took such an honest
pleasure in their work, or who used such infinite pains in carrying the
projected little plot to a successful issue.
Once at Ramsgate he contrived to relieve the tedium of a Sunday
afternoon by calling at nearly every house in a long and respectable
terrace, charged with a mission that was foredoomed to failure. As each
door was opened Toole stood on the step, his face distorted by signs
of emotion, that for the moment deprived him of all powers of speech,
and when at last, in response to the angry inquiry of a maid-servant,
he contrived to regain a measure of self-control, it was only to
beg, in tearful accents, for the loan of “a small piece of groundsel
for a sick bird.” As door after door was slammed in his face, his
high spirits correspondingly increased, his only fear being, as he
afterwards explained to me, lest some one of the peaceful inhabitants
whose Sabbath repose he had so ruthlessly disturbed should, by an evil
chance, have possessed the remedy he so persistently sought.
SITTING AT A PLAY