1874.
‘HAMLET’—‘OTHELLO’—‘MACBETH’—DEATH OF ‘THE COLONEL’—‘QUEEN MARY.’
But now was to be made a serious experiment, on which much was to depend.
Hitherto Irving had not travelled out of the regions of conventional
drama, or of what might be called romantic melodrama; but he was now
to lay hands on the ark, and attempt the most difficult and arduous of
Shakespearian characters, Hamlet. Every actor has a dream of performing
the character, and fills up his disengaged moments with speculations as
to the interpretation. The vitality of this wonderful play is such that
it nearly always is a novelty for the audience, because the character is
fitfully changeful, and offers innumerable modes of interpretation.
The momentous trial was made on October 31, 1874. It had long and
studiously been prepared for: and the actor, in his solitary walks
during the days of his provincial servitude, had worked out his formal
conception of the character. There was much curiosity and expectation;
and it was noted that so early as three o’clock in the afternoon a dense
crowd had assembled in the long tunnel that leads from the Strand to
the pit door. I was present in the audience, and can testify to the
excitement. Nothing I have ever seen on the stage, except perhaps the
burst that greeted Sarah Bernhardt’s speech in ‘Phèdre’ on the first
night of the French Comedy in London, has approached the tumult of the
moment when the actor, after the play scene, flung himself into the
King’s chair.
Our actor judiciously took account of all criticisms, and with later
performances subdued or toned down what was extravagant. The whole gained
in thoughtfulness and in general meditative tone, and it is admitted that
the meaning of the intricate soliloquies could not be more distinctly or
more intelligibly conveyed to an audience. He played a good deal with his
face, as it is called: with smilings of intelligence, as if interested or
amused. But, as a whole, his conception of the character may be said to
remain the same as it was on that night.
The play was mounted with the favourite economy of the manager,
and contrasted with the unsparing lavishness of decoration which
characterized its later revival. But the actors were good. The sound,
“full-bodied” old Chippendale was Polonius; Swinburne, also of the old
school, was the King; and the worthy Mead, long ago a star himself,
and one of Mr. Phelps’ corps, “discharged” the Ghost with admirable
impression and elocution.[12] He has now passed away, after long service,
to “that bourne,” etc. Miss Bateman was interesting, and Mrs. Pauncefort,
who was till lately at the Lyceum, was an excellent Queen. Actor and
manager expected much success for ‘Hamlet,’ and counted on a run of
eighty nights, but it was performed for two hundred! To the present hour
it has always continued—though sparingly revived—the most interesting of
the actor’s performances, looked for with an intellectual curiosity.
In March the hundredth night of ‘Hamlet’ was celebrated by a banquet,
given in the saloon of the Lyceum Theatre, at which all the critics and
literary persons connected with the stage were present. This method of
festivity has since become familiar enough, owing to the never-flagging
hospitality of the later manager of the Lyceum, and offers a striking
contrast to the older days, when it was intimated that “_chicken and
champagne_” was a ready method of propitiating the critics. Mr. Pigott,
who had recently been appointed the Licenser of Plays, a man of many
friends, from his amiability—now, alas! gone from us—proposed the health
of the lessee, which was followed by the health of the actor and of the
author of the establishment, the latter, as it was rather sarcastically
said, “giving the hundred and odd literary men present the oft-repeated
illustration of how far apart are authorship and oratory.” The good old
Chippendale told how he had played Polonius to the Hamlet of Kemble,
Kean, Young, and other famous tragedians; but protested that “the most
natural and, to his mind, the most truthful representation he had seen
was that of his friend here.” Something must be allowed for post-prandial
exuberance, and no one could more shrewdly appreciate their value than
the actor himself. We may be certain that in his “heart of heart” he did
not agree that he had excelled Kemble, Kean, Young, and the others. It
was interesting, however, to meet such histrionic links with the past,
which are now broken. Mr. Howe is perhaps the only person now surviving
who could supply reminiscences of the kind.
A second Shakespearian piece was now determined on, and on February 14,
1875, ‘Othello’ was brought out. This, it was admitted, was not a very
effective performance. It was somewhat hysterical, and in his agitation
the actor exhibited movements almost panther-like, with many strange and
novel notes. The ascetic face, too, was not in harmony with the dusky
lineaments of ‘the Moor.’ Here, again, his notion of the character was
immature.
In the full tide of all this prosperity, theatre-goers were startled to
learn that the shrewd and capable manager, the energetic “old Colonel,”
as he was styled by his friends, was dead. This event occurred, with
great suddenness, on Monday, March 22, 1875. On the Sunday he had been
at a banquet at a Pall Mall restaurant in company with his leading actor
and other friends, but on the next day, complaining of a headache, he lay
down. His daughter went as usual to the theatre, to which word was soon
brought that he had passed away peacefully. It was thought advisable to
let the performance be completed, and the strange coincidence was noted
that while his child was bewailing the loss of her theatrical sire, the
old Polonius, she was unconscious of the blow which had deprived her of
her real parent.
There was much speculation as to what arrangement would follow, and
some surprise when it was announced that the widow was ready to step
intrepidly into his place, and carry on matters exactly as before. The
mainstay of the house was ready to support her, and though bound by
his engagement, he would, had he been so inclined, have found it easy
to dissolve it, or make it impracticable. He resolved to lend his best
efforts to support the undertaking, in which his views would, of course,
prevail. It was hardly a prudent arrangement, as the result proved, for
the three years that followed were scarcely advantageous to his progress.
The management was to be of a thrifty kind, without boldness, and lacking
the shrewd, safe instincts of the late manager; while the actor had the
burden, without the freedom, of responsibility. It struck some that the
excellent Mrs. Bateman was “insisting” somewhat too much upon the family
element. The good-hearted, busy, and managing lady was in truth unsuited
to bear the burden of a great London theatre, and what woman could be?
her views were hardly “large” enough, and too old-fashioned. The public
was not slow to find all this out, and the fortunes of the theatre
began almost at once to change. Our actor, ambitious, and encouraged by
plaudits, was eager to essay new parts; and the manageress, entirely
dependent on his talent, was naturally anxious to gratify him. Here it
was that the deliberation of the “old Colonel” became valuable. He would
debate a question, examine it from all points, feel the public pulse, and
this rational conduct influenced his coadjutor. Irving was, in truth, in
a false position.
‘Macbeth’ was speedily got ready, and produced on September 18, 1875.
Miss Bateman, of Leah fame, was the Lady Macbeth, but the performance
scarcely added to her reputation. The actor, as may be conceived, was
scarcely then suited, by temperament or physique, to the part, and by a
natural instinct made it conform to his own particular qualifications.
His conception was that of a dreamy, shrinking being, overwhelmed with
terrors and remorse, speaking in whispers, and enfeebled by his own
dismal ruminations. There was general clamour and fierce controversy
over this reading, for by this time the sympathetic powers of the player
had begun to exercise their attraction. He had a large and passionately
enthusiastic following; but there were Guelphs and Ghibellines,
Irvingites and anti-Irvingites—the latter a scornful and even derisive
faction. I could fancy some of the old school, honest “Jack” Ryder, for
instance, as they patrolled the Strand at mid-day, expatiating on the
folly of the public: “Call _him_ an actor!” Some of them had played with
Macready, “and _they_ should think they knew pretty well what acting
was!” This resentful tone has been evoked again and again with every new
actor.[13]
Objection was taken to the uncertainty in the touches; the figure did
not “stand out” so much as it ought. Much of this, however, was owing
to the lack of effect in the Lady Macbeth, who, assuming hoarse and
“charnel-house” tones, seemed to suggest something of Meg Merrilies. On
the later revival, however, his interpretation became bold, firm, and
consistent. The play had, however, a good deal of attraction, and was
played for some eighty nights.
The King in Tennyson’s play-poem, ‘Queen Mary,’ I have always thought
one of the best, most picturesque, of Irving’s impersonations, from the
realization it offered of the characters, impressions, feelings, of what
he represented: it was complete in every point of view. As regards its
length, it might be considered trifling; but it became important because
of the _largeness_ of the place it fitted. Profound was the impression
made by the actor’s Philip—not by what he had to say, which was little,
or by what he had to do, which was less, or by the dress or “make-up,”
which was remarkable. He seemed to speak by the expression of his figure
and glances; and apart from the meaning of his spoken words, there was
another meaning beyond—viz., the character, the almost diseased solitude,
the heartless indifference, and other odious historical characteristics
of the Prince, with which it was plain the actor had filled himself. Mr.
Whistler’s grim, antique portrait conveys this perfectly.
His extraordinary success was now to rouse the jealousy, and even
malignity, which followed his course in his earlier days, and was not
unaccompanied with coarse ridicule and caricature, directed against
the actor’s legs even. “Do you know,” said a personage of Whistlerian
principles—“do you know, it seems to me there is a great deal of _pathos_
in Irving’s legs, particularly in the _left_ leg!”
A letter had appeared, in January, 1876, in _Fun_, the _Punch_ of the
middle and lower class, addressed to “The Fashionable Tragedian.” It
affected alarm at the report that, “so soon as the present failure
can with dignity be withdrawn,” he intended to startle the public and
Shakespearian scholars with ‘Othello.’ In the name of that humanity
“to which, in spite of your transcendent abilities, you cannot help
belonging,” he was entreated to forbear, if only for the sake of order
and morality. “With the hireling fashion of the press at your command,
you have induced the vulgar and unthinking to consider you a model of
histrionic ability.” In the course of the investigation the article was
traced to a writer who has since become popular as a dramatist, and who,
as might be expected, has furnished a fair proportion of murders and
other villainies to the stage. What was behind the attack it would be
difficult to say; but there are people to whom sudden unexpected success
is a subject of irritation. Just as hypocrisy is the homage paid to vice,
so it may be that the attacks of this kind are some of the penalties that
have to be paid for success.
When the theatre closed in 1876, the indefatigable manageress organized
a tour of the company in the provinces, with the view of introducing the
new tragedian to country audiences. There was, as may be conceived, a
prodigious curiosity to see him, and the tour was very successful. She
brought to the task her usual energy and spirit of organization; though
with so certain an attraction, the tour, like a good piece, might be said
to “play itself,” on the principle of _ma femme et cinq poupées_. I can
recall the image of the busy lady on one of these nights at Liverpool or
Birmingham, seated in her office, surrounded by papers, the play going
on close by, the music of a house crowded to overflowing being borne
to her ears. There was here the old Nickleby flavour, and a primitive,
homely spirit that contrasts oddly with the present brilliant system of
“touring,” which must be “up to date,” as it is called, and supported by
as much lavishness and magnificence as is expected in the Metropolis.
After the piece came the pleasant little supper at the comfortable
lodgings.
On this occasion he was to receive the first of those intellectual
compliments which have since been paid him by most of the leading
Universities. At Dublin he excited much enthusiasm among the professors
and students of Trinity College. He was invited to receive an address
from both Fellows and students, which was presented by Lord Ashbourne,
lately Lord Chancellor of Ireland, then a Queen’s Counsel. This was
conceived in the most flattering and complimentary terms.
About this time there arrived in England the Italian actor Salvini, of
great reputation in his own country. He presented himself at Drury Lane,
then a great, dilapidated “Dom-Daniel” stored with ancient scenery,
wardrobes, and nearly always associated with disaster. In its chilling
area, and under these depressing conditions, he exhibited a very original
and dramatic conception of the Moor, chiefly marked by Southern fire
and passion. The earlier performances were sad to witness, owing to the
meagre attendance, but soon enthusiasm was kindled. It was likely that
mean natures, who had long resented the favour enjoyed by the English
actor, should here see an opportunity of setting up a rival, and of
diminishing, if possible, his well-earned popularity. Comparisons of a
rather offensive kind were now freely made, and the next manœuvre was
to industriously spread reports that the English actor was stung by an
unworthy jealousy, that the very presence of the Italian was torture to
him, and that he would not even go to see his performance. These reports
were conveyed to the Italian, who was naturally hurt, and stood coldly
aloof. The matter being thus inflamed, Irving, himself deeply resenting
the unjust imputation made on him, felt it would be undignified to seek
to justify himself for offences that he had not committed. Everyone knows
that during a long course of years no foreign actor has visited the
Lyceum without experiencing, not merely the lavish hospitality of its
manager, but a series of thoughtful kindnesses and services. But in the
present case there were unfortunately disturbing influences at work.
Indeed, as the actor day by day rose in public estimation, the flood
of caricatures, skits, etc., never relaxed. He could afford to smile
contemptuously at these efforts, and after a time they ceased to appear.
The tide was too strong to be resisted, and the lampooners even were
constrained to join in the general eulogy.[14] At one of them he must
himself have been amused—a pamphlet which dealt with his mannerisms and
little peculiarities in a very unsparing way. It was illustrated with
some malicious but clever sketches, dealing chiefly with the favourite
topic of the “legs.” My friend Mr. William Archer, who has since become a
critic of high position, about this time also wrote a pamphlet in which
he examined the actor’s claims with some severity. Yet so judicial was
the spirit of this inquiry, that I fancy the subject of it could not have
been offended by it, owing to some compliments which seemed to be, as it
were, extorted by the actor’s merit.
The new Lyceum season opened with yet one more play of
Shakespeare’s—‘Richard III.’ As might have been expected, he put aside
the old, well-established Cibberian version, a most effective piece of
its kind, and restored the pure, undiluted text of the Bard, to the
gratification, it need not be said, of all true critics and cultivated
persons. It was refreshing to assist at this intellectual feast, and to
follow the original arrangement, which had all the air of novelty.[15]
A happily-selected piece was to follow, the old melodrama of ‘The Courier
of Lyons,’ which was brought out on May 19, 1877, under a new title, ‘The
Lyons Mail.’ The success of ‘The Bells’ had shown that for a certain
class of romantic melodramas the actor had exceptional gifts; and it may
be added that he has a _penchant_ for portraying characters of common
life under exciting and trying circumstances. This play is an admirable
specimen of French workmanship. The characters are marked, distinct,
amusing; every passage seems to add strength to the interest, and with
every scene the interest seems to grow. The original title—‘The Courier
of Lyons’—seems a more rational one than ‘The Lyons Mail.’
With pieces of this kind, where one actor plays two characters, a nice
question of dramatic propriety arises, viz., to how far the point of
likeness should be carried. In real life no two persons could be so alike
as a single person, thus playing the two characters, would be to himself.
The solution I believe to be this, that likenesses of this kind, which
are recognised even under disguise, are rather mental and intellectual,
and depend on peculiar expression—a glance from the eye, smiles, etc.
Irving, it must be said, contrived just so much likeness in the two
characters as suited the situations and the audience also. Superficially
there was a resemblance, but he suggested the distinct individualities in
the proper way. The worthy Lesurques was destined to be one of his best
characters, from the way in which he conveyed the idea of the tranquil,
innocent merchant, so affectionate to his family, and so blameless in
life. Many will recall the pleasant, smiling fashion in which he would
listen to the charges made against him.
A yet bolder experiment was now to be made, and another piece in which
Charles Kean made a reputation, ‘Louis XI.,’ was brought out on March
9, 1878. It may be said without hesitation that this is one of the most
powerful, finished, and elaborate of all Irving’s efforts, and the one to
which we would bring, say, a foreign actor who desired to see a specimen
of the actor’s talents.
This marvellous performance has ripened and improved year by year,
gaining in suggestion, fulness of detail, and perfect ease. In no other
part is he so completely the character. There is a pleasant good-humour—a
chuckling cunning—an air of indifference, as though it were not worth
while to be angry or excited about things. His figure is a picture, and
his face, wonderfully transformed, yet seems to owe scarcely anything
to the ‘making-up.’ Nowhere does he speak so much with his expressive
features. You see the cunning thought rising to the surface before the
words. There is the hypocritical air of candour or frankness suddenly
assumed, to conceal some villainous device. There is the genuine
enjoyment of hypocrisy, and the curious shambling walk. How admirably
graduated, too, the progress of decay and mortal sickness, with the
resistance to their encroachments. The portrait of his Richard—not
the old-established, roaring, stamping Richard of the stage, but the
weightier and more composed and refined—dwells long on the memory,
especially such touches as his wary watchings, looking from one to the
other while they talk, as if cunningly striving to probe their thoughts;
that curious scraping of his cheek with the finger, the strange senile
tones, the sudden sharp ferocity betokening the ingrained wickedness, and
the special leer, as though the old fox were in high good humour.
Irving naturally recalls with pleasure any spontaneous and unaffected
tributes which his acting has called forth. A most flattering one is
associated with ‘Louis XI.’—a critical work which one of his admirers
had specially printed, and which enforced the actor’s view of Louis’s
character. “You will wonder,” the author said, “why we wrote and compiled
this book. A critic had said that, as nothing was really known of
the character, manners, etc., of Louis XI., an actor might take what
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.” Another admirer
had printed his various thoughts on Charles I. This was set off with
beautifully-executed etchings, tailpieces, etc., and the whole richly
bound and enshrined in a casket. The names of these enthusiasts are not
given.[16]
A few years before this time Wagner’s weird opera, ‘The Flying Dutchman,’
had been performed in London, and the idea had occurred to many, and
not unnaturally, that here was a character exactly suited to Irving’s
methods. He was, it was often repeated, the “ideal” Vanderdecken. He
himself much favoured the suggestion, and after a time the “Colonel”
entrusted me and my friend Wills with the task of preparing a piece
on the subject. For various reasons the plan was laid aside, and the
death of the manager and the adoption of other projects interfered. It
was, however, never lost sight of, and after an interval I got ready
the first act, which so satisfied Irving that the scheme was once more
taken up. After many attempts and shapings and re-shapings, the piece
was at last ready—Wills having undertaken the bulk of the work, I myself
contributing, as before, the first act. The actor himself furnished some
effective situations, notably the strange and original suggestion of the
Dutchman’s being cast up on the shore and restored to life by the waves.
I recall all the pleasant incidents of this venture, the journeys to
Liverpool and Birmingham to consult on the plot and read the piece; above
all, the company of the always agreeable Irving himself, and his placid,
unaffected gaiety. Indeed, to him apply forcibly the melodious lines—
“A merrier man,
Within the limits of becoming mirth,
I never spent an hour withal.”
‘Vanderdecken,’ as it was called, was produced on July 8, 1878, but was
found of too sombre a cast to attract. It was all, as Johnson once said,
“inspissated gloom,” but there was abundant praise for the picturesque
figure of the actor. Nothing could be more effective than his first
appearance, when he was revealed standing in a shadowy way beside the
sailors, who had been unconscious of his presence. This was his own
subtle suggestion. A fatal blemish was the unveiling of the picture,
on the due impressiveness of which much depended, and which proved to
be a sort of grotesque daub, greeted with much tittering—a fatal piece
of economy on the part of the worthy manageress. An unusually sultry
spell of summer that set in caused “the booking to go all to pieces”—the
box-keeper’s consolatory expression. Our actor, however, has not lost
faith in the subject to this hour, and a year or two later he encouraged
me to make another attempt; while Miss Terry has been always eager to
attempt the heroine, in which she is confident of producing a deep
impression.
At this time our actor’s position was a singular one. It had occurred
to many that there was something strange and abnormal in the spectacle
of the most conspicuous performer of his time, the one who “drew” most
money of all his contemporaries, being under the direction of a simple,
excellent lady, somewhat old-fashioned in her ideas, and in association
with a mediocre company and economical appointments. There was here
power clearly going to waste. It soon became evident that his talents
were heavily fettered, and that he had now attained a position which,
to say the least, was inconsistent with such surroundings. His own
delicacy of feeling, and a sense of old obligation, which, however, was
really slender enough, had long restrained him; but now, on the advice
of friends, and for the sake of his own interests, he felt that matters
could go on no longer, and that the time had arrived for making some
serious change. The balancing of obligations is always a delicate matter,
but it may be said that in such cases quite as much is returned as is
received. The successful manager may “bring forward” the little-known
actor, but the little-known actor in return brings fortune to the manager.
The situation was, in fact, a false one. Where was he to find an opening
for those sumptuous plans and artistic developments for which the public
was now ripe, and which he felt that he, and he alone, could supply?
The breach, however, was only the occasion of the separation which must
inevitably have come later. As it was, he had suggested a change in stage
companionship: the attraction of the “leading lady,” with whom he had
been so long associated, was not, he thought, sufficient to assist or
inspire his own. As this arrangement was declined, he felt compelled to
dissolve the old partnership.
It presently became known that the popular player was free, and ready
to carry out the ambitious and even magnificent designs over which he
had so long pondered. The moment was propitious. Except the little
Prince of Wales’s, there was no theatre in London that was conducted in
liberal or handsome style, and no manager whose taste or system was of
a large or even dignified sort. Everything was old-fashioned, meagre,
and mercantile. Everything seemed in a state of languor and decay. No
one thought of lavish and judicious outlay, the best economy in the end.
There was really but one on whom all eyes now instinctively rested as the
only person who by temperament and abilities was fitted to restore the
drama, and present it worthily, in accordance with the growing luxurious
instinct of the time.
It was a rude shock for the manageress when this resolution was
communicated to her. The loss of her actor also involved the loss of her
theatre. She might have expostulated, with Shylock:
“You take my house, when you do take the prop
That doth sustain my house.”
It followed therefore, almost as a matter of course, that the theatre,
without any exertion on his part, would, as it were, drop into his hands.
He at once prepared to carry out his venture on the bold and sumptuous
lines which have since made his reputation. The poor lady naturally
fancied that she had a grievance; but her complaint ought in truth to
have been directed against the hard fate which had placed her in a
position that was above her strength.[17] With much gallantry and energy
she set herself to do battle with fortune in a new and lower sphere. She
secured the old theatre at Islington, which she partially rebuilt and
beautified, and on the opening night was encouraged by a gathering of
her old friends, who cheered her when she appeared, supported by her two
faithful daughters. Even this struggle she could not carry on long. She
took with her some of her old company, Bentley, the Brothers Lyons, and
others, and she furnished melodramas, brought out in a somewhat rude but
effective style, suited to the lieges of the district. Later Mr. Charles
Warner, greatly daring, gave a whole course of Shakespearian characters,
taking us through the great characters _seriatim_. It was indeed a very
astonishing programme. But the truth was, she had fallen behind the
times; the old-fashioned country methods would no longer “go down.” In
a few years she gave up the weary struggle, and, quite worn-out, passed
away to join the “old Colonel.”