IN TOTTENHAM STREET
In 1875 Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft decided to make a bold experiment at the
old Prince of Wales' Theatre in Tottenham Street. In that little
playhouse which, thanks to their taste and admirable management, had
become the favourite resort of playgoers far and near; in the birthplace
and home of the sweet and memorable series of T. W. Robertson's
comedies, they would soar to Shakespeare, and give an elaborate as well
as an artistic production of "The Merchant of Venice."
As far as the company was concerned the cast presented few difficulties.
Charles F. Coghlan, who was deservedly regarded as one of the finest and
most powerful actors of his day, was to have his chance as Shylock, and,
since Mrs. Kendal, who was playing with John Hare at the Court Theatre,
was not available, all that was wanted was an ideal Portia.
She was found in Ellen Terry, and in some ways the engagement was the
most eventful episode in her artistic career. April 17th was the night
of the revival, and even those who had illimitable faith in the
Bancrofts were amazed at the scenic treat that had been prepared for
them. It seemed incredible that such perfect pictures of Venice, exact
in every detail, and painted and modelled from drawings specially taken
from the beautiful city of the sea, could be displayed on the small
stage. They charmed the eye and satisfied the mind. Venice in all its
beauty seemed to have transported some of its loveliest spots to dingy
Tottenham Street, and a convincing colour was given to the performance
such as had not hitherto been seen.
The costumes were equally artistic and appropriate,--the parts had been
well and very carefully distributed, the success of the production
seemed assured,--but in spite of its undeniable, and in many respects
unequalled, excellences, it proved unattractive, and had to be speedily
withdrawn.
The disappointment centred itself, where it had been least expected, in
Charles Coghlan's Shylock, and "The Merchant of Venice," without a
strongly appreciative and audience satisfying Jew of Venice is doomed to
collapse. It was in this way that the beautifully painted and firmly
built house of cards tumbled down. It was, and is, inexplicable. Charles
Coghlan had over and over again proved himself to be the best of actors.
Critics, aware of his latent power, had thought him thrown away on the
comparatively trivial parts he had been called upon to play, and felt
certain that when he could "let himself go," he would electrify. The
power was there--in after years it made itself manifest; but, for some
strange reason, it lay dormant in his Shylock--or at any rate in his
Shylock of 1875. There was no lapse of memory on the actor's part--no
physical breakdown. The character had evidently been most carefully
studied, and the delivery of Shakespeare's lines left little or nothing
to be desired. Apparently the actor had made the fatal mistake of
thinking that Shylock was one of those strong parts that would--in
theatrical parlance--"play itself." He was utterly wrong. If Shylock
does not reveal himself in his distinctly true colours, not even the
ideal Portia can prevent his fading from the picture, and leaving
Shakespeare's canvas a blank.
David Garrick's contemporary, Charles Macklin, whose name will ever live
as the first appreciative impersonator of this superbly drawn
character--as full of light as it is of shade--said of his first
appearance in it, and when he had from the outset found his audience in
sympathy with him:--
"These encomiums warmed but did not overset me. I knew where I should
have the pull, which was in the third act, and reserved myself
accordingly. At this period I threw out all my fire; and as the
contrasted passions of joy for the merchant's losses and grief for the
elopement of Jessica, open a fine field for an actor's powers, I had the
good fortune to please beyond my wildest expectations.
"The whole house was in an uproar of applause. The trial scene wound up
the fulness of my reputation; here I was well listened to; and here I
made such a silent yet forcible impression upon the audience that I
retired from this great attempt well satisfied.
"On my return to the green-room after the play was over, it was crowded
with nobility and critics, who all complimented me in the warmest and
most unbounded manner; and the situation I found myself in, I must
confess, was one of the most flattering and intoxicating in my whole
life.
"No money, no title, could purchase what I felt. And let no man tell me
after this what fame will not inspire a man to do, and how far the
attainment of it will not remunerate his greatest labours. By Heaven,
sir, though I was not worth fifty pounds in the world at the time, yet
let me tell you that I was Charles the Great for that night."
Soon after this success Macklin received an invitation to dine with
Bolingbroke and Pope at Battersea. The latter's couplet on his
performance--
"This is the Jew
That Shakespeare drew,"
is well known, and the nineteenth night of the run being his benefit,
Bolingbroke sent him a purse containing twenty guineas, such a present
being then considered a compliment.
On April 17, 1875, poor Charles Coghlan was anything but Charles the
Great. Always careful in the details of his make-up, he was a
picturesque figure, but his expectant audience waited in vain for the
effect that should have been made by the "pull" in the third act--for
the fire that was never thrown out--and for the forcible impression of
the trial scene. The "nobility and critics" were in front, but they
could not compliment the new Shylock, and had sadly to admit that he was
anything but the Jew that Shakespeare drew.
Charles Coghlan seemed for the moment to have forgotten that Shakespeare
meant his matchless text to be illuminated by the actor. He ought to
have borne in mind Mrs. Micawber's adage: "Things cannot turn up of
themselves. We must in a measure assist them to turn up."
No doubt his grave and unaccountable mistake killed the production, and
from it the Bancrofts must have suffered not only bitter disappointment,
but heavy pecuniary loss. It is pleasant to remember how in their
published records they very lightly touch upon the shortcomings of their
stage comrade. But the Bancrofts were ever kindly and generous, and in
every way merit the honours that have been conferred upon them. Were
they not the pioneers of a new, tasteful, and pure departure in English
dramatic art? Is it not to them that we owe the evergreen comedies of
Robertson and the refined theatrical school that he founded?
It is wonderful that thus heavily handicapped with an insipid Shylock
the Portia of the evening made a never-to-be-forgotten triumph. But
triumph she did, and all along the line. It at once became apparent that
we had amongst us an actress who could play the heroines of Shakespeare
in a manner that would vie with her great predecessors in the parts, and
that she would endow them with new graces and sweet fancies of her own.
Such an actress was sorely needed, and we were grateful for her timely
advent.
Well did Joseph Knight say of Ellen Terry and that famous night at the
pleasant little theatre in Tottenham Street, "She had revealed the gifts
which are the rarest on the English stage."
Continuing, he wrote: "More adequate expression has seldom been given to
the light-heartedness of maidenhood, the perplexities and hesitations of
love, and the inevitable content of gratified aspirations and ambitions.
Not less successful were the scenes of badinage. Portia's address before
the court was excellent, and the famous speech on mercy assumed new
beauties from a correct and exquisite delivery. A very noteworthy point
in the performance was the womanly interest in Shylock--the endeavour to
win him, for his own sake, from the pursuit of his grim resolve. The
delivery of the lines--
"'Shylock, there's thrice thy money offered thee,'
and
"'Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge
To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death,'
were dictated by sublime compassion."
In accord with this was the opinion of Dutton Cook, who wrote:--
"With all the charms of aspect and graces of manner indispensable to the
impersonation of the heiress of Belmont, Miss Terry is gifted with a
voice of silvery and sympathetic tone, while her elocutionary method
should be prized by her fellow actors. Portia has been presented now
with tragedy queen airs, and now with vivacity of the soubrette sort--as
when in Garrick's time Mrs. Clive played the part, and made a point of
mimicking the more famous barristers of her time; indeed, a nice
combination of stateliness, animation, sentiment, archness, poetry,
tenderness, and humour is required of the actress entrusted with the
character. Miss Terry's Portia leaves little to be desired; she is
singularly skilled in the business of the scene, and assists the action
of the drama by great care and inventiveness with regard to details.
There is something of passion in the anxiety with which she watches
Bassanio's choice of the leaden casket; while the confession of her love
which follows upon that incident is delivered with a depth of feeling
such as only a mistress of her art could accomplish."
And so it was with all the critics. Probably there never was an occasion
on which they were so unanimous. In the presence of true genius we must
all agree.
How difficult it is to define the word "genius." To my mind it has
never been so well done as by George William Curtis, who said--
"The secret of the rose's sweetness, of the bird's ecstasy, of the
sunset's glory, that is the secret of genius."
Certainly this seems to sum up the genius of Ellen Terry.
Since that night when she first played Portia, it has never lost its
hold upon the public, or its influence upon our stage. With an equally
magnetic Shylock the Bancrofts' brave venture with "The Merchant of
Venice" would surely have run for many months, and in view of the deep
impression she has made, it must have been a great disappointment to
Ellen Terry that this was not to be. She did not know then that both in
England and America her Portia would prove an ever-recurring joy. It was
ordained that as Ophelia she should commence her long and brilliant
series of Shakespearean impersonations with Henry Irving at the Lyceum,
but it was as Portia at the Bancrofts' Prince of Wales' Theatre that she
first won all our hearts, from the scholarly critic of our greatest
poet, to those who only regard "The Merchant of Venice" as an
interesting play that they pay their money to see. Portia will, I think,
ever sparkle as the brightest gem in her well bejewelled crown.
Being human, Ellen Terry must have felt somewhat chagrined that the
fiasco of Charles Coghlan's Shylock should, for a time, banish her
Portia, and it is characteristic of her generous nature that a few
months later she should be playing, for a single performance, Pauline
Deschappelles to his Claude Melnotte at the Princess's Theatre. It was
one of those ephemeral stage experiments that could lead to no immediate
good. It involved much study, great anxiety, and hard work. Probably in
undertaking the task Ellen Terry was actuated by the unselfish desire to
help to reinstate her old comrade of the Bristol days in the public
estimation. I know that in the long period of her unalterably
established fame she has ever been the first to help a fellow actor
fallen by the way. If this was her desire she succeeded beyond her
expectations. As Claude Melnotte Coghlan did much to redeem his recent
unfortunate venture, and as Pauline she evoked pæans of praise. Writing
of this performance Joseph Knight said that its effect was to set the
seal upon a growing reputation, and to make evident the fact that an
actress of a high, if not the highest, order had arisen in our midst. He
felt, as every one felt, that in Ellen Terry an artist had developed in
whom there was that perception of analogies, that insight into
mysteries, and that power of interpretation on which the world has
bestowed the name of genius. "Circumstances," he truly remarked, "took
Miss Terry from the stage at a time when men dimly perceived in her the
promise which has since been realised. It is probable that some delay in
that maturity of style indispensable to perfection in histrionic art
has resulted from this break in her career. The interval can scarcely
have been misspent, however, since Miss Terry reappeared on the stage
with ripened powers and with improved methods."
In saying that her presentation of Pauline "comprised a series of
pictures each more graceful than the preceding," he echoed the general
opinion; but I do not think that the great mass of enthusiastic
playgoers could be with him when he added that they were "all too good
for the lackadaisical play in which she appeared."
Poor "Lady of Lyons"! There are still a little band of your faithful
admirers who hate to hear you condemned as you are to-day, as tawdry,
cheap, and artificial. They look back fondly on happy and soul-stirring
hours spent with you in the past; they know that you can still hold
intelligent, if somewhat sentimentally inclined, audiences spellbound;
and they believe that if any later-day dramatist could write a play
containing as good a character for a stage heroine, he would reap a
fortune. But among the superfine, my sweet "Lady of Lyons," you are
condemned as "old-fashioned," and your loyal followers, if they open
their lips in your praise, must be content to share the same ridicule
and fate. It is very terrible to be old-fashioned; but I, for one, shall
be true to you as long as I live. In the course of his criticism the
writer said, "It is too early yet to gauge fully the talent which has
revealed itself. It seems probable that Miss Terry's powers will be
restrained to depicting the grace, tenderness, and passion of love. In
the short scene in the third act, in which Pauline chides her lover for
treachery, the actress scarcely rose to the requisite indignation.
Limiting, however, what is to be hoped for her within the bounds
indicated, what chance is there not afforded? Juliet, in the stronger
scenes, would be, we should fancy, outside the physical resources of the
artist. Beatrice, Rosalind, Viola, Imogen, Miranda, and a score of other
characters of the most delicate and fragrant beauty, are, however, all
within what appears to be her range. In the present state of public
feeling respecting the Shakespearean drama, it will be strange indeed if
some manager does not take the opportunity of mounting some of those
plays for which her talent is so eminently adapted. The period during
which an actress can play such parts with effect is brief; and a portion
of Miss Terry's career has already been lost so far as the stage is
concerned. There will be regrettable waste if talent, so specially
suited to the Shakespearean drama, is confined to Lord Lytton's facile
sentiment and sparkling rhetoric."
Do not heed these final words, dear "Lady of Lyons." Believe me, there
are still many hundreds of gardeners' sons, Princes of Coma, and Colonel
Moiriers, ready to be your lovers, and worship at your feet.
Twenty-six fruitful years have elapsed since the foregoing criticism was
written, and we can be wise after the event. Joseph Knight has proved
himself to be a good prophet, but by the light of to-day we know that he
might have added to his list of Shakespearean characters within Ellen
Terry's range. To the regret of all, we have not yet seen her Rosalind
and Miranda, but she has triumphed as Viola and Imogen, and (though she
did not satisfy every one in the part) has proved that her physical and
artistic resources were equal to the portrayal of the passion and sorrow
of Juliet. She has shone as Beatrice, Cordelia, Desdemona, Lady Anne,
and Ophelia; she has astonished us and excited our admiration as Queen
Katherine and Lady Macbeth, and has even made a great personal success
as the determined Volumnia. Add to these the Mamillius, Puck, Prince
Arthur, Katherine, and other parts of earlier days, and we see what a
Shakespearean record has been made.
During her engagement at the Prince of Wales' Theatre, she also appeared
as Clara Douglas in Lord Lytton's comedy, "Money"; as Mabel Vane in
Charles Reade's and Tom Taylor's "Masks and Faces"; and as Blanche Haye
in one of the many revivals of T. W. Robertson's "Ours." In each of
these characters her peculiar grace and distinction, coupled with
tenderness, were apparent, but none of them offered her a chance worthy
of her now fully recognised power. In H. J. Byron's comedy, "Wrinkles;
or, A Tale of Time," she was doomed to disappointment. Byron, as a
writer for the stage, was then in the zenith of his fame. Everywhere his
comedies and burlesques were in demand, and it was only natural that he
should receive a commission for a play from his old friends the
Bancrofts. Writing for the best comedy company in London, and with Ellen
Terry, the idol of the hour, designed for his heroine, he no doubt
intended to produce his masterpiece; but, somehow, "Wrinkles" failed.
Indeed, on the first night, failure was in the air. Not only did the
piece prove unattractive in itself, but (a most unusual thing for any
play directed by the Bancrofts) it seemed hardly ready for production.
Hereby hangs a characteristic story of poor Byron. At the end of the
third act ("Wrinkles" possessed four), though no open hostility had been
displayed, his dramatic instinct told him that his work was doomed.
Inwardly suffering the torments of the defeated playwright, but
outwardly putting on a brave show of _nonchalance_, he lounged about the
front of the house. The long waits between the acts had already been a
source of dissatisfaction, and now had come the weariest interval of
all. Added to this, sounds were heard behind the act-drop as of a
carpenter sawing wood, suggesting--ominously suggesting--that the
scenery was defective. "What on earth are they doing, Byron?" asked a
friend. The poor author was gloomy and dejected, but, even at his own
expense, he could never resist a joke. "I don't know," he said, "but _I
hope they're cutting out the last act_!"
The last act was not cut out, but it did not save the already foundering
play, and the part in which Ellen Terry had been intended to shine (she
did not appear in it) flickered out.
But her engagement in Tottenham Street will ever be remembered by her
first appearance as Portia, and to the Bancrofts we owe her introduction
to one of her greatest parts.
"How I loved playing Portia," she has said. "I have tried five or six
different ways of treating her. Unfortunately, the way I think the
_best_ way does not find response with my audiences."
Be that as it may, she continues to play Portia in a way that her
critics as well as friends deem the best, and assuredly it requires no
alteration. May she thus go on playing it for many a year to come!