AT THE LYCEUM THEATRE, 1878-1883
Those who are truly interested in the stage must be more or less
familiar with a Lyceum first-night under the reign of Henry Irving. He
has made the long series of them prominent among the events of the day,
and rich and poor alike are eager to be present. We know how the
frequenters of the cheaper parts of the house will, in order to obtain
good seats, assemble and wait patiently in the Strand from sunrise to
sundown; we know how difficult it is to obtain seats at the besieged
box-office; we know how from the front row of the pit to the back seats
of the gallery the house is densely packed with an audience assembled to
hear and see all that is noblest in English dramatic art. It is more
than impressive to watch the faces of the patient and expectant pit; and
to listen to the sounds in the eager and impulsive gallery; while as to
the stalls and boxes, in them you see the cream of those who are
distinguished in the paths of art, science, and literature. It is
magnificent to be able to command such an audience; on the other hand it
must be formidable to face it.
It was to such an assemblage as this that Ellen Terry had to make her
bow when on the evening of December 30, 1878, she first appeared at the
Lyceum, playing Ophelia to the Hamlet of Henry Irving. No doubt it was a
trying and anxious moment for her, but the true ring in the long and
loud welcome which greeted her on the threshold of the home in which she
was destined to do so much noble work must have gone to her heart, and
assured her that all would be well.
It was indeed a momentous evening in the history of our stage. Of it
Dutton Cook said:--
"Mr. Irving's managerial career has commenced most auspiciously. The
opening representation was, indeed, from first to last, triumphant. A
distinguished audience filled to overflowing the re-decorated Lyceum
Theatre, and the new _impresario_ was received with unbounded
enthusiasm. These gratifying evidences of goodwill were scarcely
required, however, to convince Mr. Irving that his enterprise carried
with it very genial sympathy. His proved devotion to his art, his
determination to uphold the national drama to its utmost, have secured
for him the suffrages of all classes of society. And it is recognised
that he has become a manager, not to enhance his position as an
actor--for already he stands in the front rank of his profession--but
the better to promote the interests of the whole stage, and to serve
more fully, to gratify more absolutely, the public and his patrons. Let
it be added, as a minor matter, that he has followed the good examples
set by Mr. Hollingshead and Mr. Bancroft, and has been careful of the
comfort of his audience, neither permitting them to be pinched for room,
nor subjecting them to those petty imposts which, like so many turnpike
dues, have so persistently impeded the visitor on his passage from the
street to his seat within the theatre.
"The tragedy of 'Hamlet' was well chosen for the first performance under
the new management--as Hamlet Mr. Irving has obtained his greatest
success. It has been said that no actor has ever been known to fail as
Hamlet; it may be added that no actor has ever as Hamlet completely
satisfied critical opinion. To many the play is a metaphysical study
wholly unsuited for theatrical exhibition; 'an enigmatic work,' as
Schlegel says, 'resembling those irrational equations in which a
fraction of unknown magnitude always remains that will in no way admit
of solution.' To many Hamlet is a mysterious and complex character,
beyond the power of histrionic art adequately to interpret. Mr. Irving
can, at any rate, point to the fact that, four years ago, for two
hundred nights in succession, he played Hamlet to delighted crowds at
the Lyceum. Weighed against popular success so consummate and
prodigious, objections of any kind are as but feathers in the scale; and
even those least disposed to accept this latest stage portraiture of
Hamlet can afford to admit that the picture is in itself consistent and
harmonious, the work of an ingenious and intellectual artist."
Yes, there were some who (in a hopeless minority) were still indisposed
to accept the new Prince of Denmark, but by the sensible and
appreciative his impersonation by Henry Irving will ever be honoured as
one of the most complete, harmonious, profound, and artistic seen on the
stage. Never was more thought given to the study and representation of
very small phases of Hamlet's character. The result was a powerful,
refined, graceful, intelligent interpretation in every detail, and as
such it was applauded by the public.
Of Ellen Terry's acting on that memorable evening my authority says:--
"An Ophelia so tender, so graceful, so picturesque, and so pathetic, has
not been seen in the theatre since Macready's Hamlet, many years ago,
found his Ophelia in the person of Miss Priscilla Horton. In characters
of this class, the heroines of genuine poetry, Miss Terry is now without
a rival, is indeed unapproached by any other actress upon our stage. Her
personal graces and endowments, her elocutionary skill, her musical
speech, and, above all, her singular power of depicting intensity of
feeling, are most happily combined, as the audience was quick to
discover and applaud in this very exquisite presentment of Ophelia."
[Illustration: _Photograph by_
[_Window & Grove._
ELLEN TERRY IN TRAGEDY AND COMEDY, _CIRCA_ 1878.
[_To face page 222._
]
In summing up the performance, Joseph Knight said:--
"Of Mr. Irving's Hamlet we have already spoken. It is not greatly
changed. The outline is distinctly the same as before, though much pains
have been bestowed on the filling up. We do not accept as new readings
the delivery while sitting of speeches formerly spoken standing, or
other like alterations in arrangement. Nor do we feel that changes of
method as regards matters of detail call for special comment. The one
vital alteration of conception appears to consist in presenting Hamlet
as under the influence of an overmastering love for Ophelia. A knowledge
of his own weakness seems to inspire him when, subsequently addressing
Horatio, he says--
"Give me that man
That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him
In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of hearts."
The chief grace in the new representation consisted in the delivery of
the speeches to Ophelia in the third act. In this the mocking tone did
not for a moment hide the profound emotion under which Hamlet laboured,
and the hands which repulsed her petitioning hands trembled with
passionate longing. That this view of Hamlet is correct will scarcely be
disputed. That he loved Ophelia he declared over her grave; that he felt
it his duty, under the influence of a task such as that enjoined him, to
erase from the table of his memory all 'trivial fond records,' he also
states. The indications of the pain it costs a nature such as this,
quick in resolution and shrinking and incapable in action, to inflict on
the woman he loves the grief it is yet necessary she should sustain, are
well conceived. That they were effective in action was ascribable to a
great extent to the admirable acting of Miss Terry. Picturesque, tender,
and womanly throughout, Miss Terry on one or two occasions gave an
inspired rendering of Ophelia. The support she afforded Mr. Irving was
of the utmost importance, and the scene before the play has probably
never been so well rendered."
I think it well to quote these undoubted authorities, lest readers might
think that in my palpable admiration for these artists my personal
judgment would be biassed.
I cannot end my little record of the auspicious evening of December 30,
1878, without noting that then Bram Stoker assumed his position as chief
in the front of the house. How much he has done to make the Lyceum
Theatre popular its frequenters fully recognise. Always genial and
courteous, he plays the important part of host right well, cheerily
attending to the comforts of one and all. Probably he would prefer to
devote the whole of his time to writing his tenderly conceived and well
loved romances (do we not owe to him "Under the Sunset," "The Snake's
Pass," "The Shoulder of Shasta," and many other graceful fancies?);
but happily for us, though we want more of his charming books, he
remains true to his post, and has made himself as well liked in the
provinces as he is in London.
[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY AS "OPHELIA."
_From a portrait by Charles Campbell in the possession of Sir Henry
Irving, and kindly lent by him for reproduction in these pages. Charles
Campbell was a fellow-worker with Sir Edward Burne Jones. His premature
death cut short a most promising career._
[_To face page 224._
]
Speaking of Ellen Terry's triumph as Ophelia, Percy Fitzgerald tells us
that "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 Thames Embankment half-a-dozen times before she
found courage to go home."
The newspapers of the next morning must have given her assurance that
for her was no such word as fail!
The next production at the Lyceum was "The Lady of Lyons." Of Ellen
Terry's appreciative rendering of the character of Pauline I have
already spoken. It need only be said now that it exercised its former
charm. Henry Irving had evidently given great thought to the study of
Claude Melnotte, and at times he was deeply impressive; but the part
cannot take rank amongst his greatest successes.
Then came a revival of the stage version by W. G. Wills of Thomas Hood's
"The Dream of Eugene Aram," which had, of course, been suggested by the
impression made through Henry Irving's graphic recitation of that
thrilling poem. In this Ellen Terry succeeded Isabel Bateman as Ruth
Meadows, but "Eugene Aram" is a one-part play, and affords few chances
for an actress.
Again she followed Isabel Bateman in the revival of W. G. Wills'
beautiful play, "Charles I.," which was given on June 27, 1879. As the
pathetically-drawn Queen Henrietta Maria, Ellen Terry once more had her
opportunity, and she grasped it. The hapless Queen ranks as one of her
most sympathetic and womanly impersonations, and she played it with even
more than her wonted sweetness when the play was reproduced at the
Lyceum as recently as June 23, 1901.
As Charles Stuart, Henry Irving unquestionably finds at once one of his
most dignified and pathetic creations.
For nearly thirty years the play has held the stage, and in view of that
very rare fact it is interesting to recall its original production. This
was in the September of 1872, under Colonel Bateman's Lyceum management,
when Henry Irving had made his notable success in "The Bells," and was
the talk of the town. Both by manager and actor much anxiety was felt as
to the next play to be produced, and they were both delighted when W. G.
Wills suggested the story of the unhappy Charles I. as a subject.
In common with most successful plays it had its tribulations before it
faced the footlights. Though possessed of true feeling and 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 at last they began to
despair. Many changes had to be made before the poem could be brought
into satisfactory shape. Originally, the piece opened with the second
act, but the practical Colonel Bateman 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 desired
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
necessary, both author and actor tried many expedients without success,
until one evening the manager suddenly called out, "Look at the last act
of 'Black-Eyed Susan!'" And so it came about that the affecting farewell
between the doomed Charles and his weeping Queen was due to Douglas
Jerrold's time-honoured nautical play.
That "Charles I." was an immediate stage success is a matter of ancient
history, and in an odd way it had bold advertisement. 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 considerations of a marriage
designed to gratify his own social ambition. 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. It
was also argued that the dramatist had made Charles not only a hero and
a martyr, but also a modern gentleman with superior manners and a
melancholy smile. But the public forgave the slanders for the sake of
the prettiness and the pathos of the domestic scenes.
The play was not only revived in 1879 but in 1883, and again in 1893. In
1901 it exercised all its old charm. The best advice to those who go to
see it is not to expect historical accuracy, but, without criticism of
the dramatist's portraits of the King and Cromwell, to heartily enjoy a
delightful and soul-stirring drama. It is only the other day that Ellen
Terry said, "There is nothing more beautifully pathetic in the world
than Sir Henry Irving's Charles." And she is right.
At the end of this busy season, in the last days of hot July, Ellen
Terry, on the occasion of her manager's benefit, played Lady Anne to his
Gloucester in the first act of "Richard III.," and then, as we have seen
in a former chapter, she started on her provincial tour.
She did not return to London until the late autumn. On November 1, 1879,
we first saw that beautiful revival of "The Merchant of Venice," which,
thanks to Ellen Terry's Portia and Henry Irving's Shylock, became one of
the greatest of the long series of Lyceum triumphs, and remains to this
day one of the most attractive items in the Irving repertory.
His impersonation of the "Jew that Shakespeare drew" is as instinct with
purpose to-day as it was in 1879. I know that there are some critics who
declare that he imparts so much dignity to the character that he dwarfs
the other portraits in the play. That is true of the actor, but surely
these critics are wrong? Most students of Shakespeare realise that
Shylock never became actively malignant until the Christians, who on the
Rialto had insulted him, who had called him misbeliever and cut-throat
dog, and spat upon his Jewish gaberdine, had robbed him of his daughter
and his ducats. Then the sufferance that he declared to be the badge of
all his tribe broke down. Then, being a man as well as a Jew, he
became, not unrighteously, savage, showed his teeth, and, living in a
cruel age (when human torture was a thing of every day), viciously
resolved to have his "pound of flesh." It is hardly likely that he
thought it would come in his way when, in "a merry sport," he signed the
bond with Antonio. That is the filled-in picture that Henry Irving gives
us of this wonderfully outlined character. We may be horrified at the
vindictive moods of his Shylock, but we understand him, and realise the
cruel wrongs that have worked him up to a frenzied hatred of his
bantering tormentors. He makes us see the patient endurance and personal
dignity of the man, and, if at the end of the grandly wrought story we
cannot quite sympathise with him, we are called upon to acknowledge the
infinite patience of his punishment. To thousands and thousands of
playgoers, and to those who dearly love their Shakespeare, Henry Irving
has illumined the superbly limned design of Shylock.
Of Ellen Terry's Portia, in the days of the Bancrofts at the old Prince
of Wales' Theatre, I have already spoken. In 1879 it was found to be as
good as ever--nay, better than ever--for not only had time ripened her
talent, but brought her into contact with a virile Shylock. She has
indeed made the character her own, and this fact has been long
acknowledged not only in England but in America. It remains to-day
exactly what it has ever been, a perfectly executed realisation of one
of Shakespeare's most beautiful feminine creations. And, indeed, whether
it be in her handsome Italian gowns, or disguised as the "young and
learned doctor" from Padua, she makes a lovely and most fascinating
picture. Her illustration of the wonderful text leaves nothing to be
desired. It carries with it the inspiration of genius, and yet it is all
so sweetly natural. "As the gentle rain from heaven," it "drops upon the
place beneath," and in the hearts of her hearers sets new, bright, and
fragrant thoughts upspringing; while throughout it all runs the refined
essence of dainty humour. Whenever I see such perfectly soul-satisfying
Shakespearean portraits as these, I think of the matchless stained-glass
windows in our grand churches and old cathedrals. Beautiful in
themselves, as they are now, their designs must have at one time been
crude and cold in the hands of their originators. But filled in with
softly, yet richly-coloured and exquisitely blended glass (not with the
hot reds, violent blues, and gaudy ambers that hopelessly disfigure so
many modern efforts in this direction), they seem to soothe while they
illuminate, and ineffaceably fulfil their earnest, bright, and inspiring
intention.
On December 10, 1879, a benefit performance was given at the Lyceum, on
behalf of William Belford, an actor who had done splendid service under
Samuel Phelps at Sadler's Wells, and who in later years had been prime
favourite as principal comedian at the Strand Theatre. He was not only a
fine actor, but a prince among good fellows, and pre-eminent in the
London Bohemia of those days, the happy home of the literary men,
artists, and actors, of which Geoffrey Prowse wrote:--
"The longitude's rather uncertain,
The latitude's equally vague;
But that person I pity who knows not the city,
The beautiful city of Prague."
In 1879 poor Belford's health broke down. Like many of his kind in the
good-natured, easy-going, and absolutely unselfish circles to which he
belonged, he had made little or no provision for such a disaster, and
right cheerfully his friends came to his aid, just as in stage-land
friends invariably do. Henry Irving played his famous character of Digby
Grant in "The Two Roses," and this was supplemented by a performance of
the "Trial" scene from "Pickwick," in which many prominent actors
appeared. Ellen Terry, who had met William Belford in the Charles Kean
days at the Princess's, very appropriately, as well as very
beautifully, delivered an address from the deft pen of Clement Scott,
which ran as follows:--
"To one and all a welcome! That's the way
To point a prologue, or to start a play;
But something tells me that your thoughts are tending
Towards one who starts no more--whose play is ending.
Nay, look not sad; no suppliant appears
To chase your smiles and undermine your tears;
I ask your sympathy, but it were folly
To join dear Belford's name with melancholy.
On such a merry heart rare friendship waits;
To him Bohemia threw wide her gates!
Up started he the first at laughter's call,
Had found at clubs best welcome of them all.
Full of rare anecdote and riper wit,
Favoured by stalls and idolised by pit;
An airy butterfly, who held in hand
The mirth of Sadler's Wells, the fun of Strand,
Varied and versatile, but ever cheery;
Now Gratiano, mocking, now Dundreary,
He was the sunshine that existence mellows--
Friend, guide, comedian, and best of fellows!
Why do I say 'he was,' and seem to cast
A present favourite into the past?
He's with us yet, and could he but address you,
I'd say for you, 'Shake hands, old friend, God bless you!'
There ran a rumour lately through the town,'
'O have you heard! poor Belford's breaking down!'
A gentleman, and Spartan like the rest,
Too proud to show the fox that gnawed his breast,
He murmured not, sat waiting, did not shirk,
And to the last hoped against hope for work,
Till those who loved him saw in eyes grown dim
The pain he'd saved from others, clung to him.
I'd have you know--tell it from south to north,
Our friend hung back--_his_ friends have led him forth,
And we were right--the public heart we knew,
The stage's favourites belong to you!
Behind the curtain, one and all rejoice,
To join their work to your responsive voice;
We've done no more to-day for our sick friend
Than we shall keep on doing to the end;
In our freemasonry there's this relief,
We share life's triumphs--but we share its grief.
Nor for ourselves in thanks we stretch our hand,
But for the stricken soldier of our band;
You found him sorrowing, and gave him ease,
A sight of home and country, waving trees,
And all the blest retirement, deep and wild,
That soothes the body, helpless as a child!
Through me our absent friend would like to say
You've done a noble charity to-day;
For after years of uncomplaining strife,
You've saved anxiety and promised life;
But, best of all, as antidote to pain,
Back to his face you've brought the smiles again.
So promise me, before you all depart,
To wear 'Sweet William' ever next your heart!"
Triumphantly the "Merchant of Venice" pursued its course until, in May
1880, its last act was omitted, and it was succeeded by "Iolanthe," a
version by W. G. Wills of Henrik Hertz's Danish play, "King René's
Daughter." The chief character in this had been a favourite one with
that consummate artiste, Helen Faucit (Lady Theodore Martin). The piece
was exquisitely staged, and finely played by Ellen Terry and Henry
Irving; it was very tender, and very touching, but it has not taken a
permanent place in the Lyceum repertory. On January 3, 1881, Lord
Tennyson's two-act drama, "The Cup," the "great little play," as Ellen
Terry called it, was produced, and another great victory was gained.
Clement Scott considers her acting in this to have been one of the
finest of her many inspirations, and says:--
"Ellen Terry as Camma, aptly realised the poet's lines--
'The lark first takes the sunlight on his wing,
But you, twin sister of the morning sun,
Forelead the Sun!'
Who that ever heard it can forget the pathos of Ellen Terry as she
parted from Sinnatus, and delivered these lovely lines--
'He is gone already;
Oh, look! yon grove upon the mountain--white
In the sweet moon, as with a lovelier snow!
But what a blotch of blackness underneath!
Sinnatus, you remember,--yea you must--
That there three years ago, the vast vine-bowers
Ran to the summit of the trees and dropt
Their streamers earthward, which a breeze of May
Took ever and anon and opened out,
The purple zone of hill and heaven; there
You told your love; and like the swaying vines--
Yea, with our eyes, our hearts, our prophet hopes,
Let in the happy distance, and that all
But cloudless heaven which we have found together
In our three married years! You kissed me there
For the first time. Sinnatus, kiss me now.'
I for one" (and here Clement Scott speaks for many of us) "shall never
forget the end of the play, with the libations poured in honour of
Artemis, and amidst music and flowers and processions, faultless in
colour, and of classic pomp, making the dull mind live in another age,
we hear intoned with strophe and antistrophe of chanting chorus, the
double appeal by Camma and Synorix, containing as it does the most
impassioned poetry of the play.
"I said at the time, 'If there ever was a play that from its intrinsic
merits demanded a second, if not a third visit, it is "The Cup." At
present the landscape of Mr. W. Telbin, and the decorative splendour of
Mr. Hawes Craven's Temple of Artemis, absorb all attention. We seem to
see before us the concentrated essence of such fascinating art as that
of Sir Frederick Leighton and Mr. Alma Tadema in a breathing and
tangible form. Not only do the grapes grow before us, and the myrtles
blossom, the snow-mountains change from silver-white at daytime to
roseate hues at dawn, not only are the Pagan ceremonies acted before us
with a reality and fidelity that almost baffles description, but in the
midst of all this scenic allurement glide the classical draperies of
Miss Ellen Terry, who is the exact representative of the period she
enacts, while following her we find the eager glances of the
fate-haunted Mr. Irving. The pictures that dwell on the memory are
countless, and not to be effaced in spell or witchery by any of the most
vaunted productions of the stage, even in an era devoted to archæology.
We see, as we travel back through the enchanting vista, the first
meeting of Synorix and Camma--he with his long red hair and haunting
eyes, his weird pale face and swathes of leopard skins; she with her
grace of movement, unmatched in our time, clad in a drapery sea-weed
tinted, with complexion as clear as in one of Sir Frederick Leighton's
classical pictures, and with every pose studied but still natural.
"We remember Camma as she reclined on the low couch with her harp,
moaning about her husband's late-coming, and can recall the hungry eyes
of Synorix, as he drank in the magic of her presence. All was good here,
the tenderness of the woman, the wicked eagerness of her lover, the
quick impulsive energy of the husband. Difficult as it was to study the
acting, when so much had to be seen, still it was felt that Mr. Irving,
Mr. Terriss, and Miss Ellen Terry had well opened the tragedy long
before the first curtain fell.
"There were time and opportunity, at any rate, to comprehend the
subtlety of Mr. Irving's expression in that long soliloquy--how well it
was broken up, and how face accorded with action when Sinnatus lay dead,
and the frightened Camma had fled to the sanctuary of the Temple. With
the first act but little fault could be found. The fastidious among the
audience who complained of dulness and want of action, possibly forgot
that whilst their eyes were feasting on the scenery, their ears were
closed to the poetry, and on another visit will confess how much meaning
and study were at the first blush lost to them. With the aid of the
text, the beauties hidden for the moment will reappear. As for the
second act, with its groupings, its grace, its centre figures and
surroundings, its hymns to Artemis, its chants and processions, we are
inclined to doubt if the stage has ever given to educated tastes so rare
a treat. In the old days, such pictures might have been caviare to the
general public, but the public at the Lyceum is one of culture and a
very high order of intelligence. Such poems are necessarily for the
fastidious and the elegant in mind and scholarship; but granted the
right of the stage to demand such poetic studies, it would be impossible
for modern scenic art to give them more splendour and completeness.
Æsthetic tastes have had their necessary ridicule and banter, for
everything that is affected is hateful to the ordinary English nature;
but here, in this Temple of Artemis, when Miss Ellen Terry, veiled as
the Galatian priestess, stands by the incense-bearing tripod, and Mr.
Henry Irving, robed in the scarlet of Rome's tributary King, comes to
demand his anxiously expected bride, there is an aiming at the beautiful
and thorough, most creditable in itself and distinctly worthy of
respect."
No doubt the production of "The Cup" was a bright feather in the
managerial cap of Henry Irving, and Ellen Terry took her full share in
its colours.
Let me hark back a little to recall an evening in the previous Lyceum
season when I was fortunate enough to hear Ellen Terry's thrilling
rendering of the one character in Monk Lewis's dramatic poem, "The
Captive." This strange writer, with his skulls and his crossbones, his
coffins and shrouds, his ghosts and his goblins, is rarely read now; but
for the sake of the actress's performance in it this weird piece of work
was well worth revival. In the memoirs of Lewis we come across a letter
written to his mother in 1803, just before the first performance of "The
Captive." "The 'monodrama' (as he called it) 'comes out,' he says, on
Tuesday. I have not yet been at a single rehearsal. It cannot possibly
succeed." In one way it did succeed. At Covent Garden Mrs. Litchfield (a
famous actress in her day) recited the fearsome lines allotted to the
wretched maniac prisoner. The character is that of a mad-woman, and Mrs.
Litchfield's embodiment of the author's horrible imaginings, combined
with the scenic effects and other startling appearances which, with his
usual skill, he introduced into the piece, threw a portion of the
audience--whose nerves were unable to withstand the dreadful truth of
the language--into hysterics, and the whole theatre into confusion and
horror. Never, it is said, did Covent Garden present such an appearance
of agitation and dismay. Ladies bathed in tears, others fainting, and
some shrieking with terror--while such of the audience who were able to
avoid demonstrations like these sat aghast with pale horror painted on
their countenances.
In another letter to his mother, Lewis says: "The papers will have
already informed you that the monodrama has failed. It proved much too
terrible for representation, and two people went into hysterics during
the performance, and two more after the curtain dropped. It was given
out again with a mixture of applause and disapprobation, but I
immediately withdrew the piece. In fact, the subject (which was merely a
picture of madness) was so uniformly distressing to the feelings that at
last I felt my own a little painfully, and as to Mrs. Litchfield she
almost fainted away. I did not expect that it would succeed, and of
course am not disappointed at its failure. The only chance was whether
pity would make the audience weep, but instead of that terror threw them
into fits, and of course there was an end of my monodrama."
At the Lyceum Ellen Terry brought about no such scene as that created
by Mrs. Litchfield at Covent Garden. It is true that she harrowed as
well as held her audience, and that the memory of her acting must haunt
all who witnessed this bold venture; but her art was delicate as well as
intense, and she was able to draw those tears so desired by the author.
It is a pity that he could not see his "monodrama" at the Lyceum in
1880.
On April 16, 1881, "The Cup" was preceded by Mrs. Cowley's comedy, "The
Belle's Stratagem," with Ellen Terry as Letitia Hardy. She played the
part with invincible vivacity and perfect grace, and in the picturesque
costumes of a bygone period, looked like a portrait by an old master
come to life. But what a thing to do! Camma and Letitia Hardy--tragedy
and comedy--in one evening! It was a proof alike of her marvellous
versatility and her great power of physical endurance. To the delight of
his admirers, Henry Irving resumed his old part of Doricourt, and played
it brilliantly. By the way, in connection with this impersonation, there
is another instance of an actor thinking he has failed where he has
really succeeded.
Of his first appearance at the St. James' Theatre in the character, he
has said:--"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." Despite his doubts the
part has remained one of the best and one of the most popular of his
comedy incarnations. Of the new Letitia Hardy, Clement Scott truly
said:--"She is as Georgian in her comedy graces as before she was Pagan
in her rites as the priestess Camma. Entering heart and soul into the
spirit of the play, she attacks it with a wilfulness and an abandon that
are indescribable. She trips and floats through the scenes. There is no
effort in anything that she does; and when she assumes the character of
the hoyden it is in the finest spirit of refined and disciplined fun.
With every chance for exaggeration, the rein is never relaxed, and so
captivating is the spirit of the artiste that she makes the audience
hold its breath to the point of tension, and is rewarded with the quick
response of unrestrained applause. Equally charming is the temptation
scene at the minuet; and when Miss Terry, mask in hand, floats, glides,
and coquets around the bewildered Doricourt, one's mind recalls the
records of fascination in varied romance, and understands, possibly
for the first time, what Circe might have done to Ulysses--how the
fair-haired German nymphs of the Lorelei turned the heads of dreamy
knights--how Undine weaved her spells--and how old Merlin collapsed
under the influence of the wily Vivien. Unknowingly, Miss Ellen Terry is
a poem."
[Illustration: ELLEN TERRY.
_On tour. Birmingham, 1881._
[_To face page 242._
]
In the autumn of 1880 the great American tragedian, Edwin Booth, came to
England to fulfil an engagement at the Princess's Theatre, and his
reception had not been one to make those who take loving interest in the
dramatic art of this country proud. How well I remember poor Sothern (he
was then in his dying days) waxing wroth over the neglect with which the
man whom he declared to be the "finest and most graceful actor in the
world" was treated. I think many others felt the same, and Henry Irving,
at least, was determined that his great rival should not recross the
Atlantic until he had had a fair hearing in London. With characteristic
generosity and delightful courage, he invited Booth to appear with him
at the Lyceum in Othello, so that the leaders of English and American
dramatic art might be seen on the stage together, and in all courtesy
cross swords, alternating the finely-balanced yet splendidly contrasted
parts of the Moor and Iago. The invitation was cordially accepted, and
in both countries the event is regarded as one of the most interesting
in modern theatrical history.
The general consensus of opinion was that Booth triumphed as Othello,
and that Irving eclipsed him as Iago. No doubt Othello is by far the
most difficult part to play, and it was better suited to the classical
style of Booth than to the methods of Irving, who, while he has
reverence for tradition, delights in taking a path of his own making. In
some characters this is a distinct advantage, and his Iago was supreme.
It will be remembered that Ellen Terry was already familiar with the
character of the gentle Desdemona, and she played it with infinite charm
and inexpressible pathos. Hers must have been a difficult task, for both
Booth and Irving took different readings of Othello and Iago, and she
had to adapt herself to both. Hazlitt said:--"All circumstances
considered, and platonics out of the question, if we were to cast the
complexion of Desdemona physiognomically, we should say that she had a
very fair skin and very light auburn hair, inclining to yellow." In
Ellen Terry Hazlitt would have found his ideal, not only in appearance
but in art.
For Henry Irving's benefit at the end of the season she played Helen to
his Modus in those happily conceived comedy scenes from "The Hunchback"
of Sheridan Knowles in which the two figure. She once more proved
herself to be the most piquant of comediennes, and the Modus was
delightfully sketched.
In the opening attraction of the next Lyceum season, which commenced in
the January of 1882, Ellen Terry did not appear. This was a revival of
"The Two Roses," for by this time playgoers were anxious to resume
acquaintance with Henry Irving in his first great original character,
that of Digby Grant. In Lyceum history the occasion is noteworthy, for
it introduced to its boards--as the blind Caleb Deecie--George
Alexander. Alexander had been touring in the country under the
management of the younger Robertson, and those who took the trouble to
watch him with discriminating eye had predicted for him a brilliant
future. So admirable was he in a character part in a humorous piece
called "The Guv'nor," that his name, extolled by discerning provincial
critics, reached Irving's ears, and thus he won his first engagement in
London. His admirable work at the Lyceum Theatre, before he went into
management on his own account, and by his tact, taste, and personality
once more made the St. James's (a playhouse which since the departure of
John Hare and the Kendals had been allowed to droop) the resort of
intellectual as well as fashionable London, is well remembered. It is a
grand thing for a young and then comparatively unknown actor to reflect
that, with infinite credit to himself, and to the great satisfaction of
the public, he played such vitally important parts as Faust to the
Margaret of Ellen Terry, and Macduff to the Macbeth of Henry Irving.
But the great production of this season was "Romeo and Juliet." Never,
probably, was a Shakespearean play so superbly mounted. All the
resources of art were lavished upon it, and cost was apparently outside
consideration. The result was a series of stage pictures that were
absolutely entrancing. If I were writing a history of the Lyceum under
the management of Henry Irving I should gladly dwell on these things,
and on the work that he, both as manager and actor, put into them, but I
must remember that my text is Ellen Terry, and, save for the
all-important part which she took in them, pass them briefly by. Other
writers have vividly described these matchless representations in their
entirety, and I must content myself with a fragment here and there. My
canvas is a small one, and my picture must be that of my heroine. If my
accounts of the Lyceum revivals are brief it is not from lack of
appreciation of them, and happily the memory of them is green. So it is
with the later impersonations of Ellen Terry, and they will require no
lengthy record at my hands.
Her Juliet did not quite satisfy all the critics, but she played the
part for one hundred and thirty nights to crowded and enthusiastic
audiences, and surely there could be no better criterion of success?
If, when compared with other Juliets, the extremely exacting part did
not seem to suit her as well as others she had played, if it was held to
be inferior to her Ophelia, and below her Portia, the impersonation won
its way to the hearts of the people, and in the public mind it increased
rather than lessened her reputation. Sarah Bernhardt, who was loud in
her praises of the performance, said to her sister artiste--"How _can_
you act in this way every night?" "It is the audience," said Ellen
Terry. "They inspire me!" She might have added that she inspired her
audiences.
After the first performance she once more thought, nay, even insisted,
that she had failed. She wrote to a friend--"A thousand thanks for your
letter. The fact remains that Juliet was a horrid failure. _And I meant
so well!_ I am very sad, but I thank you. _It is not the critics._ I
knew it all on Wednesday night."
She knew far more, and had no reason to be sad, when, at the close of
the season, after an extraordinary run, "Romeo and Juliet" was
withdrawn.
On October 11, 1882, Shakespearean tragedy gave way to Shakespearean
comedy, and "Much Ado about Nothing" was staged. We have seen how, at
Leeds, Ellen Terry had tried herself as Beatrice. She had proved that
the character suited her to perfection, and confidence in herself no
doubt helped her to make one of the most striking of her many triumphs.
Clement Scott has such delightful ideas of Ellen Terry in connection
with the character of Beatrice, that I must be permitted to quote him:--
"Two passages from 'Much Ado about Nothing,'" he says, "have always
seemed to me to convey exactly the idea of Ellen Terry, both in youth
and womanhood; they suggest that extraordinary 'charm' that the actress
recently in America was unable to define, though I, for one, could have
embodied it in two words, 'Ellen Terry.' The passages from Shakespeare
to which I allude are these--
"DON PEDRO. Will you have me, lady?
"BEATRICE. No, my lord, unless I might have another for working
days; your grace is too costly to wear every day. But I beseech
your grace pardon me; I was born to speak all mirth and no matter.
"DON PEDRO. Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best
becomes you; for, out of the question, you were born in a merry
hour.
"BEATRICE. No sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a
star danced, and under that I was born! Cousins, God give you joy!
"Now, if William Shakespeare had had the model before him, he could not
have drawn a more perfect picture of Ellen Terry than this. She was
indeed 'born to speak all mirth and no matter.' If ever lovely woman
was 'born in a merry hour' it was Ellen Terry, for she can scarcely be
serious for an hour together, and is never happier than when she is
playing some practical joke on her more serious companions.
"And who, whilst life lasts, can ever forget how the actress in the
character of Beatrice, one of the most enchanting personations of my
time, one of the most exquisite realisations of a Shakespearean heroine
that any of us have ever seen, spoke those words, 'No sure, my lord, my
mother cried; but then there was a star danced, and under that I was
born.' Why, it was not Beatrice, but Ellen Terry, personated by Ellen
Terry. It was a revelation. The other quotation from the same play,
'Much Ado about Nothing,' is Hero's description of her cousin Beatrice,
which is simply Ellen Terry in action.
'For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs
Close by the ground, to hear our conference.'
"Is not this an exact description of the Ellen Terry movement which
others so ludicrously attempt to imitate? She does not run off the
stage, or skip up the steps of an Italian garden. She simply floats
seemingly on the air. A more exquisitely graceful movement has never
been seen from any other actress. But Shakespeare has hit it. She like
'a lapwing runs close by the ground.' It is the skimming of a bird in
the air. Ellen Terry did that lapwing run to perfection when she was
sent to invite Benedick to dinner, and left him with the famous chaffing
rejoinder--
'You have no stomach, signior; fare you well.'
"And up the marble steps ran the lapwing."
How true this is, all who have been fortunate enough to witness Ellen
Terry's bewitching impersonation of Beatrice, will acknowledge. It was a
faultless performance, and, as we all know, Henry Irving was equally
happy as Benedick. I need not say more. "Much Ado about Nothing" was
acted two hundred and twelve times, and might have continued to run, but
the day came when the Lyceum company had to think seriously of their
departure on their first American tour. With this in view the piece was
withdrawn, and all the plays in the now rich repertory were carefully
revived. On July 15, 1883, at a benefit performance, Ellen Terry played
the small part of Clementine in "Robert Macaire," to the Macaire of
Henry Irving, and the Jacques Strop of J. L. Toole. The part was, of
course, beneath her notice, but she undertook it in a good cause, and
her performance must be recorded in these pages. Irving has always
regarded the character of Macaire with affection, and certainly he
depicts the devil-may-care and by no means unamusing robber in
effectively lurid tints. The piece, however, belongs to a bygone age,
and is only interesting to those who, while seeing it, can conjure up
the past.
[Illustration: _Photograph by_
[_Window & Grove._
ELLEN TERRY AS "BEATRICE."
_Lyceum, 1882_: "_There was a star danced, and under that I was born._"
[_To face page 250._
]
In October 1883 the whole company sailed for New York, leaving a great
gap in the English theatrical world. I wonder if they quite realised how
much they would be missed? I have always found it difficult to make
popular actors understand how fervently they are loved, and of what
value their presence is to those who love them.