1871.
‘THE BELLS’—WILLS’S ‘CHARLES I.’
Among those who had taken note of Irving’s efforts was a “long-headed”
American manager, whose loudly-expressed criticism was that “he ought
to play Richelieu!” This was a far-seeing view. Many years before, this
manager had been carrying round the country his two “prodigy” daughters,
who had attracted astonishment by their precocious playing in a pretty
little piece of courtship, called ‘The Young Couple.’ The elder later
won favour by her powerful and intense acting in ‘Leah’; and he was
now about taking a theatre with a view of bringing forward his second
daughter, Isabel. It seems curious now to think that the handsome,
elegantly-designed Lyceum Theatre, built by an accomplished architect
on the most approved principles, was then lying derelict, as it were,
and at the service of any stray _entrepreneur_. It could be had on very
cheap terms, for at this time the revival of theatrical interest had not
yet come; the theatre, not yet in high fashion, was conducted on rude,
coarse lines. The attractions of the old correct comedy, as seen at the
Haymarket, were waning, and the old companies were beginning to break up.
Buckstone and Webster were in their decay, yet still lagged ingloriously
on the stage. The pit and galleries were catered for. Theatres were
constantly opening, and as constantly closing. Burlesques of the Gaiety
pattern were coming into favour. In this state of things the shrewd
American saw an opportunity. He had an excellent coadjutor in his wife, a
clever, hard working lady, with characteristics that often suggested the
good-natured Mrs. Crummles, but without any of her eccentricities. Her
husband took the Lyceum, and proceeded to form a company; and one of his
first steps was to offer an engagement to Irving.
The new venture started on September 11, 1871, with an unimportant piece,
‘Fanchette,’ founded on George Sand’s ‘Petite Fadette,’ in which our
actor had a character quite unsuited to his gifts, a sort of peasant
lover.[8] The object was to introduce the manager’s daughter, Isabel,
in a fantastical part, but the piece was found “too French,” and rather
far-fetched. It failed very disastrously. The young actor, of course, had
to bear his share in the failure; but he could not have dreamt at that
moment that here he was to find his regular home, and that for twenty
long years he was destined never to be away from the shadow of the great
portico of the Lyceum.
The prospect for the American manager was now not very encouraging. He
had made a serious mistake at starting. In a few weeks he had replaced it
by a version of _Pickwick_, with a view of utilizing his chief comedian’s
talent as “Jingle.” The play was but a rude piece of carpentry, without
any of the flavour of the novel, hastily put together and acted
indifferently; the actors were dressed after the pictures in the story,
but did not catch the spirit of their characters. Irving in face and
figure and dress was thoroughly Pickwickian, and reproduced Seymour and
Hablot Browne’s sketch, very happily catching the recklessness and rattle
of the original. Still, it was difficult to avoid the suggestion of
‘Jeremy Diddler,’ or of the hero of ‘A Race for a Dinner.’ The reason,
perhaps, was that the adaptation was conceived in a purely farcical
spirit. It has always seemed to me that “the Immortal Pickwick” should
be treated as comedy rather than farce, and would be more effective on
the stage were the Jingle scenes set forth with due seriousness and
sincerity. The incidents at the Rochester Ball, for instance, belong to
pure comedy, and would be highly effective. Some years later Irving put
the work into the not very skilful hands of Albery, who reduced it to
the proportions of a farce with some pathetic elements. It was called
‘Jingle.’
At this time there was “hanging loose on” the theatres, as Dr. Johnson
once phrased it, one Leopold Lewis, who had been seduced from an office
by the enchantments of the stage. He had made a translation of a very
striking French play, ‘Le Juif Polonais,’ which had been shown to the new
actor. This, as is well known, was by the gifted pair Erckmann-Chatrian,
whose realistic but picturesque stories, that call up before us the old
“Elsass” life, show extraordinary dramatic power. This ‘Juif Polonais’ is
more a succession of tableaux than a formal play, but, like ‘L’Ami Fritz’
of the same writers, it has a charm that is irresistible. It is forgotten
that a version of this piece had already been brought before the public
at one of the minor theatres, which was the work of Mr. F. C. Burnand,
at that time a busy caterer for the theatres, chiefly of melodramas, such
as the ‘Turn of the Tide’ and ‘Deadman’s Point.’
“Much against the wish of my friends,” says our actor, “I took an
engagement at the Lyceum, then under the management of Mr. Bateman. I
had successfully acted in many plays besides ‘The Two Roses,’ which ran
three hundred nights. It was thought by everybody interested in such
matters that I ought to identify myself with what they called ‘character
parts’; though what that phrase means, by the way, I never could exactly
understand, for I have a prejudice in the belief that every part should
be a character. I always wanted to play in the higher drama. Even in my
boyhood my desire had been in that direction. When at the Vaudeville
Theatre, I recited the poem of ‘Eugene Aram,’ simply to get an idea as
to whether I could impress an audience with a tragic theme. I hoped I
could, and at once made up my mind to prepare myself to play characters
of another type. When Mr. Bateman engaged me he told me he would give
me an opportunity, if he could, to play various parts, as it was to
his interest as much as to mine to discover what he thought would be
successful—though, of course, never dreaming of ‘Hamlet’ or of ‘Richard
III.’ Well, the Lyceum opened, but did not succeed. Mr. Bateman had lost
a lot of money, and he intended giving it up. He proposed to me to go
to America with him. By my advice, and against his wish, ‘The Bells’
was rehearsed, but he did not believe in it much. When he persuaded the
manager to produce ‘The Bells,’ he was told there was a prejudice against
that sort of romantic play. It produced a very poor house, although a
most enthusiastic one. From that time the theatre prospered.”
Our actor, thus always earnest and persuasive, pressed his point, and
at last extorted consent—and the play, which required scarcely any
mounting, was performed on November 25, 1871. At that time I was living
in the south of France, in a remote and solitary place, and I recollect
the surprise and curiosity with which I heard and read of the powerful
piece that had been produced, and of the more extraordinary triumph of
the new actor. Everyone, according to the well-worn phrase, seemed to be
“electrified.” The story was novel, and likely to excite the profoundest
interest.
An extraordinary alteration, due, I believe, to the manager, was the
introduction of the vision of the Jew in his sledge, a device unmeaning
and illogical. In the original the morbid remorse of the guilty man is
roused by the visit of a travelling Jew, which very naturally excites his
perturbed spirit. But this vision discounts, as it were, and enfeebles
the _second_ vision. The piece would have been presented under far more
favourable conditions had it been prepared by or adapted by someone of
more skill and delicacy than Mr. Leopold Lewis.
For twenty years and more this remarkable impersonation has kept its
hold upon audiences, and whenever it is revived for an occasional
performance or for a longer “run,” it never fails to draw full houses;
and so it doubtless will do to the end of the actor’s career. It was his
introduction to the American audiences; and it is likely enough that it
will be the piece in which he will take his farewell.
The new actor was now becoming a “personality.” Everyone of note
discovered that he was interesting in many ways, and was eager to
know such a man. The accomplished Sir E. Bulwer Lytton wrote that his
performance was “too admirable not to be appreciated by every competent
judge of art,” and added, “that any author would be fortunate who
obtained his assistance in some character that was worthy of his powers.”
A little later the actor took this hint, and was glad to do full justice
to several pieces of this brilliant and gifted writer.
At this time there was a clever young man “on town” who had furnished
Mr. Vezin with a fine and effective play, ‘The Man o’ Airlie,’ from a
German original. He was a poet of much grace, his lines were musical, and
suited for theatrical delivery; he had been successful as a novelist, and
was, moreover, a portrait-painter in the elegant art of pastel, then but
little practised. In this latter direction it was predicted that he was
likely to win a high position, but the attractions of the stage were too
strong for him. Becoming acquainted with the popular actor, a subject for
a new creation was suggested by his very physique and dreamy style. This
was the story of the unhappy Charles I. Both the manager and the player
welcomed the suggestion, and the dramatist set to work. Though possessed
of true feeling and a certain inspiration, the author was carried away
by his ardour into a neglect of the canons of the stage, writing masses
of poetry of inordinate length, which he brought to his friends at the
theatre, until they at last began to despair. Many changes had to be made
before the poem could be brought into satisfactory shape; and, by aid of
the tact and experience of the manager and his actor, the final act was
at last completed to the satisfaction of all.[9]
‘Charles I.’ was brought out on September 28, 1872. Having been present
on this night, I can recall the tranquil pleasure and satisfaction and
absorbing interest which this very legitimate and picturesque performance
imparted, while the melodious and poetical lines fell acceptably on the
ear. This tranquil tone contrasted effectively with the recent tumult and
agitation of ‘The Bells.’ It was a perfect success, and the author shared
in the glories.
Only lately we followed the once popular Wills to his grave in the
Brompton Cemetery. His somewhat erratic and, I fear, troubled course
closed in the month of December, 1891. There was a curious suggestion,
or reminiscence, of his countryman Goldsmith in his character and ways.
Like that great poet, he had a number of “hangers-on” and admirers who
were always welcome to his “bit and sup,” and helped to kill the hours.
If there was no bed there was a sofa. There were stories, too, of a
“piece purse” on the chimney to which people might apply. He had the
same sanguine temperament as Goldsmith, and the slightest opening would
present him with a magnificent prospect, on which his ready imagination
would lavish all sorts of roseate hues. He was always going to make
his fortune, or to make a “great hit.” He had the same heedless way of
talking, making warm and even ardent protestations and engagements which
he could not help forgetting within an hour. But these were amiable
weaknesses. He had a thoroughly good heart, was as sensitive as a woman,
or as _some_ women, affectionate and generous. His life, I fear, was to
the close one of troubles and anxiety. He certainly did much for the
Lyceum, and was our actor’s favourite author. ‘Charles I.,’ ‘Eugene
Aram,’ ‘Olivia,’ ‘Iolanthe,’ ‘Faust,’ ‘Vanderdecken’ (in part), ‘Don
Quixote’—these were his contributions.
The play was written after the correct and classical French model. The
opening scene, as a bit of pictorial effect—the placid garden of Hampton
Court, with a startling reproduction of Vandyke’s figure—has always been
admired, and furnishes “the note” of the play. All through the actor
presented a spectacle of calm and dignified suffering, that disdained
to resent or protest; some of his pathetic passages, such as the gentle
rebuke to the faithless Huntley and the parting with his children, have
always made the handkerchiefs busy.
The leading actor was well supported by Miss Isabel Bateman in the
character of the Queen, to which she imparted a good deal of pathetic
feeling and much grace. For many years she was destined to figure in
all the pieces in which he played. This, it need not be said, was of
advantage for the development of her powers. Even a mediocre performer
cannot withstand the inspiration that comes of such companionship; while
constant playing with a really good actor has often made a good actress.
But the manager, who had some odd, native notions of his own, as to
delicacy and the refinements generally, must have rather inconvenienced
or disturbed—to say the least of it—our actor, by giving him as a
coadjutor, in the part of Cromwell, an effective low-comedy actor of
_genre_, in the person of Mr. George Belmore, who did his work with a
conscientious earnestness, but with little colouring or picturesque
effect. On a later occasion he supplied another performer who was yet
more unsuited—viz., the late Mr. John Clayton—who used to open the
night’s proceedings in a light rattling touch-and-go farce, such as
‘A Regular Fix.’ Both these actors, excellent in their line, lacked
the weight and dignified associations necessary for the high school of
tragedy.[10]
One of those vehement and amusing discussions which occasionally arise
out of a play, and furnish prodigious excitement for the public, was
aroused by the conception taken of Cromwell, which was, in truth, opposed
to tradition; for the Protector was exhibited as willing to condone the
King’s offences, and to desert his party, for the “consideration” of a
marriage between himself and one of the King’s daughters. This ludicrous
view, based on some loose gossip, was, reasonably enough, thought
to degrade Cromwell’s character, and the point was debated with much
fierceness.
During the “run” of ‘Charles I.’ the successful dramatist was busy
preparing a new poetical piece on the subject of Eugene Aram. It is not
generally known that the author himself dramatized his story. This was
produced on April 19, 1873, but the tone seemed to be too lugubrious,
the actor passing from one mournful soliloquy to another. There was but
little action. The ordinary versions are more effective. But the actor
himself produced a deep, poetical impression.
The manager, now in the height of success, adopted a style of “bold
advertisement,” that suggested Elliston’s amusing exaggerations.[11] The
piece ran for over one hundred and fifty nights, to May 17, 1873, and
during a portion of the time the versatile player would finish the night
with ‘Jeremy Diddler.’
The new season of 1873 began on September 27, with Lord Lytton’s
‘Richelieu.’ It is a tribute to the prowess of that gifted man that
his three pieces—the ever-fresh and fair ‘Lady of Lyons,’ ‘Money,’ and
‘Richelieu’—should be really the only genuine stock-pieces of the modern
stage. They never seem out of fashion, and are always welcomed. It might
be said, indeed, that there is hardly a night on which the ‘Lady of
Lyons’ is not _somewhere_ acted. In ‘Richelieu’ the actor presented a
truly picturesque figure—he was aged, tottering, nervous, but rallying
to full vigour when the occasion called. The well-known scene, where he
invokes “the curse of Rome,” produced extraordinary enthusiasm, cheers,
waving of handkerchiefs, and a general uproar from the pit. It was in
this piece that those “mannerisms” which have been so often “girded
at,” often with much pitilessness, began to attract attention. In this
part, as in the first attempt in ‘Macbeth,’ there was noted a lack of
restraint, something hysterical at times, when control seemed to be set
aside. The truth is, most of his attempts at this period were naturally
_experiments_, and very different from those deliberate, long-prepared,
and well-matured representations he offered under the responsibility of
serious management.
This piece was succeeded by an original play, ‘Philip,’ by an agreeable
writer who had made a name as a novelist, Mr. Hamilton Aïdé—a dramatic
story of the average pattern, and founded on jealousy. It was produced on
February 7, and enjoyed a fair share of success.