AT THE LYCEUM THEATRE--1884-1901
In 1884, flushed with their triumphant American victories, Henry Irving,
Ellen Terry, and their faithful followers returned to the Lyceum. They
commenced operations with a reproduction of "Much Ado about Nothing,"
but this soon gave way to a long promised revival of "Twelfth Night."
This had given rise to many pleasant expectations. It was confidently
thought that the character of Malvolio would fit Irving like a glove,
and it was certain that in Ellen Terry we should find the sweetest of
Violas.
In the usual beautiful, tasteful, and costly style attendant upon a
Lyceum production, the piece was staged on July 8, and why it failed to
please the audience is a mystery that remains unsolved. It is ridiculous
to plead that it was a very hot night, and that the packed house,
through being uncomfortably warm, became unruly and offensive. We expect
hot weather in July, and those who object to the interior of a theatre
under such conditions generally stay away. Probably, if there is any
explanation of the matter beyond the blatant vulgarity of a
disreputable gang of foul first-nighters, it is that "Twelfth Night,"
not having been played for a long time in London, was as Greek to the
ignorant in the house, and was not understood. Be all this as it may, so
much low behaviour greeted the actor-manager on the fall of the curtain
that he sharply rebuked the coarse-minded malcontents, saying, "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 of plays, can have given any cause for dissatisfaction."
Opinions differ as to these after-curtain-fall demonstrations on the
part of disappointed actors. Probably they had better be omitted, but we
all understand that human nature has its limits of endurance. The
annoyed actor is provoked in the heat of a miserable moment to reprove
insulting audiences, and one cannot wholly wonder at it. A writer who,
in cold blood, challenges his adverse critics is very foolish indeed,
for he not only advertises the fact that he has had a whipping, but has
smarted under it. Those who in any way choose to come before the public
challenge criticism. It cannot be all honey, and if an occasional dose
of vinegar is unpalatable to them they had better retire into their
shells. But there was little or no excuse for the rowdies who ridiculed
the Lyceum production of "Twelfth Night."
No doubt the play was in some respects unfortunately cast. The Sir Toby
Belch, the Sir Andrew Aguecheek, the Clown, and the Maria, missed the
humour of their practical joking, and this greatly handicapped Henry
Irving, who had elected to play Malvolio from a somewhat serious point
of view.
After putting the question "Is it a good part?" _Mr. Punch_ said of his
performance: "Good enough in its proper place in the piece, no doubt,
but when emphasised, developed, and elevated by an eminent tragedian
holding such a position as does the manager of the Lyceum, to a height
of tragic melodrama, then Malvolio is no longer the middle-aged,
conceited, puritanical donkey who is a fair butt for the malicious
waiting-maid, two stupid sots, and a professional fool, but he becomes
at once a grave and reverend signior, a Grand Duchess's trusted
major-domo, faithfully discharging the duties of which he has an
exaggerated opinion, and the very last person to be the subject of an
idiotic practical joke, the stupidity of which is intensified by its
wanton cruelty. And in the end he gains the public sympathy for his
sufferings, just as Shylock does."
Whether Henry Irving meant his audiences to sympathise with Malvolio
is more than I can say. It was certainly very instructive, as well as
very enjoyable, to see the part played from that point of view.
[Illustration: _Photograph by_
[_Window & Grove._
ELLEN TERRY AS "VIOLA."
_First played by her at the Lyceum, July 8, 1884._
[_To face page 254._
]
But however critics might differ with regard to individual performances
in this unappreciated production, concerning Ellen Terry's Viola there
was but one opinion. It was simply charming, being at once full of fun
and vivacity, and clothed with modesty. The performance ranked with her
best Shakespearean impersonations, and it is a thousand pities that it
was not seen oftener. It is interesting to note that the part of Viola's
brother and counterpart, Sebastian, was played by Ellen Terry's brother,
Fred Terry, who was then in the early days of his successful career. The
likeness, both in face, expression, and manner between the two was
remarkable, and the episode of their thus acting together was very
pleasing.
In 1885, after another prosperous tour in America, W. G. Wills' stage
version of "The Vicar of Wakefield" was revived, Ellen Terry now playing
her famous character of Olivia to the Dr. Primrose of Henry Irving. She
repeated her former triumph, and, as the dear old country parson, he was
most happily placed. Since then, the delightful play has taken a
permanent and honoured place in the Lyceum repertory.
In the December of this year, W. G. Wills' adaptation of "Faust" was
staged. Of course I cannot dwell on the splendours of this production.
At the time some of the professed students of Goethe were prone to run
it down, declaring (generally without seeing a representation of it)
that the poem had been turned into a pantomime. These quidnuncs did not
know the necessities of the three hours' traffic of the stage. In spite
of them the striking and artistic acting version of a Titanic work drew
the public, and, as a matter of fact, Henry Irving's enterprise induced
more people to read Goethe than had ever been known. To thousands a
closed book had been opened.
"Faust" had a prolonged run, and how much this was due to the
captivating Margaret of Ellen Terry, Henry Irving (who seemed to revel
in the part of Mephistopheles) would be the first to admit. It was
indeed a performance replete with pathos and poetry, and she alone gave
the indispensable feminine interest to a great work destined to hold its
place upon the stage, and in the minds of all earnest playgoers and
students of the drama.
It was in 1885 that Charles Kelly died, leaving his widow with her two
children, who, under the names of Ailsa Craig and Gordon Craig, have
already done excellent work upon the stage and in other branches of
art.
With such a lasting success as this on hand, with a rich repertory to
fall back upon, and American tours to interfere with London work, new
productions at the Lyceum now become few and far between.
In 1886, Irving revived one of his favourite old farces, "Raising the
Wind." It was a treat to see him once more enjoying his ingeniously and
comically conceived interpretation of Jeremy Diddler, but the character
of Peggy offered no real opportunity to Ellen Terry. She made a sweet
picture, and it was good-natured of her to act in such a piece, and that
is all that can be said. But it gives an opportunity of noting how truly
great artists are always willing to play small parts. It is only the
self-sufficient semi-amateur who must be Hamlet or nothing. "I love to
be a _useful_ actress," is Ellen Terry's constant cry.
On July I, 1887, at a benefit performance generously given on behalf of
Dr. Westland Marston, Byron's "Werner" was performed, Henry Irving
playing the gloomy hero to the Josephine of Ellen Terry. It was an
interesting experiment, but, although immense pains were taken over the
production, it was not repeated.
Werner had been a favourite part with Macready, and I can never think of
the piece without recalling an anecdote that was told me by another
veteran actor of the old school--Henry Loraine. Loraine and a brother
tragedian had had a difference of opinion concerning the "gouts" of
blood mentioned in "Macbeth"--in the famous dagger soliloquy--
"I see thee still;
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before."
Was the correct pronunciation of "gout" as here used the same as the
dread malady "gout" from which so many of us suffer? That was the
dispute--concerning it a small wager was made--and it was determined
that the great Macready should be the referee. In his declining days,
and a ripe old age, Macready was then living in peaceful retirement at
Cheltenham, and Loraine, who had been an old comrade of his, called upon
him. He was admitted, but he found the once vigorous man sadly ill and
weak. He was lying back in an arm-chair wistfully gazing at the virile
portrait of himself as Werner that has been made familiar to the public
by the print-sellers. On hearing this friend's name, the old actor
endeavoured to rouse himself, and, being asked the momentous question as
to the "gouts," said with animation: "Of course it is as _I_ always
pronounced it,'goots'--it rhymes with 'roots,'--it rhymes with 'roots.'"
And then he seemed to forget his friend's presence, and, as it were,
fading away, fell back in his chair, and, with a deep sigh, resumed his
contemplation of the once active Werner.
In 1887 the opportunity for a new "creation" occurred, and it is
interesting to see how Ellen Terry availed herself of it. To my friend
Alfred C. Calmour I am indebted for the history of his graceful poetical
play "The Amber Heart."
In common with all plays "The Amber Heart" had its vicissitudes. Indeed,
it would be an interesting thing to write a history of successful plays,
and the anxieties of their authors before they were safely landed for
gratifying production. How many pieces have lain neglected for years
until some chance coming in their way disclosed their merit!
But the troubles of "The Amber Heart" were neither many nor keen.
Written in 1886, the piece was read first of all to Mary Anderson, who,
then in the zenith of her invincible popularity, was playing at the
Lyceum. It was at the suggestion of the ill-fated William Terriss that
the author submitted it to this charming and accomplished lady. Having
heard the play, she was most enthusiastic about it. "Lovely! lovely!"
she repeated after the author had read it; "if it can only be produced I
am sure we shall have a success." But that season's arrangements having
already been fixed gave no chance for it. It was then suggested to
Ellen Terry, for whom, indeed, it had originally been written, but who
so far had been unable to consider it because of her existing
engagements. However, in reply to the author's final question as to
whether she could seriously entertain it, she telegraphed, "Yes, with
pleasure, to-day at twelve." This was January 6, 1887. The author read
the play to her, and she, too, was most enthusiastic. "I'll do it, I'll
do it!" she exclaimed; "I've longed for such a part." The difficulty, of
course, was how to get it done. Ellen Terry was then playing Margaret in
"Faust," and rehearsing other plays besides, and, of course, she was
pledged to the arrangements of Henry Irving. At length it was decided
that it should be produced at the Haymarket Theatre on May 7th for a
matinee. The theatre was arranged for, and the date advertised, when the
already too busy actress found that she could not fulfil her promise
until a month later. This, of course (and naturally to the intense
disappointment of the author), unsettled everything. The following month
the Haymarket passed into new managerial hands, and so the piece could
not be done there. Then, following his invariable custom, Henry Irving
generously stepped into the breach, and offered his friend, the
dramatist, the free use of the Lyceum for the production. That
difficulty was, at length, satisfactorily settled, but the casting of
the piece was not easily effected. The casting of plays for tentative
performances seldom is. Ultimately, and after an infinity of trouble, he
had good cause to congratulate himself. Ellen Terry, E. S. Willard, and
Beerbohm Tree! Never before, and never since, have this talented trio
appeared together, and the minor parts were played by excellent actors
and actresses. "If I were to write volumes," says my friend, "I could
not say how hard Miss Terry worked to make the piece a success. Her
whole soul was thrown into it." At the rehearsals her enthusiasm fired
her companions. Everything was done most lovingly, and on the eventful
afternoon, June 7, 1887, an audience assembled at the Lyceum which was
almost as unique as the cast of the play. Mrs. Keeley represented the
older generation of actresses, and Miss Mary Moore the younger, and
many, like Ada Cavendish, David James, and William Terriss, who have
since passed away, were present.
Before the curtain went up his heroine wrote to the dramatist:--
"You will have a great success, I hope and pray. I believe in this, and
nobody will be so glad then as your sincere friend, Ellen Terry."
After the first act (which had gone splendidly) he went behind the
scenes. "Oh, dear, dear! how bad I am!" she said, suffering (quite
unnecessarily) from her usual "first performance" misgivings. "My
tongue is parched, and I can't get a smile out of the part." She was
terribly anxious to make a great success for her author.
At the end of the second act, which was received with rare enthusiasm,
he again saw her. She was crying, for she was still "Ellaline"--the
heart-broken maiden, whose lover had tired of her. After a while she
smiled through her tears, and said, "I think I was a little better in
that act." Her modest appreciation of what was acknowledged to be a
noble dramatic achievement showed the true nature of the woman. The
effect on the audience in the parting scene at the end of this act was
greater than written description can convey. Mrs. Keeley declared that,
with all her experience, she had never witnessed anything so fine, and
she afterwards wrote to the author: "I am glad to have lived to see such
grand acting as Miss Terry's was yesterday afternoon."
Then Ellen Terry wrote to him: "I hope you are pleased. I am so sorry
about one thing yesterday. From nervousness my acting of the first act
was strained and artificial, and I confess that I entirely ruined and
_missed_ your first beautiful soliloquy in the second act! I am _truly_
sorry! I know that you are a good creature, and view all my efforts from
the point of view of my _intentions_ since I succeeded better in some
bits. Although I may never play the part again, I never will cease to
love the play for its own sake, and to regard and esteem my friend who
wrote it--_for me_--I do believe."
[Illustration: _Photography by_
[_Window & Grove._
ELLEN TERRY AS "ELLALINE."
_In Alfred C. Calmont's Poetical Fancy, "The Amber Heart." Lyceum, June
7, 1887._
[_To face page 262._
]
Poor self-tormenting lady! From first to last she had played the part to
perfection--and every one but herself knew it. However, in that charming
letter, so characteristic of her modesty, she unwittingly endowed the
author with one of his most esteemed possessions.
He was indeed to be envied! Henry Irving wrote to him: "Yesterday was a
veritable triumph for you and Miss Terry. Her performance was a lovely,
never-to-be-forgotten thing--beautiful in conception and perfect in
execution." So delighted was he with her success in this original
character that he purchased the play and made her a present of it. When
it is remembered that he took no part in the victory it will be
understood that he is not a selfish actor.
This was doubly proved when in the following year (1888) the piece was
staged for a run in the evening bill, with Hermann Vezin and George
Alexander in the cast. It was again well received, and ran through a
season. Sir Edward Burne-Jones wrote of it:--
"I went to the Lyceum Theatre yesterday for the third time to see your
beautiful poetic fairy play. It is a most inspiring work to a
painter--and Miss Terry's performance a revelation of loveliness. It is
not acting--it is a glimpse into Nature itself. Is there any one like
her? I think not. I had not been in a theatre for twenty years before I
went to see 'The Amber Heart.'"
Lord Leighton wrote--"Beautiful!--beautiful! Acting and play beautiful!
A sweet and abiding memory."
In America the play was received with the same enthusiasm. Miss Terry
wrote as follows after its production in New York: "'The Amber Heart'
went splendidly. It made a distinct sensation, and I wish you had been
there. The people simply love it--just as they did at home."
Ellen Terry's next task was in some ways the most difficult she has been
called upon to undertake. When it was known that she was to appear as
Lady Macbeth, those (and they were in an overwhelming majority) who
associated the character with the majestic, awe-inspiring methods of
Mrs. Siddons, and who, going back to the Garrick period, recalled a
formidable-looking picture of Mrs. Yates as the Thane's wife with
forbidding hooped skirts and a dagger remorselessly clutched in each
determined hand, shook their heads, and anticipated failure. How could
the graceful, gracious, tender-eyed, sweet-voiced, gentle Ellen Terry
grasp such a part as this? Stage tradition had claimed Lady Macbeth for
its own, and very few playgoers reflected that, as a matter of fact, it
would be more likely that Macbeth would be persuaded by a beautiful and
fascinating wife than he would be commanded by a cold and imperious one.
To fight against these firmly fixed ideas was a most formidable
undertaking, but, anxious though she must have been, Ellen Terry went to
work with a brave heart.
On November 6, 1888, she wrote (from Margate) to her friend, Alfred C.
Calmour:--
"My holiday is nearly over, and somehow I wish it was just going to
begin! However, I feel pretty content. Since I last saw you I have been
N., S., E., and W. I have seen _very few_ people, and I have been
absorbed by Lady Mac, who is _quite unlike_ her portrait by Mrs.
Siddons! She is _most feminine_, and altogether, now that I have come to
_know the lady well_, I think the _portrait is much the grander of the
two_! But I mean to try at a true _likeness_, as it is more within my
means. Like a good friend, send on the notes you spoke of--the notes on
Macbeth. I'm staying here to get away from people and to be quiet, but I
shall come up for your play, 'Widow Winsome,' if you do it on the 15th.
I'm _so_ glad you'll have a good cast. Katie Rorke is _quite_ the best
of our young ones."
Kate Rorke, it will be remembered, commenced her stage career at the
Court Theatre when Ellen Terry was in the first flush of her success as
Olivia.
This clearly shows that she was intent on giving her own original
reading of Lady Macbeth.
Clement Scott has recorded a very interesting conversation that took
place between them after the production. In the course of it she said:--
"Although I know I cannot do what I want to do in this part, I don't
even _want_ to be a 'fiend,' and I _can't_ believe for a moment that
Lady Macbeth did _conceive_ that murder--that _one_ murder. Most women
break the law during their lives; few women realise the consequences of
what they do to-day.... I do believe that at the end of that banquet,
that poor wretched creature was brought through agony and sin to
repentance, and was forgiven. Surely she called the spirits to be made
bad, because she knew she was not so very bad?"
And in response to the inquiry--"But was Lady Macbeth good?" she said:--
"No, she was not good, but not so much worse than many women you
know.... Was it not nice of an actress--she sent me Mrs. Siddons' shoes!
not to wear, but to keep. I wish I could have stood in 'em! She played
Lady Macbeth--_her_ Lady Macbeth, not Shakespeare's; and if I _could_ I
would have done hers, for Shakespeare's Lady Macbeth was a fool to it.
But, at the same time, I don't think I'd even care to try to imitate her
imitators.... I wish I could have seen Helen Faucit in the part. I do
believe she was the rightest, although not to be looked at by the side
of the Siddons portrait as a single effective figure."
Now all this goes to prove that though Ellen Terry believed that the
"Siddons" view of the character was the most effective from the
theatrical point of view, she was not what Shakespeare meant, and that
she had resolutely determined to give it her own reading.
On the 29th of December 1888, the tragedy was performed before a
crowded, distinguished, and excited audience. What a picture Ellen Terry
looked in her queenly and exquisitely-designed robes and her long plaits
of squirrel-coloured hair! One could understand a man doing anything at
the bidding of such a lovely, commanding, yet withal winsome creature.
This made her influence over Macbeth very easy of comprehension, and, so
far, a great point was gained; but I remember thinking that night that
the new Lady Macbeth seemed, as the play advanced, to become an
encumbrance rather than a support to her husband, and that she left him
to fight his losing battle alone. She seemed to content herself with
presenting an attractive, affectionate, and devoted wife, who could rule
her husband at will, and encouraged him in his crimes because she
thought they would advance his ambition. Despite her collusion in the
series of cruel murders that were designed to clear the Thane of
Cawdor's way to the throne, she was always feminine, and far sooner
than he, she collapsed under the weight of their mutual guilt.
That the impersonation proved singularly attractive is beyond all doubt,
and it was well summed up in the words:--
"Miss Terry's Lady Macbeth filled every one 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."
Indeed, we were all heart and soul with Henry Irving, when, at the fall
of the curtain, and in response to ringing cheers, he said:--
"Our dear friend, Ellen Terry, in appearing as Lady Macbeth for the
first time, has undertaken, as you may suppose, a desperate task, but I
think no true lover of art could have witnessed it without being deeply
interested, and without a desire to witness it again."
He was right: his and her admirers came over and over again, and
"Macbeth" was not withdrawn until June 29, 1889.
In the April of 1889 a very interesting event took place. Having
received the royal command, Henry Irving, Ellen Terry, and the Lyceum
Company appeared before Her Majesty Queen Victoria, the Prince and
Princess of Wales, and many other members of the Royal Family, at what
was for the nonce dubbed the "Theatre Royal, Sandringham." For the
occasion the ballroom had been converted into a miniature Lyceum, the
proscenium and act-drop of the theatre having been produced on a smaller
scale. The following was the programme:--
V.R.
THEATRE ROYAL, SANDRINGHAM.
Royal Entertainment. By command of their Royal Highnesses the
Prince and Princess of Wales, before Her Majesty the Queen.
_On Friday Evening, April 26th, 1889._
"THE BELLS."
A drama in three acts from the "Juif Polonais" of MM.
Erckmann--Chatrian.
Mathias Mr Henry Irving
Walter Mr Howe
Hans Mr Johnson
Christian Mr Alexander
Dr Zimmer Mr Haviland
Notary Mr Coveney
President of the Court Mr Tyars
Mesmerist Mr Archer
Catherine Mrs Pauncefort
Sozel Miss Linden
Annette Miss Coleridge
ALSACE, 1833.
After which the Trial Scene from
"THE MERCHANT OF VENICE."
Shylock Mr Henry Irving
Duke of Venice Mr Howe
Antonio Mr Wenman
Bassanio Mr Alexander
Salarino Mr Harvey
Gratiano Mr Tyars
Clerk of Court Mr Coveney
Nerissa Miss Linden
Portia Miss Ellen Terry
Director, Mr Irving; Assistant Director, Mr Loveday; Musical
Director, Mr Ball.
The Scenery painted by Mr Hawes Craven; the Act-drop painted by Mr
Hann.
GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.
After the performance, Henry Irving and Ellen Terry had the honour of
being presented to Queen Victoria, who expressed herself with enthusiasm
as to their respective impersonations. Subsequently, through the Prince
of Wales, her Majesty presented the great actor with a pair of handsome
diamond and gold sleeve-links, and the reigning Portia with a brooch, as
beautiful as it was costly.
In her next Lyceum part, that of Catherine Duval, in the revival of
Watts Phillips's stirring French Revolution drama, "The Dead Heart"
(Sept. 28, 1889), Ellen Terry did all she had to do with her usual
taste, and evinced much pathos; but the character afforded her no really
great chance. The occasion was, however, a very interesting one, for
Gordon Craig (Edward Wardell, who had made his first appearance on the
stage in America as the boy Joey, in "The Fate of Eugene Aram") played
with great skill the part of Arthur, the handsome son of Catherine,
after she had become the wife of the Count de St. Valery. It was
pleasant to see the mother and son thus playing together, though looking
at her it seemed almost impossible that the relationship could exist.
Indeed, one writer was induced to predict that the situation would in
due course be reversed, and that Ellen Terry, "blessed with perennial
youth and undecaying beauty, will successfully portray a character, in
some happily-chosen drama, in which she will pose as the daughter of her
own son."
On the 20th September 1890, Henry Irving produced Hermann Merivale's
stage-version of Scott's great story, "The Bride of Lammermoor,"
entitled "Ravenswood," in which he played the ill-fated Edgar, and she
was the Lucy Ashton. Here again, it seemed to me, that her opportunities
were few and far between, though, of course, she seized and made the
most of them whenever they came in her way, and thus wove wonders out of
rather scant material. In her picturesque costumes she looked most
charming, and she has told me that she "dearly loved" the part.
In the next production, the famous revival of "Henry VIII.," in which as
far as scenery, costumes, and general splendour were concerned, the
Lyceum manager excelled himself, the actress made a veritable _tour de
force_. Her Queen Katherine was, as Percy Fitzgerald truly said, an
_astonishing_ performance, and took even her greatest admirers by
surprise. She made the same gigantic effort as she did with Lady Macbeth
to interpret a vast character, and one that might well have seemed
beyond her strength. It did not aim at being the _great_ Queen Katherine
of Sarah Siddons. As in the former instance, Ellen Terry founded her
conception on different lines, and acted up to her own ideas with
marvellous truth and effect. We believed in, and sympathised with, this
earnest and tender-hearted woman, and hated those who persecuted her and
hunted her down. She could, and did show irritation, indignation, and
hot anger, but beneath it all she let us see the woman's heart, and we
knew that it was wrongly and cruelly lacerated. Her victory over those
who had pinned their faith on the Siddons reading of the character was
complete, and, considering the great difficulties that lay in her path,
it was a great one. The pathetic resignation of her death-scene was a
piece of beautiful acting ever to be remembered.
Among the dainty gentlewomen attendant upon this heart-touching Queen
Katherine was a charming young lady, who figured in the play-bills as
Ailsa Craig. This was Ellen Terry's daughter and inseparable companion,
Edith Wardell.
From Queen Katherine to Cordelia is a very far cry, and yet when she
felt it to be her duty to undertake the difficult task Ellen Terry did
not shirk her responsibility to her manager. It is true, that with the
modesty that always goes hand in hand with true genius, she said that
she would like to resign the character of King Lear's favourite child to
a younger actress, and volunteered to appear in the character of the
Fool. That would have been such a bewitching interpretation of one of
Shakespeare's most carefully etched characters that it seems a pity it
was lost to us; but Henry Irving was right in his judgment. He had
determined that his audiences should see Ellen Terry as Cordelia; they
saw her, and rejoiced in a new and striking triumph.
[Illustration: _Photography by_
_W. & D. Downey._
SIR HENRY IRVING AS "CARDINAL WOLSEY."
_In "Henry VIII." in the Lyceum revival of 1892._
[_To face page 272._
]
How vividly I recall that anxious first night of November 10, 1892.
First impressions are generally the best, and therefore I do not
hesitate to repeat what I wrote in the early hours of the succeeding
November 11:--
"In penning these lines it is not so much my intention to enter into
critical judgment on our leading actor's rendering of the most noble and
exacting of Shakespearean characters, but rather to give my readers some
description of one of the most notable 'first nights' of the modern
stage. Under the Irving sway all first nights are important, but this
one was especially so, for to the present generation of theatre-goers
'King Lear' is, from an acting point of view, practically an unknown
play. There can be few amongst us now who can recall Macready's revival
of 1838, that of Phelps in 1845, or Charles Kean's elaborate production
of 1858--of which it was said that 'he had equalled his Hamlet and Louis
the Eleventh.' That is exactly what every one hoped Henry Irving would
do. More he could not do. Edwin Booth played Lear for a few nights at
the Princess's in 1881--and it has, fitfully, been seen in the
provinces, but to all intents and purposes the tragedy has for many
years been laid on the shelf. What was Irving going to do with it? That
was the question asked by every one in the house last night, and if his
performance is to be judged by the tumultuous applause that greeted his
first entrance, that followed him throughout the play, and that called
and recalled him at the end of each act, he had done well indeed. And
what a house it was! My comfortable and easily arrived at seat happened
to be in the last row of the stalls, and consequently I overheard the
conversation of the front rows of the pit--which has been rightly called
the mouth through which the final verdict of the house is given. Here
were any number of ladies who, bringing books, refreshments, and
camp-stools with them, had patiently waited for five hours in the pit
entrance of the theatre during a foggy and comfortless November
afternoon in order to obtain good seats, and who spoke not only
cheerfully, but even boastfully, of their experiences! Such a tribute to
the popularity of the actor is surely noteworthy. It mattered nothing to
them that the fog got into the theatre and set them coughing, that their
camp-stools were sadly in their way, that the play was a long one, and
some of the 'waits' were tedious. Eleven o'clock arrived, and there was
still an act to be played, but their allegiance was as unshaken as their
applause was undiminished. With such a loyal following as this, Henry
Irving has no cause to fear a rival. The upper parts of the house were
packed. Every available seat in circles and gallery was occupied, and
the private boxes can only be described as 'boiling over.' But the
fifteen rows of densely thronged stalls formed the centre of attraction.
From the first it was noticeable that the house was almost as much
interested in the house as in the play. Men stood up to see and be seen,
and opera-glasses were as plentiful as blackberries in October. The
eager pittites exchanged surmises and certainties with regard to
celebrities--and, probably unconscious of the interest they were
arousing, celebrities displayed themselves to the best possible
advantage, and exchanged greetings with brother and sister celebrities.
To give the names of those present would be to quote the very pick of
the literary, artistic, scientific, and aristocratic world. That the
critics, reporters, and artists were there in full force, goes without
saying, and most of them seemed busy, some taking notes of the
performance on the stage, others jotting down the names of the lions
among the audience, and many making lightning-like sketches of those
present, both on the stage and in the auditorium. But, after all, 'the
play's the thing,' and it may be briefly said that this was followed
with unflagging interest, and listened to with breathless silence. By
the time this appears in print[3] those who are interested in things
theatrical will have had an opportunity of reading the critical verdict
of our leading dramatic censors on Henry Irving's Lear, and Ellen
Terry's Cordelia. Whatever the ultimate popularity of these
impersonations may be, there was but one opinion in the crowded and
brilliant audience of last night. The people seemed never tired of
cheering, and late though the hour was when the curtain fell, no one
moved until Henry Irving, who throughout the evening looked 'every inch
a king,' was compelled to give utterance to a few well-chosen words of
heartfelt thanks. His first night of 'Lear,' he said, would be one of
the happiest of his memories. A pleasant feature of the evening was the
right loyal welcome given to Henry Howe, who, now playing the old man,
tenant to Gloster, was the King of France in the Macready revival of
fifty-five years ago."
Ellen Terry has told me that it was one of the most nervous and anxious
first nights she had experienced, and it might well be so, for the
task of all concerned in this great production was a heavy one.
But though critical opinion differed as to some points in the
representation--though sapient playgoers shook their heads, and,
quoting Charles Lamb, declared that "King Lear" should never be acted,
there was no argument as to the merits of the new Cordelia. Her maidenly
simplicity and delicately expressed, though manifestly intense, love for
her father touched the right chord, and once more she won all our
hearts. Her initial popularity in the character continued throughout the
long and, I believe, unprecedented run of the play.
No wonder that Ellen Terry is fond of saying that she is a "useful"
actress to her manager. That, she declares, has always been her desire,
and while under an engagement she considers it her duty to play any part
that is offered to her and to do her best with it. Though she will not
say so, I believe I am right in feeling that she is justifiably proud of
having, in quick succession, succeeded in such widely divergent
Shakespearean characters as the imperious Queen Katherine (a part in
which I am inclined to think she actually satisfied that fastidious
critic--_herself_) and the gentle Cordelia.
And here let me emphasise the fact that she repudiates the suggestion
that it was her ambition to play Lady Macbeth. She had no desire for the
part, but when called upon to take it she did not shirk the task.
Her next original impersonation was that of Fair Rosamund in Lord
Tennyson's beautiful play, "Becket," which was brought out at the Lyceum
on February 6, 1893. It did not tax her strength very much, but no one
who witnessed the impersonation will forget its exquisite tenderness or
her perfect delivery of such lines as--
"Rainbow, stay,
Gleam upon gloom,
Bright as my dream,
Rainbow, stay!
But it passes away,
Gloom upon gleam,
Dark as my doom--
O rainbow, stay."
It is a delightful thing to read Tennyson. To hear his words interpreted
by Ellen Terry is a revelation.
In connection with "Becket," I have another little story to tell
indicative of my heroine's never-ending unselfishness. Geneviève Ward,
who, it will be remembered, played most magnificently as Queen Eleanor,
has told me how, in that strong and stormy scene between the jealous
Queen and the luckless Rosamund, the stage moon was wont to show a
little undue favouritism towards the fair denizen of the bower, flooding
her with radiance and leaving her vindictive visitor in comparative
obscurity. "This," to quote my friend's own words, "hurt Ellen Terry's
sense of justice, and more than once she has turned her back upon the
audience, and gently rebuked the too partial moon by a tragic line
thrown into the wings--'Take it off me and turn it on Miss Ward.'" Such
anecdotes could be told by all the artists who have appeared with her,
but this one will suffice.
Against this I may tell a counter story. Amongst Ellen Terry's treasures
there is a ring that was given to her by Geneviève Ward. When she shows
it to her friends, she says, "Queen Eleanor, you see, is not at all
vindictive to Rosamund off the stage."
When "Becket" had run its course, and pending another great production,
some revivals were given. Amongst them was Charles Reade's one-act
play--"Nance Oldfield." Most of us know the pretty, imaginative story as
related by Ellen Terry's early friend and mentor, Charles Reade.
Mistress Nance Oldfield, it will be remembered, was one of the earliest
and most popular of English actresses. She made her first appearance in
1699, and was the darling of the stage until she died in 1730, and, with
nobles supporting her pall, was laid to rest in Westminster Abbey.
History records of her that she was not only an admirable actress, but a
good and charitable woman, and it is from this pleasant point of view
that Charles Reade has limned her in his dainty little cabinet picture.
In his play her mission is to cure the love that a romantic young man
has conceived for her through seeing her on the stage. How, in order to
do this, she converts herself from the most charming of women into a
veritable "tom-boyish" hoyden, is known to all who delight in the
graceful and consummate art of Ellen Terry. When she is playing this
part, her vivacity and high spirits seem to know no bounds, but her
winsomeness always fascinates her audiences. The little piece is ever
followed with intense interest mingled with much laughter, and the only
regret is that it comes to an all too early end. It lives and will live
as long as Ellen Terry chooses to play it. By the way, it is on record
that a descendant of the original Mistress Oldfield has said, "Anne
Oldfield herself could not have played the character better." The part
has also been admirably handled by Geneviève Ward.
Later on, at a special performance at Daly's Theatre, Ellen Terry
appeared in a short piece by George Moore and "John Oliver Hobbes,"
entitled "Journeys End in Lovers Meeting." It was very interesting; but
the little candle soon flickered out, and the experiment only calls for
passing record.
No doubt, before, and certainly ever since, the days of Sir Thomas
Malory and the printing by Caxton of "Morte d'Arthur," the Arthurian
legends have had a fascination for English-thinking folk. The
publication of Tennyson's immortal "Idylls of the King" added a new zest
to the glorious old romances, and great delight was expressed when it
was announced that Henry Irving and Ellen Terry were to appear as the
blameless King and his beautiful Queen in a stage version of the
familiar, pathetic, and very human legend of Arthur, Guinevere, and
Lancelot. The project had often been mooted, and several leading
dramatists had been named as likely to be entrusted with the important
and difficult work, but at last the choice fell on Comyns Carr, and
right well he performed his task, writing in fluent blank verse, and
telling his story in the true dramatic way.
The play was produced on January 12, 1895, and made a profound
impression. The beauty of the scenery designed by Sir Edward
Burne-Jones, and the melody of the music that had been composed by Sir
Arthur Sullivan, added much to the reality of a presentment which, in
its way, was one of the most captivating things ever seen on the stage.
No doubt the production surpassed everything that had gone before it in
the splendour of its setting, and its effect upon critical audiences. In
this connection it was truly pointed out that it said much for the power
of the principal performers that their art was not overwhelmed by the
magnificence of its surroundings. Their triumph as artists was only the
greater because it was won under circumstances that were really adverse
to the actor. The tendency of these magnificently staged plays is
undoubtedly to make the individual performer wither, as the composition
in its entirety of scenery, grouping, and accessories grows more and
more.
A fault that some playgoers found with "King Arthur" was that it
afforded few acting opportunities to Henry Irving. The character of the
spotless consort of Guinevere, who stands out so nobly in the legends
and idylls, somehow seemed unsympathetic when seen upon the stage. Is
it, I wonder, that mixed audiences follow the all-seeing Shakespeare
when he said, "They say best men are moulded out of faults, and, for the
most, become much more the better for being a little bad?" In one of his
clever plays Sydney Grundy goes so far as to suggest that such a very
good man as King Arthur might be to an ordinary human being "a little
difficult to live with." If such be the case, abundant pardon should be
meted out to the erring Guinevere. As for Ellen Terry as Guinevere she
not only looked a perfect picture, but made the most of every line
allotted to her in one of the most touching and pathetic characters that
(outside Shakespeare) she has been called upon to play. Mention of
this production would not be complete without record of the splendid
acting of Johnston Forbes Robertson as Lancelot--and the striking effect
made by Geneviève Ward as Morgan le Fay.
[Illustration: _Photograph by_
[_Window & Grove._
ELLEN TERRY AS "QUEEN GUINEVERE."
_In Comyns Carr's drama "King Arthur," Lyceum, 1895._
[_To face page 282._
]
I cannot think that "King Arthur" lived as long as it should have done,
but I fear it came at a time when frivolous playgoers were so absorbed
in the dresses and doings of the Giggling Girl--the Gurgling Girl--the
Gargling Girl--or whatever that volatile and versatile young lady was
for the moment presenting, that they could not do much homage to Sir
Thomas Malory, Lord Tennyson, Sir Edward Burne-Jones, Sir Arthur
Sullivan, and Sir Henry Irving--for it was at this period that our great
actor-manager was honoured with his well-won knighthood.
In the early autumn of 1896 a new Shakespearean prize was offered to
Ellen Terry, and she eagerly seized upon and materially profited by it.
Contenting himself with the unsympathetic part of Iachimo (how admirably
he played it!), Henry Irving resolved to revive the far too seldom seen
"Cymbeline," and of course the ideal Imogen was at hand. "I love the
part!" says Ellen Terry with her infectious enthusiasm, and, loving it,
she brought it out in all its beauty and fragrance just as the
beneficent sun unfolds the petals and extracts the sweet scent of the
rose.
Agreeing as I do with every word he says on the subject, I must here
once more quote my good friend, Clement Scott:--
"Ellen Terry," he writes, "astonished dramatic students with her Imogen
on September 22, 1896. Ellen Terry's Imogen was not only a surprise--it
was a revelation. It may not satisfy the old school, but it will
certainly delight the new. It is not the reading of Helen Faucit, the
best of the Imogens remembered; it may be picked to pieces by schoolmen
and students; it was of course un-Shakespearean; but Ellen Terry's
Imogen is Ellen Terry with twenty years or more off her merry shoulders.
I can only describe Ellen Terry's Imogen as her Beatrice mingled with
her Rosalind that might have been.
"No, it was not that; it was Ellen Terry, that peculiar amalgam of
witchery, charm, and wilfulness which has baffled every critic of her
work. I shall be told that this is not Imogen; but it is Ellen Terry's
Imogen, and she held her audience in the palm of her hand. Imogen was
never played in like fashion before. The scene in which Imogen was
summoned by her dear milord to Milford Haven may not be Shakespearean,
but it was pure Ellen Terry at her best.
"She bounds about the stage like a young fawn, she kisses her hand, she
kisses her dear lord's letter, she is a wilful madcap and a romp. Is
this Imogen, the King's daughter, the serious, thoughtful Imogen of
Shakespeare? Who cares? What does it matter to the audience? It is the
Imogen of Ellen Terry, and she has undoubtedly made out a good case.
"It may be heresy to the old school to hear an actress interpolating
asides and adding remarks and breaking in upon the text with charming
gestures, but Ellen Terry does it, and every one loves her for doing it.
"So far so good for the earlier and middle scenes. There was a
hesitating period, and an Ellen Terry period; but when we got to the
Fidèle scenes then came the revelation, the touching of the heart, the
true tears. There was only one remark in the house, 'Oh, what a Rosalind
she would have made!' And many added, 'and ought to make.' Here in these
scenes we had comedy of the finest flavour, and pathos exquisitely true.
Few will forget the eminently Rosalind-like incident of the sword at the
entrance to the cave--it was the bloody 'kerchief over again--and few
indeed will fail to admire the nervous passion, the really eloquent
grief, over the supposed body of the headless Posthumus.
"The success of the Fidèle scenes nerved the actress to a fresh attack,
and in the grand reconciliation scene she played with the romance and
activity of a girl of eighteen. It was a surprising effort from first to
last; and of all the Shakespearean essays of this delightful artist,
from her own stand-point, this was assuredly the best.
"Hitherto I should have said Beatrice; but here we have Beatrice with
the pathetic touches of Rosalind superadded. Miss Terry is a model
Shakespearean boy; there is no doubt about that, and has both laughter
and tears at her winsome command.
"The loss of such a Rosalind to the stage as Ellen Terry would, and must
have been, has ever formed a subject for regret with her warmest and
most enthusiastic admirers. If ever woman lived who displayed in advance
the temperament of Rosalind, it was Ellen Terry. What affection she
would have shown for Celia; what tears would have been shed, and what
anxiety displayed for Orlando at the wrestling bout; with what
incomparable humour such a Rosalind would have started on her romantic
journey; and oh! the scenes with Orlando in the forest, the love, the
sport, the joyousness, the masquerading, and the tears, it makes one
almost sad to know and feel what we have lost in this incomparable
Rosalind."
Ellen Terry's performance in "Cymbeline" also excited the admiration of
the French critic, Augustin Filon, who, in an article in the _Débâts_,
headed "Une Grande Tragédienne," said that her Imogen prevented him from
seeing the "absurdities" of the play! Much more than that, she compelled
him to accept them. He had only to open his eyes and his ears and
Imogen was before him. Her style is marked by a simplicity which, to
inexperienced spectators, may seem the absence of art, but which, as a
matter of fact, is the perfection of art. She entirely forgets that two
thousand persons are following her movements and listening to her words.
No glance at the audience, no intonation bearing traces of study, no
obvious effort to delight! Désiré Nisand, referring to the _débuts_ of
Rachel, remarked, "This girl showed me that I had never understood
Corneille or Racine." The same might be said of Ellen Terry, that "noble
artist," in regard to Shakespeare.
Augustin Filon, it will be seen from this, has little or no patience
with those who say that Shakespeare should be read instead of seen on
the stage. He quotes the lines between Imogen and the attendant in the
bedchamber scene--
"What hour is it?"
"Almost midnight, madam."
"If thou canst wake by four o' the clock,
I prithee call me."
The French censor had not hitherto seen the significance of these words.
Ellen Terry's performance served to enlighten him. "She seemed to say,"
he records, "'Poor girl, it is not your fault if your mistress has
sorrows which deprive her of sleep. Unhappy princesses are not the only
people in the world. You need rest; get thee to bed, and if you
oversleep yourself you are already forgiven.' All this," continues the
writer, "is suggested by Ellen Terry's delivery of this simple speech."
In his interesting book on the English stage the same critic says:
"Ellen Terry has not only been an incarnation, delicate, moving,
impassioned, of Shakespeare's heroines, but has in her pure and sweet
elocution set the poet's dream to music."
Ellen Terry has, indeed, always found favour, not only with French
critics, but with her sisters and brothers of the Parisian stage.
Sarah Bernhardt has said of her: "She is perfectly delightful, and is
one of my best friends. The greatest treat I can give myself, and a
pleasure to which I can look forward for months, is to see her act. She
is as near absolute perfection as any one can be. In her, English
dramatic art has a splendid exponent."
Again she declared: "Ellen Terry and Henry Irving are perfect! I adore
them!--particularly the former. What grace, what ease! It is not acting
at all, but the real character before one's eyes. In comedy she is
unequalled, at any rate in English-speaking countries, while Henry
Irving, in certain emotional parts, it would be hard to surpass."
Coquelin aîné loves her acting--"Angélique, très sympathétique, très
tendre!" he once cried, after a glance at her through an opera-glass.
"Mais c'est charmant! Elle a des vraies larmes dans ses yeux!"
By the way, the _Saturday Review_ once instituted an interesting
comparison between Sarah Bernhardt and Ellen Terry. "The latter," the
writer said, "is to the English stage what the other is to the French.
The two actresses are superficially about as unlike as may be, and yet
their method is radically the same; or, in other words, they are both
true actresses. It must, of course, be admitted that Ellen Terry has not
yet had such opportunities of displaying her powers as have fallen to
the lot of Sarah Bernhardt; nor has she yet attained the perfection of
art which Sarah Bernhardt can, when she chooses to take the trouble,
display; but to her, as to Sarah Bernhardt, one may safely apply the
much-misused term of genius. Like Sarah Bernhardt, Ellen Terry has the
semblance of spontaneousness; and, like her, she is always identified
with every thought and habit of every character that she represents.
There is further likeness between the two, in that both are excellent
both in tragedy and comedy. It is, however, as Ophelia that Ellen Terry
has won for herself a place in the first rank of actresses."
It should be noted that this was written in 1879, long before Ellen
Terry had made her subsequent triumphs in that long list of great
characters chronicled in these pages. On April 10, 1897, Ellen Terry
was called upon to pit herself against another famous French
actress--Réjane. This was as Madame Sans-Gêne in Comyns Carr's excellent
English adaptation of Victorien Sardou and Emile Moreau's play bearing
that name. The ordeal was a trying one. It had been freely suggested and
honestly thought that the broad comedy of the character would not be
suitable to the methods of our sweet English actress. She soon put all
doubts to rest, and, in spite of great difficulties, achieved a success
that was in its way unique. Writing after the performance, William
Archer, who always weighs his words and never unduly praises, said that
Ellen Terry was "a born comedian, and throws herself with immense gusto
into this sympathetic part."
Coquelin, who was present at the first performance, and who naturally
might have been somewhat biassed in favour of his famous compatriot, was
enthusiastic. Without for a moment undervaluing the splendid performance
of Réjane, he declared that Ellen Terry had "won his heart." "She is
full of gaiety," he said, "and enters fully into the spirit of the
_rôle_. Her exquisite freshness in the laundry scene, when she
discomfits that shy conspirator, Fouché, by putting a hot hissing iron
near his cheek, and her movements in the scene of the Emperor's study,
twenty years later, when she astonishes the same Fouché, who has become
Duke of Otranto, by the brilliant schemes which she explains to him, and
which he successfully adopts, stand unsurpassed. She is natural, bright,
impulsive, and embodies the character from first to last. Sir Henry
Irving's realisation of Napoleon is--even to a professional actor--an
astonishing performance. His incarnation of the great Emperor is superb
all through the two important final acts of the play."
Coming from such a source this is indeed high praise, and really it
seems needless to add to it. Happily Ellen Terry is still playing the
part, and playing it to perfection. Truly has it been said that her
laughter is as infectious as her sympathy. The ready tear which springs
to the eye at the misfortunes of the Count de Neipperg is as spontaneous
and as moving as the victorious smile with which she drives home her
sallies against Caroline, Queen of Naples. If she misses some of that
wily petulance which belongs to Parisian gaminerie, she more than makes
amends by the downright straightforwardness, the rich flow of humour,
and the disinterested kindness which enter so largely into the
composition of Lefebvre's plebeian and lovable wife. Madame Sans-Gêne is
undoubtedly one of Ellen Terry's happiest creations.
On the first of January 1898, Laurence Irving's ambitious, interesting,
and in many respects powerful play, "Peter the Great," was produced at
the Lyceum. It was essentially "a man's play," and as the Empress
Catherine, Ellen Terry had few chances. Nevertheless she acted very
finely, and the portrait worthily fills a place in her well-stocked
gallery. She had already appeared with much success in America in a
short piece by the same author, entitled "Godefroi and Yolande." This
had a magnificent first-night reception, and she has told me how, when
the curtain fell, Henry Irving stepped forward, and in a few graceful
words thanked the applauding audience for the approval with which his
son's work had been greeted.
"The Medicine Man," the joint work of H. D. Traill and Robert Hichens,
which succeeded "Peter the Great," proved a great disappointment, and
Ellen Terry's appearance as Sylvia Wynford need only be mentioned for
purposes of record.
In the April of 1899 Laurence Irving was again to the fore with his
excellent English version of Victorien Sardou's striking play,
"Robespierre." In the character of Clarice de Malucon, Ellen Terry had
not one of her greatest opportunities, but she acted with her unvarying
and invincible charm, and at once arrested and held the sympathy of her
audiences. It was a sweet and womanly performance. Her one great scene
came with Henry Irving, and superbly they both played it. It is,
indeed, intensely dramatic. Robespierre discovers the terrible fact that
Clarice's boy, Olivier, whom he has condemned to the guillotine, is his
own son; and then his one frenzied idea is to save his life. But,
Dictator though he is, he is surrounded by traitors and suspects; he
already knows that his own life trembles in the balance; the task is a
difficult one, and Olivier obstinately refuses to accept any favour at
his hated hands. Then follows a scene in which the distracted father and
mother (for after long years of separation and silence they are now
together again) watch the ghastly tumbrils as they drag their victims to
the guillotine, trembling lest in one of them they should see their
doomed child. During these heartrending moments of suspense Ellen Terry
was assuredly seen at her best. Henry Irving's triumph as Robespierre
was emphatic.
[Illustration: _Photograph by_
[_Window & Grove._
ELLEN TERRY AS "VOLUMNIA."
_In the Lyceum revival of "Coriolanus," 1901._
[_To face page 292._
]
On April 15, 1901, the long promised production of "Coriolanus" was
staged at the Lyceum. As long ago as 1879 Henry Irving had announced his
intention of appearing as the noble Roman in company with Ellen Terry as
Volumnia.
At that time a writer said:--
"Some surprise may, perhaps, be felt at the circumstance that it is in
contemplation to assign the character of Volumnia to Ellen Terry; but
the part is by tradition, and by reason of its intrinsic importance,
the lawful inheritance of the leading tragic actress of the company. It
was one of Mrs. Siddons' famous impersonations, though it was complained
she had not the good sense to follow Mrs. Woffington's example as to her
face, and consequently was on the stage as off, Kemble's sister, not his
mother. No doubt a resolute conscientious employment of the arts which
suggest the autumn of life will be needed to enable Ellen Terry to enact
Henry Irving's mother, but the part is a very fine one, and there can be
no question that in the hands of this actress the great scene of the
fifth act, in which the Roman mother's eloquent and impassioned pleading
finally moves the proud heart of her son, would, in her hands, produce a
powerful impression."
Now time has dealt so tenderly with our charming actress that there was
as much need of this suggested "making up" in 1901 as there had been in
1879; but she had the good sense not to overdo it. There was no more
reason why the mother of Coriolanus should be a very old woman than
there was for Mr. Vincent Crummles to convert himself into a decrepit
octogenarian when he was called upon _in loco parentis_ to bestow the
fair hand of Miss Henrietta Petowker in marriage to Mr. Lillyvick. The
consequence was that, acting the part with impressive composure, save
where intense vigour was demanded, she made such a stately figure as
the handsome Roman matron that she became a treat to the eye as well as
to the ear.
For the rest she completely fulfilled the predictions of the writer of
1879, being admirable throughout, and especially so in that grand scene
to which he alluded. She played in a more womanly and gentle vein than
was the custom with her distinguished predecessors in the part, but the
performance was none the less welcome or telling on that account.
What a wonderful list of impersonations--from the prattling Mamillius to
the dignified Volumnia! Has any other actress achieved so much?