influence upon the stage was greater than his achievement. Among the
Shakespearian parts that he played were Hamlet, Macbeth, King Lear,
Othello, Iago, Shylock, Leontes, Cassius, Wolsey, Richard III., Romeo,
and Benedick. Outside of Shakespeare (to mention only a few of his
impersonations) he acted Richelieu, Evelyn, Aranza, Garrick, Claude
Melnotte, Rienzi, Dan'l Druce, Lanciotto, Hernani, King Arthur, and
Ganelon. The parts in which he was superlatively fine,--and in some
respects incomparable,--are Cassius, Harebell, Yorick, Gringoire, King
Arthur, Ganelon, and James V., King of the Commons. In his time he had
played hundreds of parts, ranging over the whole field of the drama, but
as the years passed and the liberty of choice came more and more within
his reach, he concentrated his powers upon a few works and upon a
specific line of expression. The aspect of human nature and human
experience that especially aroused his sympathy was the loneliness of
beneficent intellectual grandeur, isolated by its supremacy and pathetic
in its isolation. He loved the character of Richelieu, and if he had
acted Becket, as he purposed to do, in Tennyson's tragedy, he would have
presented another and a different type of that same ideal--lonely,
austere, passionate age, defiant of profane authority and protective of
innocent weakness against wicked and cruel strength. His embodiment of
Cassius, with all its intensity of repressed spleen and caustic
malevolence, was softly touched and sweetly ennobled with the majesty of
venerable loneliness,--the bleak light of pathetic sequestration from
human ties, without the forfeiture of human love,--that is the natural
adjunct of intellectual greatness. He loved also the character of
Harebell, because in that he could express his devotion to the
beautiful, the honest impulses of his affectionate heart, and his ideal
of a friendship that is too pure and simple even to dream that such a
thing as guile can exist anywhere in the world. Toward the expression,
under dramatic conditions, of natures such as those, the development of
his acting was steadily directed; and, even if he fell short, in any
degree, of accomplishing all that he purposed, it is certain that his
spirit and his conduct dignified the theatrical profession, strengthened
the stage in the esteem of good men, and cheered the heart and fired the
energy of every sincere artist that came within the reach of his
example. For his own best personal success he required a part in which,
after long repression, the torrent of passion can break loose in a
tumult of frenzy and a wild strain of eloquent words. The terrible
exultation of Cassius, after the fall of Cæsar, the ecstasy of Lanciotto
when he first believes himself to be loved by Francesca, the delirium of
Yorick when he can no longer restrain the doubts that madden his jealous
and wounded soul, the rapture of King James over the vindication of his
friend Seyton, whom his suspicions have wronged--those were among his
distinctively great moments, and his image as he was in such moments is
worthy to live among the storied traditions and the bright memories of
the stage.
Censure seems to be easy to most people, and few men are rated at their
full value while they are yet alive. Just as mountains seem more sublime
in the vague and hazy distance, so a noble mind looms grandly through
the dusk of death. So it will be with him. Lawrence Barrett was a man of
high principle and perfect integrity. He never spoke a false word nor
knowingly harmed a human being, in all his life. Although sometimes he
seemed to be harsh and imperious, he was at heart kind and humble.
Strife with the world, and in past times uncertainty as to his position,
caused in him the assumption of a stern and frigid manner, but beneath
that haughty reserve there was a great longing for human affection and a
sincere humility of spirit. He never nurtured hostility. He had no
memory for injuries; but a kindness he never forgot. His good deeds were
as numerous as his days--for no day rolled over his head without its act
of benevolence in one direction or another. He was as impulsive as a
child. He had much of the woman in his nature, and therefore his views
were impetuous, strong, and often strongly stated; but his sense of
humour kept pace with his sensibility and so maintained the equilibrium
of his mind. In temperament he was sad, pensive, introspective, almost
gloomy; but he opposed to that tendency an incessant mental activity and
the force of a tremendous will. In his lighter moods he was not only
appreciative of mirth but was the cause of it. His humour was elemental
and whatever aspect of life he saw in a comic light he could set in that
light before the eyes of others. He had been a studious reader for many
years and his mind was stored with ample, exact, and diversified
information. He had a scholar's knowledge of Roman history and his
familiar acquaintance with the character and career of the first
Napoleon was extraordinary. In acting he was largely influenced by his
studies of Edmund Kean and by his association with Charlotte Cushman.
For a few years after 1864 his art was especially affected by that of
Edwin Booth; but the style to which he finally gravitated was his own.
He was not so much an impersonator as he was an interpreter of
character, and the elocutionary part of acting was made more conspicuous
and important by him than by any other tragedian since the days of
Forrest and Brooke.
It was a beautiful life prematurely ended. It was a brave, strong
spirit suddenly called out of the world. To the dramatic profession the
loss is irreparable. In the condition of the contemporary theatre there
are not many hopeful signs. No doubt there will be bright days in the
future, as there have been in the past. They go and they return. The
stage declines and the stage advances. At present its estate is low. Few
men like Lawrence Barrett remain for it to lose. Its main hope is in the
abiding influence of such examples as he has left. The old theatrical
period is fast passing away. The new age rushes on the scene, with
youthful vigour and impetuous tumult. But to some of us,--who perhaps
have not long to stay, and to whom, whatever be their fortune, this
tumult is unsympathetic and insignificant,--the way grows darker and
lonelier as we lay our garlands of eternal farewell upon the coffin of
Lawrence Barrett.
XV.
HENRY IRVING AND ELLEN TERRY IN RAVENSWOOD.
Merivale's play of _Ravenswood_, written in four acts, was acted in six.
The first act consists of a single scene--an exterior, showing the
environment of the chapel which is the burial place of the House of
Ravenswood. A rockbound coast is visible, at some distance, together
with the ruinous tower of Wolf's Crag--which is Ravenswood's sole
remaining possession. This act presents the interrupted funeral of Alan
Ravenswood, the father of Edgar,--introducing ten of the seventeen
characters that are implicated in the piece, and skilfully laying the
basis of the action by exhibiting the essential personalities of the
story in strong contrast, and denoting their relations to each other.
Each character is clearly and boldly drawn and with a light touch. The
second act consists of three scenes--an antique library in the ancient
manor-house of Ravenswood, a room in a roadside ale-house, and a room in
the dilapidated tower of Wolf's Crag. This act rapidly develops the
well-known story, depicting the climax of antagonism between the Lord
Keeper Ashton and Edgar of Ravenswood and their subsequent
reconciliation. The third act passes in a lovely, romantic, rural scene,
which is called "the Mermaiden's Well,"--a fairy-like place in the
grounds of Ravenswood,--and in this scene Edgar and Lucy Ashton, who
have become lovers, are plighted by themselves and parted by Lucy's
mother, Lady Ashton. The fourth and last act shows a room at Ravenswood,
wherein is portrayed the betrothal of Lucy to Bucklaw, culminating in
Edgar's sudden irruption; and finally, it shows the desolate seaside
place of the quicksand in which, after he has slain Bucklaw, Edgar of
Ravenswood is engulfed. The house that Scott, when he wrote the novel,
had in his mind as that of Sir William Ashton is the house of Winston,
which still is standing, not many miles from Edinburgh. The tower of
Wolf's Crag was probably suggested to him by Fast Castle, the ruin of
which still lures the traveller's eye, upon the iron-ribbed and gloomy
coast of the North Sea, a few miles southeast of Dunbar--a place,
however, that Scott never visited, and never saw except from the ocean.
There is a beach upon that coast, just above Cockburnspath, that might
well have suggested to him the quicksand and the final catastrophe. I
saw it when the morning sun was shining upon it and upon the placid
waters just rippling on its verge; and even in the glad glow of a summer
day it was grim with silent menace and mysterious with an air of
sinister secrecy. In the preparation of this piece for the stage all the
sources and associations of the subject were considered; and the
pictorial setting, framed upon the right artistic principle--that
imagination should transfigure truth and thus produce the essential
result of poetic effect--was elaborate and magnificent. And the play is
the best one that ever has been made upon this subject.
The basis of fact upon which Sir Walter Scott built his novel of the
_Bride of Lammermoor_ is given in the introduction that he wrote for it
in 1829. Janet Dalrymple, daughter of the first Lord Stair and of his
wife Margaret Ross, had privately plighted herself to Lord Rutherford.
Those lovers had broken a piece of gold together, and had bound
themselves by vows the most solemn and fervent that passion could
prompt. But Lord Rutherford was objectionable to Miss Dalrymple's
parents, who liked not either his family or his politics. Lady Stair,
furthermore, had selected a husband for her daughter, in the person of
David Dunbar, of Baldoon; and Lady Stair was a woman of formidable
character, set upon having her own way and accustomed to prevail. As
soon as she heard of Janet's private engagement to Lord Rutherford she
declared the vow to be undutiful and unlawful and she commanded that it
should be broken. Lord Rutherford, a man of energy and of spirit,
thereupon insisted that he would take his dismissal only from the lips
of Miss Dalrymple herself, and he demanded and obtained an interview
with her. Lady Stair was present, and such was her ascendency over her
daughter's mind that the young lady remained motionless and mute,
permitting her betrothal to Lord Rutherford to be broken, and, upon her
mother's command, giving back to him the piece of gold that was the
token of her promise. Lord Rutherford was deeply moved, so that he
uttered curses upon Lady Stair, and at the last reproached Janet in
these words: "For you, madam, you will be a world's wonder." After this
sad end of his hopes the unfortunate gentleman went abroad and died in
exile. Janet Dalrymple and David Dunbar meanwhile were married--the lady
"being absolutely passive in everything her mother commanded or
advised." As soon, however, as the wedded pair had retired from the
bridal feast hideous shrieks were heard to resound through the house,
proceeding from the nuptial chamber. The door was thereupon burst open
and persons entering saw the bridegroom stretched upon the floor,
wounded and bleeding, while the bride, dishevelled and stained with
blood, was grinning in a paroxysm of insanity. All she said was, "Take
up your bonny bridegroom." About two weeks later she died. The year of
those events was 1669. The wedding took place on August 24. Janet died
on September 12. Dunbar recovered, but he would never tell what occurred
in that chamber of horror, nor indeed would he permit any allusion to
the subject. He did not long survive the tragic event,--having been
fatally injured, by a fall from his horse, when riding between Leith
and Holyrood. He died on March 28, 1682. The death of Lord Rutherford
is assigned to the year 1685. Such is the melancholy story as it may be
gathered from Scott's preface. In writing his novel that great master of
the art of fiction,--never yet displaced from his throne or deprived of
his sceptre,--adopted fictitious names, invented fresh circumstances,
amplified and elevated the characters, judiciously veiled the
localities, and advanced the period of those tragical incidents to about
the beginning of the eighteenth century. The delicate taste with which
he used his materials has only been surpassed, in that beautiful
composition, by the affluent genius with which he vitalised every part
of his narrative. In no other of his many books has he shown a deeper
knowledge than is revealed in that one of the terrible passion of love
and of the dark and sinuous ways of political and personal craft. When
_The Bride of Lammermoor_ was first published no mention was made in it
of the true story upon which remotely it had been based; but by the time
Scott came to write the preface of 1829 other writers had been less
reticent, and some account of the Dalrymple tragedy had got into print,
so that no reason existed for further silence on that subject.
Sir Robert H.D. Elphinstone, writing in 1829, gave the tradition as
follows: "When, after the noise and violent screaming in the bridal
chamber comparative stillness succeeded and the door was forced, the
window was found open, and it was supposed by many that the lover, Lord
Rutherford, had, by the connivance of some of the servants, found means,
during the bustle of the marriage feast, to secrete himself within the
apartment, and that soon after the entry of the married pair, or at
least as soon as the parents and others retreated and the door was made
fast, he had come out from his concealment, attacked and desperately
wounded the bridegroom, and then made his escape, by the window, through
the garden. As the unfortunate bride never spoke after having uttered
the words mentioned by Sir Walter, no light could be thrown on the
matter by them. But it was thought that Dunbar's obstinate silence on
the subject favoured the supposition of the chastisement having been
inflicted by his rival. It is but fair to give the unhappy victim (who
was, by all accounts, a most gentle and feminine creature) the benefit
of an explanation on a doubtful point."
Merivale, in dealing with this story, gave a conspicuous illustration
of the essential dramatic faculty. The first act is the adroit expansion
of a few paragraphs, in the second chapter of the novel, which are
descriptive of the bleak, misty November morning when Alan Ravenswood
was borne to the grave; but by the introduction of the Lord Keeper and
of the village crones into that funeral scene he opened the whole
subject, indicated all the essential antecedents of the story, and
placed his characters in a posture of lively action. That the tone is
sombre must be conceded, and people who think that the chief end of man
is to grin might condemn the piece for that reason; but _Ravenswood_ is
a tragedy and not a farce, and persons who wish that their feelings may
not be affected should avoid tragedies.
In the second act Ravenswood seeks Ashton at Ravenswood manor, intending
to kill him in a duel, but his hand is stayed when he catches sight of
Lucy Ashton's portrait. The incident of Edgar's rescue of Lucy is used
in this scene. In a later scene Sir William Ashton and his daughter take
refuge in Wolf's Crag, and the bewitchment of Ravenswood is
accomplished. The quarrel between Edgar and Bucklaw is then given, as a
basis for the ensuing rivalry and deadly conflict between them. In the
third act there is a beautiful love-scene between Edgar and Lucy, the
dialogue being especially felicitous in tenderness and grace and fraught
with that reverential quality, that condition of commingled ecstasy and
nobleness, which is always characteristic of the experience of this
passion in pure natures. Lady Ashton's interruption of their happiness
and the subsequent parting have a vigorous dramatic effect. The
character of Lucy has been much strengthened, so that it differs from
that of the original precisely as Desdemona differs from Ophelia; and
the change is an improvement. The fourth act opens with "a song of
choristers heard outside." The letters of Lucy and Edgar have been
intercepted. The lady has been told that her lover is false. The suit of
Bucklaw has been urged. The authority of the stern mother has prevailed
over her daughter's will. It is the old story. "The absent are always
wrong"--and Ravenswood is absent. Lucy Ashton yields to her fate. The
marriage contract between Lucy and Bucklaw has just been signed when
Ravenswood bursts into the group. From that point the action is
animated equally with celerity and passion. The misery of Ravenswood
utters itself in a swift stream of burning words. The grief of Lucy ends
tragically in a broken heart and sudden death. The fight between Bucklaw
and Ravenswood clashes for a moment but is abruptly finished on the
moonlit sands, and Edgar is seen to leap down from a rock and rush away
toward the manor, where, as his dying foe has told him, the faithful and
innocent Lucy lies dead. He disappears and comes no more; but his old
servant takes up from the beach a single black plume--the feather of a
raven--which the tide has washed ashore, and which is the last relic and
emblem of the vanished master of Ravenswood.
The tragedy is kindred, as to its spirit, with _Romeo and Juliet_, and
like that representative poem of love and death it is intensely
passionate, sombre, and lamentable. The first and second acts of it pass
in almost unrelieved shadow. It begins with a funeral; it incorporates
the ingredients of misery, madness, and death; it culminates in a fatal
duel; and it ends in a picture of mortal desolation, qualified only by a
mute suggestion of spiritual happiness conveyed by the pictorial emblem
of the promise of immortality. It is a poetical tragedy, conceived in
the spirit and written in the manner of the old masters of the poetic
art. The treatment of Scott's novel is marked by scrupulous fidelity,
not indeed to every detail of that noble book, but to its essential
quality and tone. The structure of the play reproduces in action
substantially the structure of the original story. The scene in which
Edgar and Lucy avow their love and pledge themselves to each other is
written with exquisite grace and profound tenderness. The picture
presented upon the stage when the lovers are parted was one of
astonishing animation. The scene of the interrupted wedding and of Lucy
Ashton's agony, distraction, and death was one of intense power and
dramatic effect. The duel of Ravenswood and Bucklaw upon the desolate,
moon-lit sands was invested with the excitement of suspense and with
weird horror. And the final exposition of dramatic contrast,--when upon
the wide, bleak beach, with the waste of vacant sea beyond and the
eastern heaven lit with the first splendour of sunrise, the old man
stooped to take up the raven's feather, the last relic of
Ravenswood--was so entirely beautiful that the best of words can but
poorly indicate its loveliness. For an audience able to look seriously
at a serious subject, and not impatient of the foreground of gloom in
which, necessarily, the story is enveloped at its beginning, this was a
perfect work. The student of drama must go back many years to find a
parallel to it, in interest of subject, in balance, in symmetry, and in
sympathetic interpretation of character.
There is a quality of Hamlet in the character of Ravenswood. He is by
nature a man of a sad mind, and under the pressure of afflicting
circumstances his sadness has become embittered. He takes life
thoughtfully and with passionate earnestness. He is a noble person,
finely sensitive and absolutely sincere, full of kindness at heart, but
touched with gloom; and his aspect and demeanour are those of pride,
trouble, self-conflict--of an individuality isolated and constrained by
dark thoughts and painful experience. That is the mood in which Henry
Irving conceived and portrayed him. You saw a picturesque figure, dark,
strange, romantic--the gravity engendered by thought and sorrow not yet
marring the bronzed face and the elastic movement of youth--and this
personality, in itself fascinating, was made all the more pictorial by
an investiture of romance, alike in the scenery and the incidents
through which it moved. Around such a figure funereal banners well might
wave, and under dark and lowering skies the chill wind of the sea might
moan through monastic ruins and crumbling battlements. Edgar of
Ravenswood, standing by his lonely hearth, beneath the groined arches of
his seaside tower, revealed by the flickering firelight, looked the
ideal of romantic manhood; the incarnation of poetic fancy and of
predestinate disaster. Above the story of _Ravenswood_ there is steadily
and continuously impending, and ever growing darker and coming nearer,
the vague menace of terrible calamity. This element of mystery and dread
was wrought into the structural fibre of Henry Irving's performance of
the part, and consistently coloured it. The face of Edgar was made to
wear that haunted look which,--as in the countenance of Charles the
First, in Vandyke's portraits,--may be supposed, and often has been
supposed, to foreshadow a violent and dreadful death. His sudden tremor,
when at the first kiss of Lucy Ashton the thunder is heard to break
above his ruined home, was a fine denotement of that subtle quality; and
even through the happiness of the betrothal scene there was a hint of
this black presentiment--just as sometimes on a day of perfect sunshine
there is a chill in the wind that tells of approaching storm. All this
is warranted by the prophetic rhymes which are several times spoken,
beginning--"When the last lord of Ravenswood to Ravenswood shall ride."
A crone, Ailsie Gourlay by name, embodied with grim and grisly vigour by
Alice Marriott,--whose ample voice and exact elocution, together with
her formidable stature and her faculty of identification with the
character that she assumes and with the spirit of the story, made her of
great value to this play--hovered around Ravenswood, and aided to keep
this presage of evil doom fitfully present in the consciousness of its
victim. Henry Irving gave to the part its perfectly distinct
individuality, and in that respect made as fine a showing as he has ever
made of his authority as an actor. There was never the least doubt as to
what Ravenswood is and what he means. The peculiar elocution of Henry
Irving, when he is under the influence of great excitement, is not
effective upon all persons; but those who like it consider it far more
touching than a more level, more sonorous, and more accurate delivery.
He wrought a great effect in the scene of the marriage-contract. Indeed,
so powerful, sincere, and true was the acting upon all sides, at this
point, that not until the curtain began to descend was it remembered
that we were looking upon a fiction and not upon a fact. This points to
the peculiar power that Henry Irving and Ellen Terry conspicuously
possess--of creating and maintaining a perfect illusion.