[Illustration]
SIR HENRY IRVING
A RECORD OF OVER TWENTY YEARS
AT THE LYCEUM
BY
PERCY FITZGERALD, M.A.
AUTHOR OF
“THE LIFE OF GARRICK,” “THE KEMBLES,” “ART OF THE STAGE,” ETC.
“As in a theatre the eyes of men,
After a well-grac’d actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next.”
_A NEW EDITION, REVISED
WITH AN ADDITIONAL CHAPTER_
LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1895
PREFACE.
One attraction in the life of an actor who has fought his way, and
triumphed over many difficulties, in his struggles to eminence, is
found in the spirit of adventure which nearly always marks his course.
Such a story must be always gratifying and encouraging to read;
and we follow it now with sympathy, now with admiration. Nor is it
without gratification for the actor himself, who must look back with
complacency to troubles surmounted, and to habits of patience and
discipline acquired. In this severe and trying school he may acquire
the practical virtues of resignation, courage, perseverance, and the
art of confronting difficulties. Even at the present moment, when the
stage is presumed to be more flourishing than at any former period, the
element of precariousness is more present than ever. Everything seems a
lottery—theatres, pieces, actors. A theatre has gained a high reputation
with one or two successful pieces: of a sudden the newest play fails—or
“falls,” as the French have it—to be succeeded by another, and yet
another: each failing or “falling,” and seeming to prove that, if nothing
succeeds like success, nothing fails like failure.
There is a spectacle often witnessed in the manufacturing counties,
when we may be standing waiting in one of the great stations, which
leaves a melancholy impression. A huge theatrical train containing
one of the travelling companies comes up and thunders through. Here is
the “Pullman Car,” in which the performers are seen playing cards, or
chatting, or lunching. They have their pets with them—parrots, dogs, etc.
It suggests luxury and prosperity. But this ease is dearly purchased,
for we know that the performer has bound himself in a sort of slavery,
and has consented to forego all the legitimate methods of learning his
profession. He belongs to some peripatetic company, a “travelling”
one, or to one of the innumerable bands who take round a single play,
for years, it may be; and in it he must play his single character over
and over again. Hence, he must learn—nay, is compelled to play—every
character in the same fashion, for he knows no other method. His wage
is modest, but constant; but he can never rise higher, and if he lose
his place it will be difficult for him to find another. It will be
interesting to see what a contrast this system offers to the course of
our cultured actors, who have endured the iron training and discipline of
the old school; and in this view we shall follow the adventurous career
of the popular Henry Irving, admittedly the foremost of our performers.
In his instance we shall see how the struggle, so manfully sustained,
became an invariable _discipline_, slowly forming the character which has
made him an interesting figure on which the eyes of his countrymen rest
with pleasure: and developing, as I have said, the heroic qualities of
patience, resolution, and perseverance.
At the same time, I do not profess to set forth in these pages what
is called “a biography” of the actor. But this seems a fitting moment
for presenting a review of his artistic, laborious work at the Lyceum
Theatre, during a period of over twenty years. Having known the actor
from the very commencement of his career; having seen him in all
his characters; having written contemporaneous criticisms of these
performances—I may be thought to be at least fairly qualified for
undertaking such a task. I possess, moreover, a vast collection of what
may be called _pièces justificatifs_, which includes almost everything
that has been written of him. It will be seen that the tone adopted is
an independent one, and I have freely and fairly discussed Sir Henry
Irving’s merits, both real and imputed. Where praise is undiscriminating,
there is no praise. I have also dealt with many interesting “open
questions,” as they may be called, connected with theatrical management
and the “art of the stage.” I may add that in this new edition I have
added many particulars which will be found interesting, and have brought
the story down to the present moment.
ATHENÆUM CLUB,
_July, 1895_.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
SCHOOL-DAYS—EARLY TASTE FOR THE STAGE—FIRST APPEARANCE
(1838-1856) 1
CHAPTER II.
EDINBURGH AND THE SCOTTISH THEATRES (1857-1859) 6
CHAPTER III.
THE ST. JAMES’S THEATRE—‘HUNTED DOWN’—THE NEW VAUDEVILLE
THEATRE—‘THE TWO ROSES’ (1866) 23
CHAPTER IV.
‘THE BELLS’—WILLS’S ‘CHARLES I.’ (1871) 31
CHAPTER V.
‘HAMLET’—‘OTHELLO’—‘MACBETH’—DEATH OF ‘THE COLONEL’—‘QUEEN
MARY’ (1874) 38
CHAPTER VI.
THE NEW MANAGER OF THE LYCEUM—MISS TERRY—HIS SYSTEM AND
ASSISTANTS (1878) 50
CHAPTER VII.
‘THE MERCHANT OF VENICE’ (1879) 64
CHAPTER VIII.
‘THE CORSICAN BROTHERS’ AND ‘THE CUP’ (1880) 69
CHAPTER IX.
‘OTHELLO’ AND ‘THE TWO ROSES’ REVIVED (1881) 76
CHAPTER X.
‘ROMEO AND JULIET’—THE BANQUET (1882) 85
CHAPTER XI.
‘MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING’—AMERICAN VISIT ARRANGED (1882) 88
CHAPTER XII.
‘TWELFTH NIGHT’—‘THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD’—OXFORD HONOURS (1884) 96
CHAPTER XIII.
‘FAUST’—‘WERNER’—‘MACAIRE’—THE ACTOR’S SOCIAL GIFTS (1887) 111
CHAPTER XIV.
‘MACBETH’—‘THE DEAD HEART’—‘RAVENSWOOD’ (1888) 119
CHAPTER XV.
‘KING LEAR’—‘BECKET’ (1892) 131
CHAPTER XVI.
‘KING ARTHUR’—CORPORAL BREWSTER—HONOURS (1893) 138
CHAPTER XVII.
L’ENVOI 143
SIR HENRY IRVING
CHAPTER I.
1838-1856.
SCHOOL-DAYS—EARLY TASTE FOR THE STAGE—FIRST APPEARANCE.
Henry Irving was born at Keinton, near Glastonbury, in Somersetshire,
on February 6, 1838. His real name was John Henry Brodribb. “The
last place God made” has been the description given of this little
town—Keinton-Mandeville—which lies near Glastonbury. The house in which
the future actor was born is still pointed out—a small two-storied
dwelling, of a poorish sort.
Henry Irving’s mother was Sarah Behenna, a woman of strong, marked
character, who early took the child into Cornwall to her sister
Penberthy. Thus was he among the miners and mining captains in a district
“stern and wild,” where lessons of dogged toil and perseverance were to
be learned. The earliest books he read were his Bible, some old English
ballads, and “Don Quixote,” a character which he had long had a fancy
for performing. In an intimate _causerie_ with his and my friend Joseph
Hatton, he was induced to stray back to these early days of childhood,
when he called up some striking scenes of those old mining associations.
This aunt Penberthy was a resolute, striking woman, firm and even grim of
purpose, and the scenes in which she figured have a strong flavour, as
Mr. Hatton suggests, of Currer Bell’s stories.
He was early sent to a school then directed by Dr. Pinches, in George
Yard, Lombard Street, close by the George and Vulture, which still
happily stands, and where Mr. Pickwick always put up when he was in
town. At this academy, on some exhibition day, he proposed to recite a
rather gruesome piece called “The Uncle,” to which his preceptor strongly
objected, when he substituted the more orthodox “Defence of Hamilton
Rowan,” by Curran.
More than thirty years later, when the boy had become famous, and was
giving a benefit at his own theatre to a veteran player—Mr. Creswick—the
latter, coming before the curtain, related to the audience this little
anecdote. “I was once,” he said, “invited to hear some schoolboys recite
speeches previous to their breaking up for the holidays. The schoolmaster
was an old friend of mine, whom I very much respected. The room was
filled from wall to wall with the parents and friends of the pupils. I
was not much entertained with the first part: I must confess that I was
a little bored; but suddenly there came out a lad who at once struck me
as being rather uncommon, and he riveted my attention. The performance,
I think, was a scene from ‘Ion,’ in which he played Adrastus. I well saw
that he left his schoolfellows a long way behind. That schoolboy was
Master Henry Irving. Seeing that he had dramatic aptitude, I gave him
a word of encouragement, perhaps the first he had ever received, and
certainly the first he had received from one in the dramatic profession,
to which he is now a distinguished honour.” The late Solicitor-General,
Sir Edward Clarke, who was sent to the school after Irving left it,
long after made humorous complaint at a Theatrical Fund dinner that, on
exhibiting his own powers at the same school, he used to be regularly
told, “Very good—very fair; but you should have heard Irving do it.”
On leaving the school, it was determined that the future actor should
adopt a commercial career, and he was placed in the offices of Messrs.
Thacker, “Indian merchants in Newgate Street.” He was then about
fourteen, and remained in the house four years.
But his eyes were even now straying from his desk to the stage. He was
constantly reading plays and poetry, and seeking opportunity for practice
in the art in which he felt he was destined so to excel.
At this time, about 1853, the late Mr. Phelps’ intelligent efforts, and
the admirable style in which he presented classical dramas, excited
abundant interest and even enthusiasm among young men. Many now look back
with pleasure to their pilgrimages to the far-off Sadler’s Wells Theatre,
where such an intellectual entertainment was provided and sustained with
admirable taste for many seasons. What was called “The Elocution Class”
was one of the results. It was directed by Mr. Henry Thomas with much
intelligence; his system was to encourage his pupils to recite pieces
of their own selection, on which the criticisms of the listeners were
freely given and invited. “On one evening,” says one of Irving’s old
class-fellows, “a youth presented himself as a new member. He was rather
tall for his age, dressed in a black suit, with what is called a round
jacket, and a deep white linen collar turned over it. His face was very
handsome, with a mass of black hair, and eyes bright and flashing with
intelligence. He was called on for his first recitation, and fairly
electrified the audience with an unusual display of elocutionary and
dramatic intensity.” The new member was Henry Irving. By-and-by the
elocution class was moved to the Sussex Hall, in Leadenhall Street, when
something more ambitious was attempted in the shape of regular dramatic
performances. The pieces were chiefly farces, such as ‘Boots at the
Swan,’ or ‘Little Toddlekins,’ though more serious plays were performed.
It was remarked that the young performer was invariably perfect in his
“words.” In spite of his youth he gave great effect to such characters as
Wilford in ‘The Iron Chest,’ and others of a melodramatic cast. A still
more ambitious effort was Tobin’s ‘Honeymoon,’ given at the little Soho
Theatre with full accompaniments of scenery, dresses, and decoration; and
here the young aspirant won great applause.
It was to be expected that this success and these associations should
more and more encourage him in his desire of adopting a profession to
which he felt irresistibly drawn. He was, of course, a visitor to the
theatres, and still recalls the extraordinary impression left upon him
by Mr. Phelps’ performances. In everyone’s experience is found one of
these “epoch-making” incidents, which have an influence we are often
scarcely conscious of; and every thinking person knows the value of such
“turning-points” in music or literature. The young man’s taste was no
caprice, or stage-struck fancy; he tried his powers deliberately; and
before going to see a play would exercise himself in regular study of its
parts, attempting to lay out the action, business, etc., according to
his ideas. Many years later in America, he said that when he was a youth
he never went to a theatre except to see a Shakespearian play—except, in
fact, for instruction.
At Sadler’s Wells there was a painstaking actor called Hoskins, who was
attracted by the young fellow’s enthusiasm and conscientious spirit, and
who agreed to give him a few lessons in his art. These were fixed for
eight o’clock in the morning, so as not to interfere with commercial
business. Hoskins introduced him to Phelps, who listened to his efforts
with some of that gnarled impassibility which was characteristic of him;
then, in his blunt, good-natured way, gave him this advice: “Young man,
have nothing to do with the stage; _it is a bad profession_!”
Such, indeed, is the kindest counsel that could be given to nine-tenths
of the postulants of our time. Their wish is to “go on the stage”—a
different thing from the wish to become an actor. The manager had
nothing before him to show that there were here present the necessary
gifts of perseverance, study, and intelligence. Struck, however, by his
earnestness, he proposed to give him an engagement of a very trifling
kind, which the young man, after deliberation, declined, on the ground
that it would not afford him opportunities of thoroughly learning his
profession. The good-natured Hoskins, who was himself leaving the theatre
to go to Australia, gave him a letter to a manager, with these words:
“You will go on the stage; when you want an engagement present that
letter, and you will obtain one.” He, indeed, tried to induce him to join
him on his tours, but the offer was declined.
His mother, however, could not reconcile herself to his taking so
serious a step as “going on the stage.” “I used frequently,” writes his
companion at the elocution class, “to visit at her house to rehearse
the scenes in which John and I were to act together. I remember her as
being rather tall, somewhat stately, and very gentle. On one occasion she
begged me very earnestly to dissuade him from thinking of the stage as a
profession; and having read much of the vicissitudes of actors’ lives,
their hardships, and the precariousness of their work, I did my best to
impress this view upon him.” But it is ever idle thus striving to hinder
a child’s purpose when it has been deliberately adopted.
Having come to this resolution, he applied earnestly to the task of
preparing himself for his profession. He learned a vast number of
characters; studied, and practised; even took lessons in fencing,
attending twice a week at a school-of-arms in Chancery Lane. This
accomplishment, often thought trifling, was once an important branch of
an actor’s education; it supplies an elegance of movement and bearing.
“The die being now cast,” according to the accepted expression, John
Brodribb, who had now become Henry Irving, bade adieu to his desk, and
bethinking him of the Hoskins letter, applied to Mr. Davis, a country
manager, who had just completed the building of a new theatre at
Sunderland. With a slender stock of money he set off for that town. By
an odd coincidence the name of the new house was the Lyceum. The play
appointed was ‘Richelieu,’ and the opening night was fixed for September
29, 1856. The young actor was cast for the part of the Duke of Orleans,
and had to speak the opening words of the piece.
Mr. Alfred Davis, a well-known provincial actor, and son of the northern
manager, used often to recall the circumstances attending Irving’s “first
appearance on any stage.” “The new theatre,” he says, “was opened in
September, 1856, and on the 29th of that month we started. For months
previously a small army of scenic artists had been at work. Carpenters,
property-makers, and, of course, _costumiers_, had been working night and
day, and everything was, as far as could be foreseen, ready and perfect.
Among the names of a carefully-selected _corps dramatique_ were those of
our old friend Sam Johnson (now of the Lyceum Theatre, London); George
Orvell (real name, Frederick Kempster); Miss Ely Loveday (sister of H.
J. Loveday, the present genial and much-respected stage-manager of the
Lyceum), afterwards married to Mr. Kempster; and a youthful novice, just
eighteen, called Henry Irving. Making his first appearance, he spoke the
first word in the first piece (played for the first time in the town, I
believe), on the first or opening night of the new theatre. The words
of the speech itself, ‘_Here’s to our enterprise!_’ had in them almost
a prophetic tone of aspiration and success. So busy was I in front and
behind the scenes, that I was barely able to reach my place on the stage
in time for the rising of the curtain. I kept my back to the audience
till my cue to speak was given, all the while buttoning up, tying, and
finishing my dressing generally, so that scant attention would be given
to others. But even under these circumstances I was compelled to notice,
and with perfect appreciation, the great and most minute care which had
been bestowed by our aspirant on the completion of his costume. In those
days managers provided the mere dress. Accessories, or ‘properties’ as
they were called, were found by every actor. Henry Irving was, from his
splendid white hat and feathers to the tips of his shoes, a perfect
picture; and, no doubt, had borrowed his authority from some historical
picture of the Louis XIII. period.”
“The impersonation,” as the neophyte related it long afterwards, “was
not a success. I was nervous, and suffered from stage fright. My second
appearance as Cleomenes in ‘A Winter’s Tale’ was even more disheartening,
as in Act V. I entirely forgot my lines, and abruptly quitted the scene,
putting out all the other actors. My manager, however, put down my
failure to right causes, and instead of dispensing with my services, gave
me some strong and practical advice.”
All which is dramatic enough, and gives us a glimpse of the good old
provincial stage life. That touch of encouragement instead of dismissal
is significant of the fair, honest system which then obtained in this
useful training school.