1866.
THE ST. JAMES’S THEATRE—‘HUNTED DOWN’—THE NEW VAUDEVILLE THEATRE—‘THE TWO
ROSES.’
The directress of the new venture at the St. James’s Theatre was Miss
Herbert, a graceful, sympathetic person of much beauty, with exquisite
golden hair and almost devotional features, which supplied many of the
Pre-Raphaelite brethren with angelic faces for their canvases. On the
stage her efforts were directed by great intelligence and spirit, and
she was now about to essay all the difficulties and perplexities of
management. Like so many others, she had before her a very high ideal
of her office: the good, vivacious old comedies, with refined, correct
acting, were to entice the wayward public, with pieces by Reade, Tom
Taylor, and Boucicault. This pleasing actress was destined to have a
chequered course of struggle and adventure, a mingled yarn of success and
disappointment, and has long since retired from the stage.
At the St. James’s Theatre the company was formed of the manageress
herself; of Walter Lacy, an actor of fine polish and grace; of Addison,
one of the old school; with that excellent mirth-making pair, the Frank
Mathews. The stage-manager was Irving. Here, then, he found himself, to
his inexpressible satisfaction, in a respected and respectable position,
one very different from that of the actor-of-all-work in the provinces.
Not the least comforting reflection was that he had won his way to this
station by remarkable talent and conscientious labour. The theatre
opened on October 6, 1866. ‘Hunted Down’ was the piece originally fixed
upon, but it could not be got ready in time, so a change was made to the
lively old comedy of the ‘Belle’s Stratagem,’ the name which it had been
originally proposed to give to Oliver Goldsmith’s ‘She Stoops to Conquer.’
The actor tells us of this interesting occasion: “I was cast for
Doricourt, 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, upon 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 upon the scene, a somewhat unusual thing except
upon the operatic stage.”[3] This compliment is nearly always paid to our
actor when he performs this part.
In the criticisms of the piece the efforts of the interesting
manageress-actress of course received the chief attention. Dramatic
criticism, however, at this time was of a somewhat slender kind, and the
elaborate study of an individual performer’s merits was not then in
fashion. The play itself was then “the thing,” and accordingly we find
the new actor’s exertions dealt with in a curt but encouraging style:
“Mr. H. Irving was the fine gentleman in Doricourt: but he was more,
for his mad scenes were truthfully conceived and most subtly executed.”
Thus the _Athenæum_. And Mr. Oxenford, with his usual reserve, after
pronouncing that the comedy was “a compound of English dulness and
Italian pantomime,” added that Doricourt “was heavy company till he
feigns madness, and the mock insanity represented by Mr. H. Irving is the
cause of considerable mirth.” This slight and meagre tribute contrasts
oddly with the elaborate fulness of stage criticism in our day.
The piece has always continued in the actor’s _répertoire_, after being
compressed into a few scenes. The rich, old-fashioned dress and powder
suits the performer and sets off his intelligent features, which wear a
smiling expression, as though consciously enjoying the comedy flavour of
the piece.
A little later, on November 5, ‘Hunted Down’ was brought forward, in
which the actor, as Rawdon Scudamore, made a deep impression. It was
declared that the part “completely served the purpose of displaying
the talent of Mr. Henry Irving, whose ability in depicting the most
vindictive feelings, _merely by dint of facial expression_, is very
remarkable.” Facial expression is, unhappily, but little used on our
English stage, and yet it is one of the most potent agencies—more so than
speech or gesture.[4] It was admitted, too, that he displayed another
precious gift—reserve—conveying even more than he expressed: a store of
secret villainy as yet unrevealed. Many were the compliments paid him on
this creation; and friends of Charles Dickens know how much struck he
was with the new actor’s impersonation. The novelist was always eager to
recognise new talent of this kind. Some years later, “Charles Dickens the
younger,” as he was then called, related at a banquet how his celebrated
father had once gone to see the ‘Lancashire Lass,’ and on his return
home had said: “But there was a young fellow in the play who sits at the
table and is bullied by Sam Emery; his name is Henry Irving, and if that
young man does not one day come out as a great actor, I know nothing of
art.” A worthy descendant of the Kembles, Mrs. Sartoris, also heartily
appreciated his powers.[5] During the season a round of pieces were
brought forward, such as ‘The Road to Ruin,’ ‘The School for Scandal’
(in which he played young Dornton and Joseph Surface), ‘Robert Macaire,’
and a new Robertson drama, ‘A Rapid Thaw,’ in which he took the part of
a conventional Irishman, O’Hoolagan! It must have been a quaint surprise
to see our actor in a Hibernian character. After the season closed, the
company went “on tour” to Liverpool, Dublin, and other towns.[6]
Miss Herbert’s venture, like so many other ventures planned on an
intellectual basis, did not flourish exceedingly; and in the course of
the years that followed we find our actor appearing rather fitfully
at various London theatres, which at this time, before the great
revival of the stage, were in rather an unsettled state. He went with
Sothern to play in Paris, appearing at the Théâtre des Italiens, and
in December, 1867, found an engagement at the Queen’s Theatre in Long
Acre, a sort of “converted” concert-room, where nothing seemed to
thrive; and here for the first time he played with Miss Ellen Terry,
in ‘Catherine and Petruchio’ (a piece it might be well worth while to
revive at the Lyceum); and in that very effective drama, ‘Dearer than
Life,’ with Brough and Toole; in ‘The School for Scandal’; also making a
striking effect in ‘Bill Sikes.’ I fancy this character, though somewhat
discounted by Dubosc, would, if revived, add to his reputation. We find
him also performing the lugubrious Falkland in ‘The Rivals.’ He also
played Redburn in the highly popular ‘Lancashire Lass,’ which “ran”
for many months. At the Queen’s Theatre he remained for over a year,
not making any marked advance in his profession, owing to the lack of
favourable opportunities. He had a part in Watts Phillips’ drama of ‘Not
Guilty.’ Then, in 1869, he came to the Haymarket, and had an engagement
at Drury Lane in Boucicault’s ‘Formosa,’ a piece that gave rise to
much excited discussion on the ground of the “moralities.” His part
was, however, colourless, being little more than a cardboard figure:
anything fuller or rounder would have been lost on so huge a stage. It
was performed, or “ran,” for over a hundred nights. With his sensitive,
impressionable nature the performance of so barren a character must
have been positive pain: his dramatic soul lay blank and fallow during
the whole of that unhappy time. Not very much ground had been gained
beyond the reputation of a sound and useful performer. Relying on my
own personal impressions—for I followed him from the beginning of his
course—I should say that the first distinct effort that left prominent
and distinct impression was his performance at the Gaiety Theatre, in
December, 1869, of the cold, pompous Mr. Chenevix, in Byron’s ‘Uncle
Dick’s Darling.’ It was felt at once, as I then felt, that here was a
rich original creation, a figure that lingered in the memory, and which
you followed, as it moved, with interest and pleasure. There was a
surprising finish and reserve. It was agreed that we had now an actor of
_genre_, who had the power of creating a character. The impression made
was really remarkable, and this specimen of good, pure comedy was set
off by the pathetic acting of “friend Toole,” who played ‘Uncle Dick.’
This was a turning-point in his career, and no doubt led to an important
advance. But these days of uncertainty were now to close. I can recall
my own experience of the curious pleasure and satisfaction left by the
performance of this unfamiliar actor, who suggested so much more than
the rather meagre character itself conveyed. I found myself drawn to see
it several times, and still the feeling was always that of some secret
undeveloped power in the clever, yet unpretending, performer.
Irving can tell a story in the pleasantest “high comedy” manner, and
without laying emphasis on points. In May last, being entertained by the
“Savages,” he made a most agreeable speech, and related this adventure
of his early Bohemian days, in illustration of the truth that “it is
always well to have a personal acquaintance with a presiding magistrate.”
“I had driven one night from the Albion to some rooms I occupied in old
Quebec Street, and after bidding the cabman farewell, I was preparing
to seek repose, when there came a knock at the door. Upon opening it
I found the cabman, who said that I had given him a bad half-crown.
Restraining myself, I told him ‘to be—to begone.’ I shut the door, but
in a few moments there came another knock, and with the cabman appeared
a policeman, who said, with the grave formality of his office, ‘You
are charged with passing a bad half-crown, and must come with me to
the police-station.’ I explained that I was a respectable, if unknown,
citizen, pursuing a noble, though precarious, calling, and that I could
be found in the morning at the address I had given. The policeman was
not at all impressed by that, so I jumped into the cab and went to the
station, where the charge was entered upon the night-sheet, and I was
briefly requested to make myself at home. ‘Do you intend me to spend the
night here?’ I said to the inspector. ‘Certainly,’ he said; ‘that is the
idea.’ So I asked him to oblige me with a pencil and a piece of paper,
which he reluctantly gave me. I addressed a few words to Sir Thomas
Henry, who was then presiding magistrate at Bow Street, and with whom I
had an intimacy, in an unofficial capacity. The inspector looked at me.
‘Do you know Sir Thomas Henry?’ he said. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I have that
honour.’ The officer suddenly turned round to the policeman and said,
‘What do you mean by bringing such a charge against this gentleman?’
Then he turned fiercely on the cabman, and nearly kicked him out of the
office. I returned home triumphantly in the cab. I cannot give a young
‘Savage’ first starting on his career a sounder piece of advice than
this—‘Always know your own mind, and also a magistrate.’” We practised
_littérateurs_ might well envy the pleasant facility and point with which
this is told.
About this time an attractive actor, who had been much followed on
account of his good looks, one Harry Montague, had joined in management
with two diverting drolls—as they were then—James and Thorne, who were
the pillars of burlesque at the Strand Theatre. All three felt a sort
of inspiration that they were capable of something higher and more
“legitimate”—an impression which the event has more than justified. The
two last, by assiduous study and better opportunities, became admirable
comedians. A sort of club that had not prospered was lying unused in the
Strand, and a little alteration converted it into a theatre. The three
managers were anxiously looking for a piece of modern manners which
would exhibit to advantage their several gifts. A young fellow, who had
left his desk for playwriting, had brought them a sort of comedy which
was in a very crude state, but which, it seemed likely, could be made
what they wanted; and by the aid of their experience and suggestions, it
was fashioned into shape. Indeed, it proved that never was a piece more
admirably suited to the company that played it. The characters fitted
them all, as it is called, “like gloves.” They were bright, interesting,
natural, and humorous; the story was pleasing and interesting, and the
dialogue agreeable and smart. Such was ‘The Two Roses,’ which still holds
the stage, though it now seems a little old-fashioned. Irving was one of
the performers, and was perhaps the best suited of the group. The perfect
success of the piece proved how advantageous is the old system of having
a piece “written in the theatre,” when the intelligence of the performers
and that of the managers are brought in aid of each other. The little
house opened on April 16, 1870, with a piece of Mr. Halliday’s; and it
was not until a few weeks later that the piece was brought forward—on
June 4. The success was instantaneous.
The unctuous Honey, in his own line an excellent original actor, raised
in the good old school of the “low comedian,” which has now disappeared,
was the good-natured Bagman—a part taken later by James, who was also
excellent. Thorne was efficient, and sufficiently reserved, in the
rather unmeaning blind Caleb Decie; while Montague was the gallant and
interesting hero, Jack Wyatt. The two girls were represented in pleasing
fashion by Miss Amy Fawcitt and Miss Newton. The piece, as I have said,
owed much to the actors, though these again owed much to the piece. It
is difficult to adjust the balance of obligation in such cases; but good
actors can make nothing of a bad play, whereas a good play may make
good actors. Irving, as Digby Grant, was the chief attraction, and his
extraordinarily finished and varied playing of that insincere and selfish
being excited general admiration.
It has not been noticed, in these days of appropriation, that the piece
was practically an ingenious variation, or adaptation, of Dickens’
‘Little Dorrit.’ For here we find old Dorrit, his two daughters, and one
of their admirers; also the constant loans, the sudden good fortune, and
the equally sudden reverse. It was easy to see that the piece had been
formed by the evolution of this one character, the legitimate method, it
has always seemed to me, of making a play; whereas the average dramatist
adopts a reverse practice of finding a story, and then finding characters
for it. Character itself _is_ a story. The character of Digby Grant was
the first that gave him firm hold of public favour. It belongs to pure
comedy—a fidgety, selfish being, self-deluded by the practice of social
hypocrisies, querulous, scheming, wheedling. It is curious that a very
good actor, who later filled the part, took the villainy _au sérieux_,
giving the complaint, “_You annoy me very much!_” repeated so often, as a
genuine reproach, and with anger. Irving’s was the true view—a simulated
vexation, “_You annoy me very much!_” The audience sees that he is not
“annoyed very much.”
After our actor’s visit to America, his performance was noticed
to be more elaborate and laboured, but it had lost some of its
spontaneousness—a result which, it has been noted, is too often the
result of playing to American audiences, who are pleased with broad
effects. This piece continued to be played for about a year—then thought
to be a prodigious run, though it is now found common enough—during which
time Irving’s reputation steadily increased.[7]