AT the corner of Grafton street, where the traffic of a famous West End
artery ebbs and flows among picture exhibitions and jewelry stores,
lives the most popular actor of his time. It is a mysterious-looking
house. The basement is occupied by a trunk store. From the first floor
to the top are Mr. Henry Irving’s chambers. They present from the
outside a series of dingy, half-blind windows that suggest no prospect
of warmth or cheer. “Fitting abode of the spirit of tragic gloom!” you
might well exclaim, standing on the threshold. You shall enter with me,
if you will, to correct your first impressions, and bear testimony to
the fact that appearances are often deceptive.
This sombre door, the first on the left as we enter Grafton street from
Bond street, leads to his chambers. Two flights of stairs (not bright,
as a Paris staircase), not with the sunlight upon the carpet, as in
New York, but darkened with the shadows of a London atmosphere,—and
we enter his general room. With the hum of the West End buzzing at the
windows, the colored glass of which shuts out what little sunlight
falls there, the apartment is characteristic of a great artist and a
great city. The mantel-piece recalls the ancient fashion of old English
mansions. It is practically an oak cabinet, with a silver shield as
the centre-piece. On the opposite side of the room is a well-stocked
bookcase, surmounted by a raven that carries one’s thoughts to Poe
and his sombre story. On tables here and there are materials for
letter-writing, and evidence of much correspondence, though one of
the actor’s social sins is said to be the tardiness with which he
answers letters. The truth is, the many pressing claims on his time
do not enable him to act always upon the late Duke of Wellington’s
well-known principle of immediately replying to every letter that
is addressed to him. A greater philosopher than His Grace said many
letters answer themselves if you let them alone, and I should not
wonder if Irving finds much truth in the axiom. _Bric-à-brac_, historic
relics, theatrical properties, articles of _virtu_, lie about in
admired disorder. Here is Edmund Kean’s sword, which was presented to
Irving on the first night of his Richard III. by that excellent and
much-respected artist Mr. Chippendale, who had acted with Edmund Kean,
and was his perpersonal friend. In a glass case near this precious
treasure is a ring that belonged to David Garrick. It is an exquisite
setting of a miniature of Shakespeare. This was given to Irving by the
Baroness Burdett-Coutts. In a cabinet near one of the windows, the
order of the George, which Edmund Kean wore in “Richard III.,” and
his prompt-book of “Othello.” Close by are three marble busts,—one
of Young, with a faded wreath upon its brow; another of Mrs. Harriet
Brown, “a most dear and valued friend” (to use his own words); and
the third, of Ellen Terry, sculptured by Irving’s friend, Brodie,—a
portrait of Rossi (presented by the actor) as Nero; a photograph of
Charles Dickens (presented by Miss Mary Dickens),—the one by Gurney,
of New York, which the great author himself thought an excellent
portrait; medallions of Émile Devrient and John Herchell (the latter
a gift from Herchell’s daughter); and a sketch of a favorite Scotch
terrier (very well known to his friends as “Charlie”), which during the
last year or two has become his most constant companion at home and at
the theatre. The adjoining room continues the collection of the actor’s
art treasures,—not the mere connoisseur’s museum of articles of
_virtu_, but things which have a personal value and a special history
associated with the art their owner loves.
It is a frank smile that greets us as the actor enters and extends his
long, thin hand. I know no one whose hand is so suggestive of nervous
energy and artistic capacity as Irving’s. It is in perfect harmony with
the long, expressive face, the notably æsthetic figure!
“You want to talk shop,” he says, striding about the room, with his
hands in the pockets of his loose gray coat. “Well, with all my heart,
if you think it useful and interesting.”
“I do.”
“May I select the subject?”
“Yes.”
“Then I would like to go back to one we touched upon at your own
suggestion some months ago.”
“An actor on his audiences?”
“Yes. The subject is a good one; it interests me, and in that brief
anonymous newspaper sketch of a year ago you did little more than
indicate the points we discussed. Let us see if we cannot revive and
complete it.”
“Agreed. I will ‘interview’ you, then, as they say in America.”
“By all means,” replied my host, handing me a cigar, and settling
himself down in an easy-chair by the fire. “I am ready.”
“Well, then, as I think I have said before when on this subject,
there has always appeared to me something phenomenal in the mutual
understanding that exists between you and your audiences; it argues an
active sympathy and confidence on both sides.”
“That is exactly what I think exists. In presence of my audience I feel
as safe and contented as when sitting down with an old friend.”
“I have seen Lord Beaconsfield, when he was Mr. Disraeli, rise in the
House of Commons, and begin a speech in a vein and manner evidently
considered beforehand, which, proving at the moment out of harmony
with the feelings of the house, he has entirely altered from his
original idea to suit the immediate mood and temper of his audience.
Now, sympathetic as you are with _your_ audience, have you, under their
influence in the development of a new character, ever altered your
first idea during the course of the representation?”
“You open up an interesting train of thought,” he answered. “Except
once, I have never altered my original idea under the circumstances
you suggest; that was in ‘Vanderdecken,’ and I changed the last scene.
I can always tell when the audience is with me. It was not with me in
‘Vanderdecken’; neither was it entirely on the first night of ‘Hamlet,’
which is, perhaps, curious, considering my subsequent success. On the
first night I felt that the audience did not go with me until the
first meeting with Ophelia, when they changed toward me entirely. But
as night succeeded night, my Hamlet grew in their estimation. I could
feel it all the time, and now I _know_ that they like it,—that they
are with me heart and soul. I will tell you a curious thing about my
‘Hamlet’ audience. It is the most interesting audience I play to. For
any other piece there is a difficulty in getting the people seated by
half-past eight. For ‘Hamlet’ the house is full and quiet, and waiting
for the curtain to go up, by half-past seven. On the first night the
curtain dropped at a quarter to one.”
“In what part do you feel most at home with your audience, and most
certain of them?”
“Well, in Hamlet,” he replied, thoughtfully.
“Has that been your greatest pecuniary success?”
“Yes.”
“What were the two unprecedented runs of ‘Hamlet’?”
“The first was two hundred nights; the second, one hundred and seven;
and in the country I have often played it ten times out of a twelve
nights’ engagement. But, as we have moved into this line of thought
about audiences, it should be remembered that, with the exception of
two or three performances, I had never played Hamlet before that first
night at the Lyceum. Indeed, so far as regards what is called the
classic and legitimate drama, my successes, such as they were, had been
made outside it, really in eccentric comedy. As a rule, actors who have
appeared for the first time in London in such parts as Richard III.,
Macbeth, Hamlet, and Othello, have played them previously for years
in the country; and here comes a point about my audiences. They knew
this, and I am sure they estimated the performance accordingly, giving
me their special sympathy and good wishes. I believe in the justice
of audiences. They are sincere and hearty in their approval of what
they like, and have the greatest hand in making an actor’s reputation.
Journalistic power cannot be overvalued; it is enormous; but, in regard
to actors, it is a remarkable fact that their permanent reputations,
the final and lasting verdict of their merits, are made chiefly by
their audiences. Sometimes the true record comes after the players are
dead, and it is sometimes written by men who possibly never saw them.
Edmund Kean’s may be called a posthumous reputation. If you read the
newspapers of the time you will find that during his acting days he
was terribly mauled. Garrick’s impersonations were not much written
about in his day. As to Burbage, Betterton, and other famous actors of
their time, whose names are familiar to us, when they lived there were
practically no newspapers to chronicle their work.”
“You believe, then, that merit eventually makes its mark, in spite of
professional criticism, and that, like Masonic rituals, the story of
success, its form and pressure, may go down orally to posterity?”
“I believe that what audiences really like they stand by. I believe
they hand down the actor’s name to future generations. They are the
judge and jury who find the verdict and pronounce sentence. I will give
you an example in keeping with the rapid age in which we live. I am
quite certain that within twelve hours of the production of a new play
of any importance all London knows whether the piece is a success or a
failure, no matter whether the journals have criticised it or not. Each
person in the audience is the centre of a little community, and the
word is passed on from one to the other.”
“What is your feeling in regard to first-night audiences, apart from
the regular play-going public? I should imagine that the sensitive
nature of a true artist must be considerably jarred by the knowledge
that a first-night audience is peculiarly fastidious and sophisticated.”
“I confess I am happier in presence of what you call the regular
play-going public. I am apt to become depressed on a first night. Some
of my friends and fellow-artists are stimulated and excited by a sense
of opposition. I fear it lowers me. I know that while there is a good,
hearty crowd who have come to be pleased, there are some who have _not_
come to be pleased. God help us if we were in the hands of the few who,
from personal or other motives, come to the theatre in the hope of
seeing a failure, and who pour out their malice and spite in anonymous
letters!”
“Detraction and malicious opposition are among the penalties of
success. To be on a higher platform than your fellows is to be a mark
for envy and slander,” I answered, dropping, I fear, into platitude,
which my host cut short with a shrug of the shoulders and a rapid
stride across the room.
He handed to me a book, handsomely bound and with broad margins,
through which ran a ripple of old-faced type, evidently the work of an
author and a handicraftsman who love the memories both of Caxton and
his immediate successors. It was entitled “Notes on Louis XI.; with
some short extracts from Commines’ Memoirs,” and was dated “London,
1878,—printed for the author.”
“That book,” said my host, “was sent to me by a person I had then never
seen nor heard of. It came to me anonymously. I wished to have a second
copy of it, and sent to the printer with the purpose of obtaining it.
He replied by telling me the work was not for sale, and referring me
to the author, whose address he sent to me. I made the application as
requested; another copy was forwarded, and with it a kindly intimation
that if ever I should be near the house of the writer, ‘we should be
glad to see you.’ I called in due course, and found the author one of a
most agreeable family. ‘You will wonder,’ they said at parting, ‘why we
wrote and compiled this book. It was simply for this reason: a public
critic in a leading journal had said, as nothing was really known
of the character, manners, and habits of Louis XI., an actor might
take whatever liberties he pleased with the subject. We prepared this
little volume to put on record a refutation of the statement, a protest
against it, and a tribute to your impersonation of the character.’ Here
is another present that I received soon afterward,—one of the most
beautiful works of its kind I ever remember to have seen.”
It was an artistic casket, in which was enshrined what looked like a
missal bound in carved ivory and gold. It proved, however, to be a
beautifully bound book of poetic and other memorials of Charles the
First, printed and illustrated by hand, with exquisite head and tail
pieces in water-colors, portraits, coats-of-arms, and vignettes, by
Buckman, Castaing, Terrel, Slie, and Phillips. The work was “imprinted
for the author at London, 30th January, 1879,” and the title ran: “To
the Honor of Henry Irving: to cherish the Memory of Charles the First:
these Thoughts, Gold of the Dead, are here devoted.” As a work of art,
the book is a treasure. The portraits of the Charleses and several of
their generals are in the highest style of water-color painting, with
gold borders; and the initial letters and other embellishments are
studies of the most finished and delicate character.
“Now these,” said their owner, returning the volumes to the
book-shelves over which the raven stretched its wings, “are only two
out of scores of proofs that audiences are intellectually active, and
that they find many ways of fixing their opinions. These incidents of
personal action are evidences of the spirit of the whole. One night,
in “Hamlet,” something was thrown upon the stage. It struck a lamp,
and fell into the orchestra. It could not be found for some time. An
inquiry was made about it by some person in the front,—an aged woman,
who was much concerned that I had not received it,—so I was informed
at the box-office. A sad-looking woman, evidently very poor, called the
next day; and, being informed that the trinket was found, expressed
herself greatly pleased. ‘I often come to the gallery of the theatre,’
she said, ‘and I wanted Mr. Irving to have this family heirloom. I
wanted him alone in this world to possess it.’ This is the trinket,
which I wear on my watch-chain. The theatre was evidently a solace to
that poor soul. She had probably some sorrow in her life; and she may
have felt a kind of comfort in Hamlet, or myself, perhaps, possessing
this little cross.”
As he spoke, the actor’s lithe fingers were busy at his watch-chain,
and he seemed to be questioning the secret romance of the trinket
thrown to him from the gallery.
“I don’t know why else she let it fall upon the stage; but strange
impulses sometimes take hold of people sitting at a play, especially in
tragedy.”
The trinket about which he speculated so much is an old-fashioned gold
cross. On two sides is engraved, “Faith, Hope, and Charity”; on the
front, “I believe in the forgiveness of sins”; and on the reverse, “I
scorn to fear or change.”
“They said at the box-office,” went on the actor, musingly, “that she
was a poor mother who had lost her son;” and then, rousing himself, he
returned brightly to the subject of our conversation. “One example,” he
said, “of the generous sympathy of audiences serves to point the moral
of what I mean; and in every case the motive is the same, to show an
earnest appreciation, and to encourage and give pleasure to the actor.
At Sheffield one night, during the grouse season, a man in the gallery
threw a brace of birds upon the stage, with a rough note of thanks and
compliments; and one of the pit audience sent me round a knife which
he had made himself. You see, the people who do these things have
nothing to gain; they are under no extraneous influence; they judge for
themselves; and they are representative of that great Public Opinion
which makes or mars, and which in the end is always right. When they
are against you it is hard at the time to be convinced that you are
wrong; _but you are_. Take my case. I made my first success at the
St. James’s. We were to have opened with ‘Hunted Down.’ We did not.
I was cast for Doricourt in ‘The Belle’s Stratagem,’—a part which I
had never played before, and which I thought did not suit me. I felt
that this was the opinion of the audience soon after the play began.
The house appeared to be indifferent, and I believed that failure was
conclusively stamped upon my work, when suddenly, on my exit after the
mad scene, I was startled by a burst of applause, and so great was the
enthusiasm of the audience that I was compelled to reappear on the
scene,—a somewhat unusual thing, as you know, except on the operatic
stage.”
“And in America,” I said, “where scene-calls are quite usual, and quite
destructive of the illusion of the play, I think.”
“You are right; and, by the way, if there must be calls, I like our
modern method of taking a call after an act on the scene itself. But
to proceed. I next played ‘Hunted Down,’ and they liked me in that;
and when they do like, audiences are no niggards of their confessions
of pleasure. My next engagement was at the Queen’s Theatre, where I
was successful. Then I went to the Gaiety, where I played Chevenex. I
followed at Drury Lane in ‘Formosa,’ and nobody noticed me at all.”
“Do you think you always understand the silence of an audience? I mean
in this way: on a first night, for example, I have sometimes gone round
to speak to an actor, and have been met with the remark, ‘How cold the
audience is!’ as if excessive quietness was indicative of displeasure,
the idea being that when an audience is really pleased, it always
stamps its feet and claps its hands. I have seen an artist making his
or her greatest success with an audience that manifested its delight by
suppressing every attempt at applause.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” he answered. “I recall a case in
point. There was such an absence of applause on the first night of
‘The Two Roses,’ while I was on the stage, that I could not believe my
friends when they congratulated me on my success. But with experience
one gets to understand the idiosyncrasies and habits of audiences.
You spoke of the silence of some audiences. The most wonderful quiet
and silence I have ever experienced as an actor, a stillness that is
profound, has been in those two great theatres, the one that was burned
down at Glasgow, and the Standard, in London, during the court scene of
‘The Bells.’”