(_Photographs by Messrs. Barraud._)
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[Illustration: TENNYSON.]
One day a paragraph appears in the papers that a new piece will shortly
be produced at such and such a theatre. Paterfamilias lays down the
paper and placidly observes that it may be worth while getting seats.
Then he goes down to the theatre, books seats, and troubles himself no
more about the matter until the first night of the play in question. The
world behind the curtain is one with which he is totally unfamiliar. He
knows naught of its struggles, its hopes and fears, its arduous work,
its magnificent prizes and sore disappointments. So many thousands of
pounds have been spent in preparing the play, so many reputations are at
stake, so many hearts will be gay and glad to-morrow, or aching with the
bitter pain of defeat. But to Paterfamilias these are all the joys or
sorrows of another world. As he watches the smooth, easy performance, in
which every actor has his place, in which the whole pageant produces
itself without apparent effort, he fails to imagine the ceaseless work
involved in its adequate realisation. He does not know that for weeks
before the production of a new play, say at the Lyceum for instance, Mr.
Irving and the wonderful company which he has gathered round him labour
over it often far into the night after the audience has left. The
general idea of an actor's life is that it is a delightful round of
social pleasures tempered by a few hours' light, agreeable work in the
evening; to those who think this, a visit to the Lyceum rehearsals would
reveal the other side of the shield. Very few men in London labour so
indefatigably as Mr. Irving. To watch him directing a rehearsal almost
makes one's head ache at the mere idea of such unceasing labour. Every
motion, however insignificant, of each individual on the stage, from
himself down to the newest and rawest "super," has to be thought out and
planned in Mr. Irving's brain. Like an ideal general, he leaves nothing
to chance, nothing to subordinates. The turning up or down of every gas
jet, the movement of every piece of furniture, the effect of every note
of music, has received his most careful thought. One watches him stand
hour after hour on the Lyceum stage, without weariness, without
impatience, guiding the whole of the great production. And though Mr.
Irving never spares himself, he is very considerate to others. When, for
instance, a young actor is unable to comprehend the full meaning of an
explanation, Mr. Irving walks up and down the stage, one arm on his
shoulder, and explains the whole conception of the part. He is not only
a great actor, but a great teacher; and his influence pervades and
dominates every being in the theatre. He does not merely assert, but
gives full and sufficient reason for every action until every one on the
stage grasps the exact meaning of the scene as well as he does himself.
As an instance of this, let us follow the rehearsals of "Becket."
[Illustration: MR. HENRY IRVING.]
[Illustration: MISS TERRY STUDYING HER PART.]
[Illustration: MR. WILLIAM TERRISS.]
The theatre itself is deserted save by some ghostly caretaker who
glides noiselessly through the shadowy gloom, sliding a brush over the
upholstery without looking at it, and replacing each covering as she
goes. On the stage are two gentlemen wearing picturesque soft hats, and
long coats which reach to within half-a-foot of the ground. The taller
of the two, Mr. Henry Irving, wears a light drab-coloured coat and dark
hat; Mr. William Terriss is attired in a light hat and dark coat. In the
centre of the stage, close to the foot-lights, stands a screen; behind
the screen is a chair. To the left of the stage (as you look at it from
the stalls) is placed a small table with a big gilt cross on it. On the
extreme right there is another small table laden with papers, plans of
the stage, and letters. At the back of the stage are grouped numerous
male "supers," clad in ordinary morning costume and wearing the
inevitable "bowler" hat, which does not harmonise very well with the
huge spears they carry. It is the scene in the second act of the late
Poet Laureate's "Becket," "The Meeting of the Kings," and Mr. Irving is
busily engaged grouping some fifty people who are required to pose as
barons, French prelates, and retainers. When he has done this, there is
still something wanted to complete the picture. Two pages are lacking.
"Where's Johnny?" asks Mr. Irving, and "Johnny" appears. Mr. Irving eyes
him critically. "I'm afraid you're too big, Johnny," he says, and
"Johnny" disappointedly makes way for a smaller boy.
Mr. Irving stands well in the centre of the stage, absorbing every
detail. The French bishops are huddled too near together, and he groups
them more naturally. _Becket's_ mortal foes, _Fitzurse_, _De Brito_,
_De Tracy_, and _De Morville_, are moved lower down towards the
audience, so that they can go "off" with greater effect when jeering at
_Becket_.
[Illustration]
The cameo-cut outlines of Mr. Irving's fine serious features are plainly
visible as he turns to look at the wings. "I don't see any necessity for
having these 'wings' so forward," he declares, and the wings at once
slide gently back, moved by some invisible agency. In response to Mr.
Irving's request for another alteration in the scenery (he speaks with
an utter absence of effort in a voice which can be heard at the other
end of the theatre, although it does not appear to be raised above a
conversational pitch), a middle-aged gentleman, attired in a frock coat,
his brows carefully swathed in a white pocket handkerchief, comes
forward, yardstick in hand, and measures the stage with great assiduity.
When this has been done, Mr. Irving sits down with "Please go on." Then
he turns to Mr. Terriss: "Shall we go through it first without the
dialogue?" "Yes," answers Mr. Terriss; and the whole action of the scene
is gone through. Mr. Irving and Mr. Terriss exchanging their direction
of the various groups for the assumption of their own parts with an ease
and rapidity born of long practice, Mr. Irving moving about from group
to group until he is satisfied with the effect of the whole. Mr. H. T.
Loveday, the stage manager, being at present ill, Mr. Terriss is kindly
assisting Mr. Irving with rehearsal. After the entrances and exits have
been arranged for the twentieth time, _Henry's_ magnificent voice rings
out as _Louis_ enters:
"'Brother of France, what shall be done with _Becket_?'"
As this is one of the early rehearsals, the actors are not yet word
perfect. Each holds his part in one hand, and refreshes his memory as
he goes on. When _Henry_ and _Louis_ have finished their dialogue, and
_Becket_ is about to enter, Mr. Irving suddenly pauses. "Make a note
that before _Becket's_ entrance there should be a slow chant--a
Gregorian chant--and flourishes. Where are the gentlemen who sing?" "The
gentlemen who sing" come on, and practise the chant. "Not quite so
loud." Mr. Irving claps his hands (the stage signal for stopping people)
and decides to try the effect behind the scenes. "That will do; very
good," he declares, as the solemn chant steals slowly in, and then,
merging the manager in the actor, kneels at _Henry's_ feet.
[Illustration: THE STAGE FROM THE DRESS CIRCLE.]
At this juncture, Mr. Irving becomes the stage-manager again, and turns
to the group of _Henry's_ followers. "You, gentlemen, are to come up
here. You are rather startled, and listen attentively; that's the spirit
of it." _King Henry's_ followers move up, and jeer at _Becket_, who
curses them. Then come the voices of the crowd without:
"'Blessed be the Lord Archbishop, who hath withstood two kings to
their faces for the honour of God.'"
But Mr. Irving is not satisfied with the crowd. "Slower and more
gravely, please. I want the emphasis on 'the Lord Archbishop.' So! That
will be very good."
After this, there is an interval, and Mr. Irving and Mr. Terriss
disappear. Before they return, the stage carpenters begin to prepare
for the murder scene in the last act. A number of what appear to be
canvas-covered trunks are brought in and laid down to represent stones
in the choir of Canterbury Cathedral.
Meantime, some of the gentlemen who represent the monks in this scene
playfully spar at one another, or lunge with walking-sticks at imaginary
foes. The carpenters are busy measuring the stage in all directions with
tapes in accordance with a plan which one of them holds in his hand.
Before Mr. Irving returns, the "supers" group themselves "left" and
answer to their names. When he reappears, they look at him expectantly.
"I am not going to rehearse this scene to-day," he says, "but will just
arrange it. Those who sing, go over right (left from the audience). You
sing the vespers. I want six more with you. Then, twelve of the
shortest. You follow them. All the short ones you have, please. Yes,
you're short (to a diminutive 'super' who is standing on tiptoe and
trying to look seven feet high at least). Don't be bashful. You're none
the worse for being short. Come along"; and with unfailing memory Mr.
Irving calls each man by name, and indicates his place. When a man fails
to quite realise what is required of him, Mr. Irving takes him by the
shoulders, and gently moves him along to the required position, very
much as if the individual in question were a pawn about to be played in
a game of chess. As soon as the monks are grouped to his satisfaction,
he steps back. "That's it. Now, you all come down from the choir. There
is a loud hammering against the door. I go to open the door, and all of
you rush right by me." Then Mr. Irving opens the door to his murderers,
and is borne back by the crowd of terrified monks. Five minutes
afterwards, he has returned to life, and is rehearsing a scene from
"King Lear," with Miss Ellen Terry's understudy, in as natural and
unembarrassed a manner as if he had not been working hard for three
hours previously.
Especial care is bestowed by Mr. Irving with regard to every detail of
the murder scene. On another occasion, the scenery is not ready, but a
flight of steep steps, essential to the action, is placed far back in a
position to left of the stage. As "Becket" has never been played before,
there are no traditions whatever to guide actors or scenic artists, and
each movement, phrase, gesture, and intonation, must be "created." Mr.
Irving picks up a huge battle-axe and hatchet, and carefully plans the
details of his own murder. Having decided how to die, he thoughtfully
surveys the steps up which the frightened monks are supposed to rush.
"They won't do," says Mr. Irving. "They are too steep; there is no
hand-rail; and the monks will fall over and hurt themselves. Take off
four steps. It would be too dangerous if anyone fell down. Now, then,
_Salisbury_ and _Grim_, I enter, forced along by you. Catch hold of me,
and put your arms round me this way. That's it. No; I don't like those
steps."
[Illustration: A CRITICAL MOMENT.]
Mr. Irving again tries the steps personally, and decides what further
alterations are required. Then he addresses the monks, who stand by the
steps awaiting instructions. "This is a scene, gentlemen, which requires
the utmost carefulness and patience, and all the earnestness you can
throw into it. Now, gentlemen."