1884.
‘TWELFTH NIGHT’—‘THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD’—OXFORD HONOURS.
On July 8, 1884, a few weeks after the return to London, ‘Twelfth Night’
was brought out at the Lyceum, and, for luxury of scenery, dresses, and
mounting, fully equalled all its predecessors. Irving was, of course,
the Malvolio, which he rendered not exactly after Charles Lamb’s
interpretation, but, indeed, as anyone of Shakespearian intelligence
would have done, never lapsing into farce, but treating the whole
earnestly. It was a beautiful and graceful show, full of alternate
sympathy and humour. Personally we look back to it as one of the most
welcome and interesting of his revivals; all the incidents connected with
Viola, so charmingly interpreted by Ellen Terry, have an irresistible and
touching interest. The scenery was costly and exquisite, and reflected
the tone of the piece. The audience, however, listened with a somewhat
languid interest—some said because of the oppressive heat of a July
night, which fretted and put them out of humour; but I believe because
they were unfamiliar with the piece, and had not been “educated up to
it.” When the manager came out at the close, with all the good-humour
and freedom of a privileged favourite, he was confounded to find his
expressions of self-congratulation and satisfaction greeted with uncouth
denial and rude interruptions. He was not accustomed to such coarse
reception, and with much spirit he administered this well-deserved
chastisement: “I can’t understand how a company of earnest comedians and
admirable actors, having these three cardinal virtues of actors—being
sober, clean, and perfect—and having exercised their abilities on one of
the most difficult plays, can have given any cause for dissatisfaction.”
But there are curious idiosyncrasies in audiences, one of which is, as I
have noted, that they must be in some way familiar with the piece and its
incidents; and there must be broad, comprehensive types of character. Now
Malvolio, one of the most delicately exquisite of conceptions, it could
be seen, was almost unintelligible to “the general”: they took him for
some “crank,” or half-cracked being, appearing in his nightcap, etc. Sir
Toby and Sir Andrew and their rollickings were actually thought “low” or
vulgar, on the same principle that Tony Lumpkin’s alehouse friend could
not abide anything low. So much for the ignorant, ill-mannered section of
the audience.
It was argued, indeed, by critics that Irving’s Malvolio was somewhat
_too_ much in earnest, and therefore was liable to be accepted by the
audience as a serious person, actually in love with his mistress, which
with his eccentricities and oddities became an impertinence. Whereas,
as Lamb says, by imparting a quaint humorousness, the audience sees the
absurdity of the jest and is amused. Elia, indeed, always insists that
the actor of such “fantastical” parts should hint to the audience, slyly,
as it were, that he is only half in earnest.
A most delightful sense of pure natural comedy was induced by the
likeness between the Terrys, brother and sister, who had a sort of
Shakespearian elegance in their bearing. But this did not avail much
with the uncultured crowd. It was objected also that the play was set
forth somewhat pedantically and too much _au grand sérieux_, many of
the actors, not being comedians—witness Mr. Terriss—imparting a literal
tone to all they said and did. This was not without its effect on the
audience, who by the very promise of seriousness were beguiled into
expecting something serious. Irving himself was not wholly free from
this method; and in the strange scene of the imprisonment, so difficult
to “carry off,” he was deeply tragic, as if really suffering, and without
any underlying grotesqueness. His exit, too, with solemn menaces, had the
air of retributive punishment in store.
Now followed a second expedition to the States, as well as to Canada,
the details of which I pass over. On the reopening of his theatre on
his return a rather disagreeable episode occurred, connected with an
alteration he had made in the arrangement of his house. It was announced
that places in the pit might be reserved and secured in advance, which
gave rise to indignant protest and to cries of “_Give us back our Pit_.”
The question was warmly discussed in the newspapers.
The advantage of the debate was that it clearly established a true
theatrical principle—viz., that the pit and galleries are intended for
the crowd, and should be free and open to the “man in the street”: that
the best seats here must be the prize of the strongest and most patient.
The principle of numbering and booking, it was shown, would actually
abolish the pit. The judicious manager understood and recognised the
public discontent, and made announcement that on May 18 he would restore
the old custom.
In accordance with his engagement, the manager now proceeded to get ready
Wills’s pleasing and sympathetic drama, ‘Olivia.’ This was no doubt
selected with a view to furnishing a fresh opportunity for the display
of Miss Terry’s attractions; but it will be seen that she was not to be
altogether the cynosure of the whole, and that two other accomplished
performers were to share the honours of the piece. It was produced on May
27, 1885, and excited much interest. The creation of Dr. Primrose is one
of the most interesting and most original of Irving’s characters. It is
elaborated and finished to the very highest point, and yet there is no
lack of simplicity or unaffected grace. The character suited him in every
way, and seemed to hold completely in check all his little “mannerisms,”
as they are called. There was a sort of Meissonnier delicacy in his
touches, and scarcely any other of his characters is so filled in and
rounded with unspoken acting—that is, by the play of facial expression,
gesture, walk, etc. It is, indeed, a delightful performance, and always
holds the audience, which attentively follows the Vicar’s successive
emotions. These the actor allows unconsciously, as it were, to escape
him, as he pursues his little domestic course unconscious of spectators.
One reason for this complete success was, of course, that Irving, like so
many others, had read, known, and felt this engaging character from his
childhood, altogether outside dramatic conditions, though of course it is
not every play that enjoys this advantage.
As we look back to the Lyceum, the eye rests with infinite pleasure on
the engaging figure of the Vicar, with his powdered wig and rusted suit,
and that amiable smile of simplicity which betokened what agreeable
fancies were occupying his mind. There he was, the centre of a happy
family, content with the happiness of his wife and children. No picture
could have been prettier. With an exquisite feeling of propriety, the
quaint, antique associations were developed, and no more pleasing scene
could have been conceived, or one that lingers more in the memory, than
the scene at night, when the family are singing at the spinet, Moses
accompanying with his flute,[39] the Vicar in his chair, the cuckoo-clock
in the corner. It was a fine instinct that directed these things.
It should be added that the piece had been somewhat altered from its
first shape, and no doubt gained from the manager’s suggestions. One
of the most astonishing things connected with it is the admirably firm
and coherent construction, it being laid out in the most effective way.
Its various characters are introduced with singular skill. The last
act seemed, indeed, somewhat superfluous and too much drawn out; but
the whole design was really admirable. Yet its adapter was admittedly
deficient in the arts of construction, and most of his other pieces
display singular and even ludicrous incoherencies. It might be that he
had received assistance in this individual case, or had been so inspired
by the subject as to triumph over his own defects.
Such tales as these—world-wide stories that belong to all countries and
to all time—Shakespearian, in short—seem on repetition to have the air
of novelty; at least, they always interest. The situations are dramatic,
and the characters even more dramatic than the situations. Miss Terry’s
Olivia is not only one of her best characters, but is a most touchingly
graceful and varied performance. The gifted pair are indeed at their
best here. In the excellently-contrived scene at the Dragon, Miss Terry’s
transition of horror, astonishment, rage, shame, succeeding each other,
were displayed with extraordinary force and variety. Some insisted that
the part suffered from her restlessness, but, as it was happily said,
“She is for ever flickering about the stage in a series of _poses_, or
rather disturbance of _pose_, each in itself so charming that one can
hardly account for the distrust she herself shows of it by instantly
changing it for another.” The other characters were no less excellent
in their way. Terriss, as the Squire, was admirably suited, his very
defect—an excessively pronounced brusqueness—adding to the effect. I
recollect it was said at the time in the theatre that there was only the
one performer for Thornhill, and that one Terriss. He—and he only—must be
secured. He never performed so well as in this character.
A year later there occurred what must have been one of the most
gratifying incidents in the actor’s career, and one of the most pleasant
to recall. The Oxford commencements, held on June 26, 1886, were more
than usually brilliant. At that time, the late learned and popular Dr.
Jowett was Vice-Chancellor, a man, as is well known, of the largest
sympathies. Though a divine, he took a deep interest in Irving and his
profession. On its being proposed to confer honorary degrees on certain
distinguished guests, including Mr. John Bright, the Vice-Chancellor, it
is said, suggested the name of the well-known actor. There was something,
as I say, dramatic or characteristic in this proposal, coming as it
did from so expressive a personality. The University, however, was not
prepared to go so far as this, though the proposal was only negatived,
it is said, by a narrow majority of two votes. The vigorous purpose of
the Vice-Chancellor was not to be thus baffled, and by a brilliant _coup_
he contrived that the very omission of the actor’s name—like the absence
of one portrait from a series—should suggest that the chief performer
had been “left” out, and thus supplied a fresh element in the brilliancy
of his reception. He invited him to deliver a lecture on his art in the
very precincts of the University, and under the patronage of its most
distinguished professors and “Heads,” and it may be conceived that the
figure of the popular player became the cynosure of attraction in the
brilliant academic show.
“For when the well-grac’d actor quits the scene,
The eyes of men are idly bent on him that enters next.”
When it became known that the actor was to give his address, everyone
of note and culture and importance in the place rushed to secure seats.
Some fourteen hundred persons were present, with most of “the Heads of
Houses,” and distinguished professors. Dr. Jowett welcomed him in some
warm and well-chosen phrases, telling him how much honoured they felt by
his coming to them. A good English actor, he said happily enough, lived
in the best company—that of Goethe and Shakespeare; and coming from such,
he might seem to convey that he was good enough company for them.
But during the year 1892 the University of Dublin was the first to
recognise officially the actor’s position, and at the celebration of its
tercentenary conferred on him the degree of Doctor of Letters, in company
with many distinguished men. Indeed, Irving’s sympathetic temperament
has always been specially acceptable to this University, and the youths
of Trinity College from the beginning were eager to exhibit their
appreciation and admiration of his talent. They would attend him home
from the theatre in uproarious procession, and sing songs in his praise
in the galleries. So early as June, 1877, he had given a reading in the
University in its great Examination Hall. The Provost, the Dean, and
other “dons” all attended. He gave ‘Richard III.,’ a chapter of ‘David
Copperfield,’ and ‘Eugene Aram.’ An illuminated address was presented to
him, and to make the day truly festive and collegiate, the actor dined in
the hall, the guest of the college, and went his way covered with honours.
Later came the turn of Edinburgh, where he was much considered, and in
1881 delivered a lecture before the Edinburgh Philosophical Institute.
He gave, also, an interesting lecture on acting at the Royal Institution
in London. With pleasure, too, must he look back to his welcome at
Harvard University, in the United States. The novelty of the scene, the
warm welcome accorded to him in a strange land, must have made a most
welcome form of honour. He delivered a lecture on the “Art of Acting”—his
favourite topic—in the great Sande’s Theatre, into which over two
thousand persons were crowded—the usual audience was sixteen hundred. An
enormous crowd blocked the doors, so that the actor on his arrival could
not gain admittance, and had to be taken in by a subterranean passage.
The president was in a conspicuous place, and all the professors and
dons attended. Another American University, that of Cambridge, also
invited him to lecture (rather to give instruction) before them, and
the newspapers of the country declared that the honours with which he
was welcomed were really “unprecedented.” Again he discoursed on the
“Art of Acting.” An even more flattering and unusual compliment was
the invitation to the Military Academy at West-point, where, with his
company, he performed ‘The Merchant of Venice’ in Elizabethan dresses,
but without scenery—to the huge enjoyment of professors and students.
Here is a round of University distinctions that has never fallen to the
lot of any other actor. We may see in it an instinctive recognition of a
cultured and artistic feeling that has influenced the community and done
excellent educational service.
Irving had long wished to display his sardonic power in Goethe’s great
character of Mephistopheles. He had already given proof of his quality
in this line in Louis XI. and Richard III.; but there was a piquancy
and range in Mephistopheles which naturally offered him an attraction,
from the mixture of the comic or grotesque with deep tragic force. It
also offered room for a superb and almost unlimited display of scenic
magnificence. It was no secret, too, that in this particular display he
was resolved to surpass all his previous efforts.
To Wills was entrusted the work of preparing the adaptation, this writer
having, as I said, a command of flowing and melodious versification,
which, moreover, was fitted to the actor’s delivery. The adapter had
completed his task many years before, and the piece had long lain in the
manager’s desk. During this period he let his conception of the piece
slowly ripen; he discussed it with scholars; thought over it; while
the adapter, a German student himself, revised his work at intervals
according to the views of his chief. All this was judicious enough. It
was, however, destined to be the last work that he was to prepare for his
old friend and faithful Lyceum patron. It must be said that the latest
adapter was not altogether well fitted for the task, as he was too much
given to descriptions and “recitations,” while Mephistopheles might have
been made far more of.
The preparations made were of the most thorough kind. For months the
manager’s rooms were hung round with a profusion of sketches by artists
of all kinds, relics of Nuremberg and the Goethe country, with old
engravings of Albert Dürer, and great folios of costumes. To permeate
himself with something of the tone and feeling of the piece, he travelled
in Germany, accompanied by his scene-painter, Mr. Craven. Both stayed
at Nuremberg, where the artist imbued himself with the whole poetry of
the old city. Everyone of artistic feeling will recall one truly romantic
scene—a simple cloth set very forward on the scene, perhaps to its
disadvantage—a view of the old city, with its dull red high roofs and
quaintly-peaked spires.
During the preparations, the theatre, now some eighty years old, had been
redecorated afresh, but at the complete sacrifice of the old Vestris
adornments, the elegant medallions or cameos, and the double-gilt
pillars, which were thought to interfere with the view. The outline of
the dress-circle was brought forward with some gain of space, and its
graceful undulations were abolished. For such changes no one can be
brought to account—the irresistible pressure of the time and the laws of
convenience bring them about. An entirely new system of decoration was
introduced, suggested by that of Raffaelle’s Loggie at the Vatican, which
seemed scarcely sober enough for an auditorium. More structural changes
were also made in the interests of the galleries, of which the manager
has always shown himself careful.
On December 19, 1886, the piece was produced. There was the now
invariable excitement of a Lyceum _première_, and there were stories
of frantic efforts, grovellings, implorings, etc., to obtain a seat. A
peer had actually been seen in the gallery—and was more than content
with his place. The Royal Family were in their box, and the Prince, then
in mourning, watched the play from behind the scenes. Mephistopheles
was destined for many a night to give the keenest enjoyment to vast
audiences. It was, indeed, a most original conception. With successive
performances he enriched it with innumerable telling and grotesque
touches; for, as I have said, the adapter had “laid out” the character on
rather conventional lines. In spite of all these defects, he suggested
the notion of “uncanniness” and a supernatural _diablerie_. His antic
scaring of the women at the church-door will be recalled by many.
Miss Terry’s Marguerite was full of pathos and poetry, occasionally
suggesting, as in the “Jewel” scene, the operatic heroine. But at the
first performance it became plain that a serious mistake had been made
in the choice of Conway for the hero, Faust. He seemed scarcely to feel
or understand the part; there was a lack of passion and sympathy. It
was, indeed, an overwhelming burden for a player whose gifts lay in the
direction of light comedy.
But on one Saturday night the audience was somewhat astonished to see
before them a new Faust, one who, moreover, came on with a book in his
hand, which he continued to read aloud even after Mephisto had paid him
his visit through the steam clouds. It proved that Conway was suffering
from gout, and Alexander, resigning his own character to Tyars, took the
_rôle_ of Faust, which on the following night he assumed permanently, and
“discharged” in the regular way. Considering the shortness of the notice,
he performed this awkward duty _en vrai artiste_—as, indeed, might be
expected.[40] However, the cast was further strengthened by the excellent
Mrs. Stirling, whose part was scarcely worthy of her. Placing a strong
performer in a part that is inferior in strength, instead of improving or
fortifying, only further brings out the poverty of the character.
In this piece numerous scientific devices were introduced to add to
the effect, such as the clouds of steam which veiled the apparition of
Mephistopheles, a device of French origin. This is scarcely illusive, as
it is attended by an unmistakable “hissing” sound, as of a locomotive;
it seems what it is—namely, steam. The blue electric light flashed with
weird effect as the swords of Valentine and Faust crossed. But here again
there was an electric wire and “contact,” and a current “switched on.”
It may be paradoxical to say so, but these “advances” in scenic art are
really retrograde steps.
Of the regular scenes or structures put on the stage, it would be
difficult to say too much. The grandly-built porch of the Church of St.
Lorentz Platz at Nuremberg, and the buildings grouped round it, were
extraordinary works of construction, the porch being “moulded” in all its
details, and of the real or natural size. Another scene that lingers in
the memory with a sort of twilight melancholy is the garden scene, which
again illustrates the admirable instinct of the manager. Red-brick walls
of calm, quiet tones, old trees, and, above all, the sombre towers of
the city, were seen in the distance. The dresses of the characters were
chosen to harmonize, and the deep sunset cast a melancholy glow or tinge
over all. The most striking effects were contrived by changes of the
lights and “mediums.”
The Brocken scene, for its vastness and ambitious attempt to suggest
space and atmosphere, has never been surpassed. Most people were struck
by the bewildering crowd of unearthly spirits, witches, and demons, etc.;
but the real marvel was the simulation of the chill mountain atmosphere,
the air of dizziness, of mists that hover over vast crevasses and depths,
and make one shiver to look at. The designing, direction, and controlling
of the elements in this wonderful scene seemed a bewildering and gigantic
task.
The vision of Angels in the last act seemed a little conventional. There
were many objections, too, taken mostly by Germans, to the treatment of
the great story, such as the fixing of the scene at Nuremberg instead of
at Leipsic, the placing the drinking bout in the open air, and at the
tavern door, instead of in Auerbach’s cellar. These changes could not, of
course, be justified, save on the ground of theatrical expediency.
For seven months, though ‘Faust’ continued to attract vast houses, it had
really, as the manager said, “only started on its wild career.” On the
occasion of Miss Terry’s benefit, he made an interesting, half-jocular
speech announcing his plans.
The ninety-ninth night of ‘Faust’ was celebrated in a remarkable and
somewhat appropriate fashion. The venerable Abbé Liszt was at this time
in London, followed with an eager curiosity, affecting even the “cabbies”
with interest, who were heard talking of the “Habby List.” No one who
had seen him at this time will forget the striking personality of this
interesting and brilliant man. He was induced to visit the theatre,
and to witness the performance. After the first act, the orchestra
broke into his own “Hungarian March,” and, being presently recognised
by the audience, the great virtuoso received a perfect ovation. He
followed the piece throughout with singular interest, and applauded
with enthusiasm. After the play was over, he was welcomed at a supper
in the old Beef-steak dining-room, where there were invited to meet him
a few distinguished persons. His favourite dishes—“lentil pudding, lamb
cutlets, mushrooms in batter”—were prepared for him by Gunter’s _chef_.
He was delighted with this delicate hospitality. This is one of the many
pleasant and dignified memories associated with the Lyceum.
It was when ‘Faust’ was being played that the catastrophe of the burning
of the French Opéra Comique occurred. This excited general sympathy,
and the kindly manager of the Lyceum promised that when the proper
time came he would furnish assistance. In due course a performance of
‘Faust’ was announced for the benefit of the sufferers, and a crowded
audience assembled. Everyone concerned—and they were to be counted by
hundreds—gave their services gratis—the manager behaved in his own
liberal style—and, as the result, a sum of £419 was despatched to Paris.
This liberality was much appreciated by the French press. The _Figaro_
devoted an article to a review of the various characters played by the
English actor, and in flattering terms pointed out that, notwithstanding
all his detractors, Mr. Henry Irving was “the most perfect gentleman.”
During the performance of ‘Faust,’ Miss Terry found the fatigue
excessive, and, not being very strong at the time, had to resign her
part. During these intervals, the character was supported by a clever
young actress, bearing an historic name, Miss Winifred Emery, who brought
much intelligence and refinement to her task. It was generally agreed
that, considering her resources, she had supplied the place of the absent
actress very well indeed. The _feu sacré_ was, of course, not to be
expected, and cannot be supplied to order.
This appreciation of our manager-actor by the French will naturally
suggest the inquiry, What is his reputation generally in that eminently
theatrical country, whence we draw our chief supply of dramas and
dramatic ideas, and whose school of acting is perhaps the first in
Europe? So frequent have been the visits of French companies to London,
that nearly all the leading performers have had opportunities of seeing
the English actor perform. Their ignorance of the language has, of
course, stood in the way of a satisfactory judgment—they cannot follow
the play as an average Englishman will follow a French piece; but all
have been struck by his fine faculty of imparting colour and romance to
a character, and have broken into raptures over the intelligence that
directs the scene, and the lavish magnificence of the _spectacle_.
The memorable visit of the French Comedy to London in 1879, and the
fine series of performances in which every player of note displayed
his talent, curiously coincided with the new departure on the English
stage. Few will forget the deep impressions left by that season or the
opportunities afforded for a liberal education in dramatic taste. With
the company came the _fine fleur_ of French critics, Sarcey, Claretie
(since become director of the company he had so often criticized), and
others of less note. These judges were glad to seize an opportunity,
which under other circumstances they would never have thought of
seeking, of visiting the Lyceum and witnessing the performances of the
most distinguished of English actors. I recall Sarcey at this time, a
coarsely-built man, with not very refined features, lounging night after
night into his stall, with an air of something like arrogance. He did
not relish his enforced banishment from the Boulevards, and indemnified
himself by making rather free criticisms on the French players. He was
induced to go and see some of the English performances, but with an
amusing hauteur pleaded his ignorance of the language as an excuse for
not passing any serious judgment.
“Having weighed the matter well, I have determined to say very little
regarding English actors. I have as yet seen but a few, and those only
through the medium of a language imperfectly understood. I should be
placing myself in a ridiculous position if I had the impertinence to
touch upon matters which I am thus incompetent to deal with. I may
remark, however, that Mr. Henry Irving appeared to me a remarkable actor,
notwithstanding a wilful tendency to exaggeration. Possibly, in this
latter respect, he followed rather the taste of his audience, whom his
instinct judges, than his own deliberate choice.”
To these brilliant and gifted strangers, however, the new manager did the
honours of his craft and extended to them a kindly hospitality. Indeed,
since that day, no distinguished artist has visited these shores without
being welcomed with rare hospitality.[41]
The most accomplished of French comedians is Coquelin _ainé_, an
extraordinary performer, from the versatility and even classical
character of his talents. This gifted man, who never appears without
imparting intellectual enjoyment of the highest kind, seems to have
always been attracted to the English actor, though exhibiting his
feelings in an oddly mixed fashion, compounded of admiration and
hostility. Analysis of the workings of character is the most entertaining
of pastimes, and is, of course, the foundation of theatrical enjoyment;
and the public has much relished the controversies between two such
eminent personages. In 1886 Coquelin, during a supper at Mrs. Mackay’s,
was invited in a very flattering way by the Prince of Wales to play in
London under Mr. Mayer. At this time, in obedience to the very natural
“force and pressure” of gain which was beginning to dissolve the great
company of the French Comedy, he had begun to “star it,” as it is called,
in the various capitals of Europe, and having found himself appreciated
in London at private houses, as well as on the stage, he seems to have
nourished a feeling that he was contending for the suffrages of the
public with the English actor! Not that he was conscious of any actual
“jealousy,” but something of this impression was left on those who were
watching the incident. In matters of art, however, such contentions are
healthy, and pardonable enough.
An early token of this curious feeling was offered in an article
published in _Harper’s Magazine_ in May, 1887, where the French actor
discussed with some acuteness the different systems of acting in England
and in France, particularly in the matter of what is called “natural” or
materialistic acting. He dwelt on the question how far the gifts of the
comedian will enable him to exhibit tragic characters, contending that
the practice of minute observation would materially aid him.
What was in Coquelin’s thoughts all this time would appear to have been
a sort of eagerness to measure himself with the English actor in ‘Le
Juif Polonais,’ which he looked upon as his own, and which had made a
reputation for Irving. With some lack of taste or tact, Coquelin later
challenged an English audience to decide between the two readings of
Mathias. He performed it, I think, on two different occasions. It was an
interesting and instructive experiment, for it proved that two artists
of eminence might legitimately take directly opposite views of the same
character. But does not character in real life offer the same varieties
of interpretation? Coquelin presented a sort of comfortable _bourgeois_,
a tradesman-like personage, who was not likely to reach the heroic or
melodramatic place. He was not over-sensitive, nor was his remorse very
poignant; and the keynote to his agitation was the desire to be thought
respectable, to keep his position, and not be found out. It was agreed
that the two conceptions were altogether opposed. “Irving’s hero was a
grave, dignified, and melancholy being; Coquelin’s was a stout Alsatian,
well-to-do, respected by his neighbours, but still on an equality
with the humble folk around him. Irving’s was a conscience-stricken
personage; Coquelin’s had no conscience at all. Irving’s was all remorse;
Coquelin was not in the least disturbed. He takes delight in his ill-got
treasures. The only side on which he is assailable is that of his fears,
and the arrival of the second Jew, so like the first, terrifies him; and
too much wine on the night of the wedding brings on the disturbed dream.”
The question might be thus summarized: Irving’s reading was that of a
tragedian; Coquelin’s that of a comedian. For myself, I confess a liking
for both.
A friendly and even enthusiastic appreciation of the actor was furnished
by Jules Claretie, then a critic of eminence. “His reputation,” he said,
“would be even greater than it is if he had the leisure to extend his
studies and correct his faults; but, as Mr. Walter Pollock remarks, a man
who has to play six or seven times a week can hardly be expected to find
much time for study. England, unlike France, does not possess a national
theatre.
“‘Richelieu’ was the first play in which I saw Mr. Irving in London.
Here he is superb. The performance amounts to a resurrection. The great
Cardinal, lean, worn, eaten up with ambition, less for himself than for
France, is admirably rendered. His gait is jerky, like that of a man
shaken by fever; his eye has the depth of a visionary’s; a hoarse cough
preys upon that feeble frame. When Richelieu appears in the midst of the
courtiers, when he flings his scorn in the face of the mediocrity that
is to succeed him, when he supplicates and adjures the vacillating Louis
XIII., Mr. Irving endows that fine figure with a striking majesty.
“What a profound artist this tragedian is! The performance over, I
was taken to see him in his dressing-room. I found him surrounded by
portraits of Richelieu. He had before him the three studies of Philippe
de Champaigne, one representing Richelieu in full face, and the others in
profile. There was also a photograph of the same painter’s full-length
portrait of the Cardinal. Before playing Louis XI. again, Mr. Irving
studied Commines, Victor Hugo, Walter Scott, and all who have written
of the _bourgeois_ and avaricious king, who wore out the elbows of his
_pourpoint de ratine_ on the tables of his gossips, the skin-dressers
and shoemakers. The actor is an adept in the art of face-painting, and
attaches great importance to the slightest details of his costume.
“I asked him what other historical personage he would like to represent,
what face he, who excelled in what I call stage-resurrection, would wish
to revive. He reflected a moment, his countenance assuming a thoughtful
expression. ‘Français ou Anglais?’ he at length asked. ‘Français ou
Anglais: peu importe,’ I replied. ‘Eh bien!’ he said, after another short
pause, ‘je serais heureux de créer un Camille Desmoulins.’
“Mr. Irving’s literary and subtle mind leans to psychological plays—plays
which, if I may so express myself, are more tragic than dramatic. He
is the true Shakespearian actor. How great was the pleasure which the
performance of ‘Hamlet’ afforded me! For a literary man it is a source of
real enjoyment. Mr. Irving, as manager of the Lyceum, spends more than
£3,000 a month to do things on an adequate scale. His theatre is the
first in London. He would like to make it a sort of Comédie Française, as
he would like to found a sort of Conservatoire to afford young English
artists the instruction they stand so much in need of.
“In Louis XI. Mr. Irving has been adjudged superior to Ligier. Dressed
with historical accuracy, he is admirable in the comedy element of the
piece and the chief scenes with the Monk and Nemours. The limelight
projected like a ray of the moon on his contracted face as he pleads for
his life excited nothing less than terror. The hands, lean and crooked as
those of a Harpagon—the fine hands whose character is changed with each
of his _rôles_—aid his words. And how striking in its realism is the last
scene, representing the struggle between the dying king and his fate!”
Another admirable French player, Got, once the glory of the French
Comédie, and unquestionably the most powerful and varied performer of his
day, used to come a good deal to London between the years 1870 and 1880.
It was a singular tribute to Irving that so great a player, in his day
greater even than Coquelin, should have been drawn from his retirement
to take up one of his characters. Got, the “Dean of the French stage,”
as Irving is “Dean” of the English theatre, by-and-by felt himself
irresistibly impelled to give his version of ‘The Bells.’ He induced a
Paris manager to draw forth the long-forgotten piece from its obscurity,
and presented Mathias very much on the _bourgeois_ lines of Coquelin.