1887.
‘FAUST’—‘WERNER’—‘MACAIRE’—THE ACTOR’S SOCIAL GIFTS.
He was now preparing for his third American tour, the object of which
was to introduce to the audiences of the United States his splendid
spectacular piece, ‘Faust.’ This had excited much interest and
expectation, and its attractions were even magnified by distance. It
was the “last word” in scenic display. The Americans have now become
a section, as it were, of the Lyceum audiences, and it would seem to
be inevitable that at fixed intervals, and when a series of striking
plays have been given in England, the manager should feel a sort of
irresistible pressure to present the same attractions on the other side
of the Atlantic. This expedition took place in October, 1887, and was
crowned with all success. Henceforth the periodical visit to America will
become a necessity; and a new visit was already planned in concert with
Mr. Abbey, which was fixed for 1893.
On the return of the company, after their United States triumphs, ‘Faust’
was revived for a short period. At the close of the first performance the
manager announced his plans, which were awaited with some curiosity. “The
devil,” he said, “had been to and fro on the face of the earth.” After
a month of ‘Faust,’ he proposed to give Mr. Calmour’s ‘Amber Heart,’ to
bring forward Miss Terry, while he himself was to conclude the evening
with a revival of ‘Robert Macaire.’
On July 1, 1887, the manager of the Lyceum performed one of those many
kindly, graceful acts with which his name is connected—an act done at
the right moment, and for the suitable person. He gave his theatre to
benefit a veteran dramatist, Dr. Westland Marston, who in his day had
been associated with the classical glories of the stage, and had written
the interesting ‘Wife’s Secret’ for Charles Kean. As he now told the
audience from the stage, fifty years had elapsed since he had written his
first piece for Macready. The committee formed was a most influential
one, and comprised the names of such eminent _littérateurs_ as Browning,
Alfred Austin, E. W. Gosse, William Black, Wilkie Collins, Gilbert,
Swinburne, Tennyson, and many more. The performance was an afternoon
one, and the play selected was Byron’s ‘Werner,’ written “up to date,”
as it is called, by Frank Marshall. New scenery and dresses had been
provided, though the actor did not propose giving another representation.
He, however, intended to perform it on his approaching American tour. It
must be said that the play gave little satisfaction, and was about as
lugubrious as ‘The Stranger,’ some of the acts, moreover, being played in
almost Cimmerian gloom. What inclined the manager to this choice it would
be difficult to say. He has rather a _penchant_ for these morosely gloomy
men, who stalk about the stage and deliver long and remorseful reviews
and retrospects of their lives. The audience, however, sympathizes, and
listens with respectful attention.
‘Werner’ was to illustrate once more the conscientious and laborious care
of the manager in the production of his pieces. He engaged Mr. Seymour
Lucas to furnish designs for the dresses, who drew his inspirations
from an old volume of etchings of one “Stefano della Bella” in 1630. So
patiently _difficile_ is our manager in satisfying himself, that it is
said the dresses in ‘Faust’ were made and re-made three times before they
were found satisfactory. In this case all the arms of antique pattern,
the dresses, quaint head-dresses, and the like, even down to the peculiar
buttons of the period, were made especially in Paris under Auguste’s
superintendence.
‘Robert Macaire,’ that strange, almost weird-like drama, was familiar
enough to Irving, who had occasionally played it in the early part
of his course, and also at the St. James’s Theatre in 1867. For all
performers of genius who have taste for the mere _diablerie_ of acting,
and the eccentric mixture of tragic and comic, this character offers an
attraction, if not a fascination. We can feel its power ourselves as we
call up the grotesque figure; nay, even those who have never seen the
piece can have an understanding of the character, as a coherent piece
of grotesque. There is something of genius in the contrasted and yet
intimate union between the eccentric pair. In June, 1883, there had been
a performance at the Lyceum for the Royal College of Music, when Irving
had played the character, assisted by “friend Toole,” Bancroft, Terriss,
and Miss Terry—certainly a strong cast. Toole, on this occasion, was
almost too irrepressible, and rather distorted the proportion of the
two characters, encroaching on the delicate details in the part of his
friend, and overflowing with the pantomimic humours, or “gags,” which
are the traditions of Jacques Strop. When the piece was formally brought
out, the part was allotted to Mr. Weedon Grossmith, who was in the other
extreme, and too subordinate.
The play was produced in July, 1888, and was found not so attractive as
was anticipated. It seemed as though it were not wholly intelligible
to the audience. There were some reasons for this, the chief being the
gruesome assassination at “the roadside inn,” which is old-fashioned,
being literally “played out.” More curious was it to find that the
quaint type of Macaire seemed to convey nothing very distinct. All
accepted it as an incoherent extravagance: which opens an interesting
speculation—viz., How many such parts are there which have been the
characters of the original actors, and not the author’s—the former’s
creation, in short? Lemaître’s extraordinary success was, as is well
known, the result of a happy inspiration conceived during the progress
of the piece. From being a serious or tragic character, he turned it
into a grotesque one. There may have been here something founded on the
sort of _gaminerie_ that seems to go with crime; or it may have been
recklessness, which, together with a ludicrous attempt at a squalid
dandyism, showed a mind not only depraved, but dulled and _embêté_. This
sort of inspiration, where an actor sees his own conception in the part
and makes it his own, is illustrated by ‘The Bells,’ which—in the hands
of another actor—might have been played according to conventional laws.
An English actor who would have succeeded in the part was the elder
Robson. In Irving’s case, the audience were not in key, or in tune; the
thing seemed _passé_, though our actor had all the traditions of the
part, even to the curiously “creaking snuff-box.”[42]
Among Wills’s friends, admirers, and associates—of which his affectionate
disposition always brought him a following—was Calmour, the author of
some pieces full of graceful poetry of the antique model. Like Mr.
Pinero, he “knew the boards,” having “served” in the ranks, an essential
advantage for all who would write plays; had written several slight
pieces of a poetical cast, notably ‘Cupid’s Messenger,’ in which the
graceful and piquant Mary Rorke had obtained much success in a “trunk and
hose” character. But a play of a more ambitious kind, ‘The Amber Heart,’
had taken Miss Terry’s fancy; she, as we have said, had “created” the
heroine at a _matinée_. It proved to be a sort of dreamy Tennysonian
poem, and was received with considerable favour.
‘The Amber Heart,’ now placed in the bill with ‘Robert Macaire,’ was
revived with the accustomed Lyceum state and liberality. To Alexander was
allotted the hero’s part, and he declaimed the harmonious lines with good
effect. I fancy the piece was found of rather too delicate a structure
for such large and imposing surroundings.[43]
Whenever there is some graceful act, a memorial to a poet or player to be
inaugurated, it is pretty certain that our actor-manager will be called
on to take the leading and most distinguished share in the ceremonial.
At the public meeting, or public dinner, he can deport himself with much
effect.
There are plenty of persons of culture who have been deputed to perform
such duties; but we feel there is often something artificial in their
methods and speeches. In the case of the actor, we feel there is a
something genuine; he supplies a life to the dry bones, and we depart
knowing that he has added grace to our recollections of the scene.
Nor does be add an exaggeration to what he says; there is a happy
judicious reserve. This was felt especially on the occasion of one
pleasant festival day in the September of 1891, when a memorial was
unveiled to Marlowe, the dramatist, in the good old town of Canterbury.
It was an enjoyable expedition, with something simple and rustic in the
whole, while to anyone of poetical tastes there was something unusually
harmonious in the combination offered of the antique town, the memory
of “Dr. Faustus,” the old Cathedral, and the beaming presence of the
cultured artist, of whom no one thought as manager of a theatre. A crowd
of critics and authors came from town by an early train, invited by the
hospitable Mayor. At any season the old town is inviting enough, but now
it was pleasant to march through its narrow streets, under the shadow of
its framed houses, to the small corner close to the Christ Church gate
of the Cathedral, where the speeching and ceremonials were discharged.
The excellent natives seemed perhaps a little puzzled by the new-found
glories of their townsman; they were, however, glad to see the well-known
actor. Equally pleasant, too, was it to make our way to the old Fountain
Inn, where the “worthy” Mayor entertained his guests, and where there
were more speeches. The image of the sleepy old town, and the grand
Cathedral, and of the pretty little fountain—which, however, had but
little suggestion of the colossal Marlowe—and the general holiday tone
still lingers in the memory. Irving’s speech was very happy, and for its
length is singularly suggestive.
It was in October, 1887, that a memorial was set up at Stratford, a
clock-tower and fountain, in memory of Shakespeare. It was the gift of
the wealthy Mr. Childs, of New York, who has been hitherto eager to
associate his name, in painted windows and other ways, with distinguished
Englishmen of bygone times. It may be suspected that Childs’s name will
not be so inseparably linked with celebrated personages as he fondly
imagined. There is a sort of incongruity in this association of a casual
stranger with an English poet.
* * * * *
Many a delightful night have his friends owed to the thoughtful kindness
and hospitality of their interesting host. Such is, indeed, one of the
privileges of being his friend. The stage brings with it abundance of
pleasant associations; but there are a number of specially agreeable
memories bound up with the Lyceum. Few will forget the visit of the
Duke of Meiningen’s company of players to this country, which forms
a landmark of extraordinary importance in the history of our modern
stage. With it came Barnay, that accomplished and romantic actor; and a
wonderful instinct of disciplining crowds, and making them express the
passions of the moment, as in Shakespeare’s ‘Julius Cæsar.’ The skilful
German stage-managers did not import their crowds, but were able to
inspire ordinary bands of supernumeraries with the dramatic feelings and
expression that they wanted.
I recall one pleasant Sunday evening at the close of a summer’s day,
when Irving invited his friends to meet the German performers at the
Lyceum. The stage had been picturesquely enclosed and fashioned into
a banqueting-room, the tables spread; the orchestra performed in the
shadowy pit. It was an enjoyable night. There was a strange mingling
of languages—German, French, English. There were speeches in these
tongues, and at one moment Palgrave Simpson was addressing the company in
impetuous fashion, passing from English to French, from French to German,
with extraordinary fluency. Later in the evening there was an adjournment
to the Beef-steak rooms, where the accomplished Barnay found himself at
the piano, to be succeeded by the versatile Beatty-Kingston, himself half
German. There were abundant “Hochs” and pledging. Not until the furthest
of the small hours did we separate, indebted to our kindly, unaffected
host for yet one more delightful evening.
The manager once furnished a pleasantly piquant afternoon’s amusement
for his friends on the stage of his handsome theatre. Among those who
have done service to the stage is Mr. Walter Pollock, lately editor
of the _Saturday Review_, who, among his other accomplishments, is a
swordsman of no mean skill. He has friends with the same tastes, with
whom he practises this elegant art, such as Mr. Egerton Castle, Captain
Hutton, and others. It is not generally known that there is a club known
as the Kerneuzers, whose members are _amateurs enragés_ for armour and
swordsmanship, many of whom have fine collections of helmets, hauberks,
and blades of right Damascene and Toledo.[44]
Mr. Egerton Castle and others of his friends have written costly and
elaborate works on fencing, arms, and the practice of _armes blanches_,
and at their meetings hold exciting combats with dirk and foil. It was
suggested that Mr. Castle should give a lecture on this subject, with
practical illustrations; and the manager, himself a fencer, invited a
number of friends and amateurs to witness the performance, which took
place on February 25, 1891. This lecture was entitled “The Story of
Swordsmanship,” especially in connection with the rise and decline of
duelling. And accordingly there was witnessed a series of combats,
mediæval, Italian, and others, back-sword, small-sword, sword and cloak,
and the rest. Later the performance was repeated at the instance of the
Prince of Wales.
Irving has often contributed his share to “benefits” for his distressed
brethren, as they are often called. In the days when he was a simple
actor he took his part like the rest; when he became manager he would
handsomely lend his theatre, and actually “get up” the whole as though
it were one of his own pieces. This is the liberal, _grand_ style of
conferring a favour. Miss Ellen Terry “takes her benefit” each year.
In June, 1876, a performance was arranged at the Haymarket for a benefit,
when the ever-blooming ‘School for Scandal’ was performed by Phelps,
Miss Neilson, “Ben” Webster, Irving, Bancroft, and others. Irving was
the Joseph Surface, a performance which excited much anticipation and
curiosity. Some time after he performed the same character at Drury Lane.
It might naturally have been thought that the part would have exactly
suited him, but whether from novelty or restlessness, there was a rather
artificial tone about the performance. But what actor can be expected to
play every character, and to find every character suited to him? Joseph
we hold to be one of the most difficult in the whole _répertoire_ to
interpret. At the Belford benefit—and Belford and his services to the
stage, such as they were, are long since forgotten—the all but enormous
sum of £1,000 was received! For schools, charities, convents even, and
philanthropic work of all kinds, some contribution from Henry Irving in
the shape of a recitation or scene may be looked for.
Irving s vein of pleasantry is ever welcome as it is unpretentious. I
have heard him at the General Theatrical Fund dinner give the toast of
“The Army, Navy, and Reserve Forces,” when he said, “There is an Artists’
Corps—I am curious to know why there should not be an Actors’ Corps.
_We are accustomed to handle weapons._” On this occasion “friend Toole”
had to leave on duty; “whose fine Roman visage,” said his friend, “has
beamed on us during dinner—he has been obliged to go away, fortified, I
hope, for his arduous labours, but he will return—I know him well—and he
will too, I am sure, with a most excellent donation.” He can tell a story
or relish a humorous situation with equal effect. In company with Toole,
he has often contrived a droll situation or comic adventure.[45]
At one period, when he was oppressed with hard work, it was suggested
to him that sleeping in the country would be a great restorative after
his labours. He much fancied an old house and grounds at Hammersmith,
known as “The Grange”; and having purchased it, he laid out a good deal
of money in improving and restoring it It had nice old gardens, with
summer-house, a good staircase, and some old panelled rooms.
To a man with such social tastes, the journey down and the night spent
there must have been banishment, or perhaps was found too troublesome.
Literary men, artists, and the like do not much relish these tranquil
pleasures, though practical men of business do. I am certain most will
agree that they leave Fleet Street and the Strand with reluctance and
return to it with pleasure. After a few years he was anxious to be rid of
what was only a useless toy, and it was offered for sale for, I think,
£4,000.[46]