1888.
‘MACBETH’—‘THE DEAD HEART’—‘RAVENSWOOD.’
The approach of the opening night of ‘Macbeth’ caused more excitement
than perhaps any of the Lyceum productions. There was a sort of fever of
expectancy; it was known that everything in the way of novelty—striking
and sumptuous dress and scenery, elaborate thought and study, and
money had been expended in almost reckless fashion. There were legends
afloat as to Miss Terry’s marvellous “beetle-green” dress, and the
copper-coloured tresses which were to hang down on her shoulders.[47] The
scenery was to be vast, solid, and monumental. It was no surprise when it
was learned that before the day of performance some £2,000 had been paid
for seats at the box-office.
While allowing due praise to the accomplishments and sagacity of our
dramatic critics, I confess to looking with some distrust and alarm
at a sort of “new criticism” which, like the so-called “new humour,”
has developed in these latter days. This amounts to the assumption of
an aggressive personality—there is a constant manifestation, not of
the play or performers criticised, but of the writer’s own thoughts
and opinions. It seems to be the fashion for a critic to devote his
article to Mr. ——, an opposing critic, as though the public attached any
importance to the opinions these gentlemen held of each other. The vanity
thus unconsciously displayed is often ludicrous enough. The instances,
however, are fortunately rare.
Produced on December 29, the play caused considerable excitement
among Shakespearian students and “constant readers”; and Miss Terry’s
reading—or rather the appearance of Miss Terry in the part—produced much
vehement controversy. We had “The Real Macbeth” in the _Daily Telegraph_,
with the usual “old playgoers” who had seen Mrs. Charles Kean. I fancy
there were but three or four persons who were able to compare the
performance of Miss Terry with that of Mrs. Siddons—about sixty years
before.[48]
Banquo’s ghost has always been a difficulty in every presentation of the
play; all the modern apparitions and phantasmagorian effects neutralize
or destroy themselves. The powerful light behind exhibits the figure
through the gauzes, but to procure this effect the lights in front must
be lowered or darkened. This gives notice in clumsy fashion of what is
coming, and prepares us for the ghost.
“New and original” readings rarely seem acceptable, and, indeed, are
scarcely ever welcomed by the public, who have their old favourite lines
to which they are well accustomed. We never hear one of these novelties
without an effect being left as of something “purely fantastical,” as
Elia has it, and invariably they seem unacceptable and forced, producing
surprise rather than pleasure. Irving rarely introduces these changes. A
curious one in ‘Macbeth’ was the alteration of a line—
“She should have died hereafter,”
into
“She would have died hereafter.”
That is a sort of careless dismissal of his wife’s death, as something
that must have occurred, according to the common lot.
The irresolution and generally dejected tone of the Scottish King, as
presented by the actor, was much criticised, and severely too. There
was something “craven,” it was said, in this constant faltering and
shrinking. This, however, was the actor’s conscientious “reading” of
the part: he was not bound by the Kemble or Macready traditions, but
irresistibly impelled to adopt the highly-coloured “romantic” view of our
day. He made it interesting and picturesque, and, in parts, forcible.
Miss Terry’s Lady Macbeth filled everyone with wonder and admiration; as
in the case of her Queen Katherine, it seemed a miracle of energy and
dramatic inspiration triumphing over physical difficulties and habitual
associations. The task was herculean, and even those who objected could
not restrain their admiration.[49]
The pictures set forth in this wonderful representation linger in the
memory. The gloomy Scottish scenes, the castles and their halls, the fine
spreading landscapes, the treatment of the witches, and Banquo’s ghost,
were all but perfect in tone, and had a judicious reserve. There was
nothing overlaid or overdone. How admirably and exactly, for instance,
did the scene correspond to the beautiful lines:
“This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself.”
There painting and poetry went together! The banqueting-hall, the
arrangement of the tables, at right angles with the audience, had a
strange, barbaric effect, the guests being disposed in the most natural
fashion.
After the run of ‘Macbeth’ had ceased, the manager proceeded to carry out
a plan which had long been in his thoughts, and which many had suggested
to him. This was to give “readings,” in conjunction with Miss Terry,
of some of his plays. This would offer some respite from the enormous
outlay entailed by producing these great pieces at his theatre. One
could fancy that nothing could be more attractive than such “readings,”
the interest in the personality of the two great performers being so
generally diffused. He re-arranged “Macbeth” for this purpose, and set
off on a tour in the provinces. But though everywhere well received,
I think the plan did not command the full success that was expected.
There was a defect somehow in the plan: two characters seemed to rob the
performance of that _unity_ which is the charm of a reading. Further,
it was illustrated by the fine music, with orchestra, etc., and this
again disturbed the natural simplicity of a reading. The actor’s own
vividly-coloured imagination and tastes could not, in fact, be content
with the bald and _triste_ mechanisms of the ordinary reader: he tried
to impart what ornamentation he could. The experiment was not, however,
carried out very long.[50]
Some thirty years before, in the old Adelphi days, when “Ben” Webster
was ruling, a drama was produced, the work of a hard-working, drudging
dramatist, Watts Phillips. It was a pure melodrama, and people had not
yet lost their faith in the old devices. There was an honest belief
that villainy would be punished ere the end came. By the laws of such
pieces, the most painful situations were always contrasted with scenes
of broadest farce, which were supposed to relieve the excited feelings. I
well recall these humours. On the revival, however, all this was softened
away or abolished, and, I fancy, with some injury to the constitution of
the old piece.
The production of ‘The Dead Heart’ furnished one more instance of the
tact and abilities which have secured the manager of the Lyceum his high
position. Here was a piece of an old-fashioned kind, which, had it been
“revived” at an ordinary theatre, would have been found not only flat and
stale, but unprofitable for all concerned. Our manager, seeing that it
had dramatic life and situations, brought the whole into harmony with the
times, and, by the skilful _remaniement_ of Mr. Walter Pollock, imparted
to it a romantic grace. It is admitted that he himself has rarely been
fitted with a part so suited to his genius and capacities, or in which he
has roused the sympathies of his audience more thoroughly. It is only the
romantic actor that understands what might be called the _key_ of a play.
In this picturesque part of Robert Landry were exhibited no fewer than
four contrasted phases of character: the gay, hopeful young artist; the
terribly metamorphosed prisoner of nearly twenty years; the recently
delivered man, newly restored to the enjoyment of life; and, lastly,
the grim revolutionary chief, full of his stem purpose of vengeance.
This offered an opening for the display of versatile gifts, which were
certainly brought out in the most striking contrast. But it was in the
later scenes of the play, when he appears as the revolutionary chief,
that our “manager-actor” exhibited all his resources. Nothing was more
artistic than the sense of restraint and reserve here shown, which is
founded on human nature. A person who has thus suffered, and with so
stem a purpose in view, will be disdainful of speech, and oppressed, as
it were, with his terrible design. Quiet, condensed purpose, without any
“fiendish” emphasis, was never better suggested. Even when the drop-scene
is raised, and he is revealed standing by his table, there is the same
morose unrelenting air, with an impression that here was one who had just
passed through the fire, and had been executing an act of vengeance which
had left its mark.
In a drama like ‘The Dead Heart,’ music forms a fitting accompaniment
furnishing colour and appropriate illustration. It is almost
uninterrupted from beginning to end. M. Jacobi of the Alhambra furnished
some effective, richly-coloured strains to ‘The Dead Heart,’ alternately
gay and lugubrious. More, however, might have been made of the stirring
‘Marseillaise,’ which could have been treated in various disguises
and patterns as a sort of _Leitmotiv_, much as Litolf has done in his
symphonic work on the same subject.
A Scotch play—an adaptation of ‘The Bride of Lammermoor’—was now prepared
by Mr. Herman Merivale, a dramatist of much poetical feeling, but whose
course was marked by piteous and disastrous incidents. Buoyed up by the
encouragement and admiration of his friends, and of kindly critics who
found merit in all he did, he struggled on in spite of miserable health
and a too highly-strung nervous temperament. His work showed refinement
and elegance, but it was more for the reader than the playgoer. A gleam
of prosperity, however, came when Mr. Toole began to figure in the
writers grotesque pieces, ‘The Don,’ and others—to which, indeed, the
author’s wife had contributed some share.
The new piece, which was called ‘Ravenswood,’ had lain long in the
manager’s cabinet, where at this moment repose a number of other MSS.,
“commanded” and already purchased, from the pens of Wills, Frank
Marshall, and others. The latter had fashioned Robert Emmett into a
picturesque figure, the figure and bearing of the manager having no doubt
much that suggested the Irish patriot; but the troubled period of Land
Leagues and agrarian violence set in at the time of its acceptance with
an awkward _à propos_.[51]
There is a character, indeed, in which, as the tradition runs, he
formerly made almost as deep an impression as in ‘The Bells.’ This was
Bill Sikes, and we can conceive what a savagery he would have imparted to
it. It would seem to be exactly suited to his powers and to his special
style; though of course here there would be a suggestion of Dubosc. With
Miss Terry as Nancy here would be opened a realm of squalid melodrama,
and “Raquin-like” horrors.
There are other effective pieces which seem to invite the performance of
this accomplished pair. Such, for instance, is the pathetic, heartrending
‘Venice Preserved.’ Though there might be a temptation here for the
scenic artist—since Venice, and its costumes, etc, would stifle the
simple pathos of the drama. ‘The Taming of the Shrew’ has been often
suggested and often thought of, but it has been effectively done at this
theatre by another company. ‘The Jealous Wife’—Mr. and Mrs. Oakley—would
also suit well. There is ‘The Winter’s Tale,’ and finally ‘Three Weeks
after Marriage’—one of the most diverting pieces of farcical comedy that
can be conceived.
‘Ravenswood’ was produced on September 20, 1890. While its scenes were
being unfolded before us one could not but feel the general weakness
of the literary structure, which was unequal to the rich and costly
setting; neither did it correspond to the broad and limpid texture of
the original story. It was unfortunately cast, as I venture to think.
Mackintosh, who performed Caleb, was somewhat artificial; while Ashton
père and his lady, rendered by Bishop and Miss Le Thière, could hardly
be taken _au sérieux_. Irving infused a deep and gloomy pathos into his
part, and Miss Terry was, as ever, interesting, touching, and charming.
But the characters, as was the story, were little more than thinly
outlined. The scenes, however, unfolded themselves with fine spectacular
effect; nothing could be more impressive than the scene of the first
act—a mountain gorge where Ravenswood has come for the entombment of his
father, and is interrupted by the arrival of his enemy, Ashton. Beside
it the Merivale version appeared bald enough. The weird-like last scene,
the “Kelpie Sands,” with the cloak lying on the place of disappearance,
the retainer gazing in despair, was one of Irving’s finely poetical
conceptions, but it was more spectacular than dramatic. The truth is,
where there is so fine a theatre, and where all arts are supplied to set
off a piece in sumptuous style, these elements require substantial stuff
to support them, otherwise the effect becomes trivial in exact proportion
to the adornment.
Irving has been often challenged for not drawing on the talent of native
dramatists, and for not bringing forward “new and original” pieces.
The truth is, at this moment we may look round and seek in vain for a
writer capable of supplying a piece large and forcible enough in plot and
character to suit the Lyceum. We have Pinero and Henry Arthur Jones, but
they are writers of comedies and problem-dramas. Wills, in spite of his
faults, had genuine faith in the old methods. He was of the school of
Westland Marston. In this dearth of talent, it might be well for Irving
to give a commission to a French dramatist to work on whatever subject he
fancied, and have the piece adapted.
It was at the Christmas season of 1891 that the manager was enabled
to carry out a plan that had for years been before him—a revival of
‘Henry VIII.’ We can quite conceive how, as the fashion always was with
him, the play ripened as it were with meditation; how, as he walked or
followed the consoling fumes of his cigar in his chamber at Grafton
Street, each scene fell into shape or suggested some new and effective
arrangement, which again might be discarded as difficulties arose, or
as something happier occurred to him. The result of these meditations
was unquestionably a “large” and splendid setting of the play, which,
to my mind, whatever be the value of the opinion, is certainly one of
the finest, most finished, most poetical, and sufficient of the many
works that he has set before us.[52] There was a greater Shakespearian
propriety, and the adornments, however lavish, might all be fairly
justified. Most to be admired was the supreme elegance of touch found in
every direction—acting, scenery, dresses, music, all reflected the one
cultivated mind. The truth is, long practice and the due measuring of his
own exertion have now supplied an ease and boldness in his effects. To
appreciate this excellence we have only to turn to similar attempts made
by others, whether managers, or manager-actors, or manager-authors—and
we find only the conventional exertion of the scene-painter and
stage-manager. They have not the same inspiration.
This play, produced on January 5, 1892, was received with great
enthusiasm. It became “a common form” of criticism to repeat that it was
of doubtful authorship; that it was nothing but a number of scenes strung
together; that there was no story; that Buckingham vanished almost at the
beginning of the play; and that towards the end, Wolsey vanished also.
These, as I venture to say, are but ignorant objections; characters will
always supply a dramatic story, or a dramatic interest that amounts to a
story, and in the fate of Wolsey and of Katherine, gradually developed
and worked out, we had surely a story sufficiently interesting.
I have little doubt that Irving kept steadily in view the object the
great author had before him, viz., to present a page of history enriched
by all the suitable accompaniments of dress and manners and customs. In
this he was perfectly and triumphantly successful. We were taken into
the great chambers, and tribunals; shown the ecclesiastical pomp and
state, so difficult to conceive now; the processions passing through
the streets, and presented in an exceedingly natural and unconventional
fashion.[53] The drama was set forth fully, with every adjunct of dress,
furniture, scenes, and numbers of auxiliaries.
The scenery, offering wonderful perspectives of Tudor halls and
interiors, the arrangements of the courts and various meetings, were
original and very striking. Yet here I should be inclined to suggest
anew the objections often made to the modern system of large groupings
compressed into the small area of a stage, which, as it seems, is
opposed to the canons of scenic art.[54] These, too, seemed to acquire
new force from the arrangement of the “Trial scene,” as it was called,
which displayed a great hall with the daïs, seats for the Cardinal, the
King, etc. The result of thus supplying a great area by the system of
compression (I am speaking merely of the principle), is that the leading
figures become dwindled in scale and overpowered by the surrounding
crowd. The contrast with the older system is brought out by Harlow’s
well-known picture, where only the leading figures are grouped, and where
by consequence they stand out in greater relief. The spectator stands, as
it were, close beside them; but by the modern arrangement he appears to
be afar off, at the bottom of the hall, obtaining but a distant view of
them.[55]
When we consider what are the traditions of the two great characters, how
vivid they are, from the deep impressions left by the great brother and
sister on their contemporaries—an impression which has really extended
to our time—too much praise could hardly be given to the performance
of Irving and his gifted companion. Irving’s Wolsey was exactly what
those familiar with his other impersonations could anticipate—poetical,
elegant, and in many portions powerful. He was the churchman to
perfection, carrying his robes admirably; in the face there was a
suggestion of the late departed Cardinal Manning. All through the piece
there was that picturesque acting which fills the eye, not the ear, at
the moment when speech is at rest. It is thus that are confuted those
theorists, including Elia, who hold that Shakespeare is to be read, not
acted.
It is perhaps the power of suggestion and of stirring our imagination
that brings about this air of fulness and richness. Irving, when he
was not speaking, _acted_ the pomp and state and consummately depicted
the smoothness of the Cardinal. When he was lost to view you felt
the application of the oft-quoted line touching the absence of “the
well-grac’d” actor from the scene, and it was wonderful to think, as we
glanced round the brilliant _salle_—glittering with its vast crowd of
well-dressed, even jewelled, women (“Quite an opera pit!” as Ellison
would say)—to the fine stage before us, with its showy figures, pictures,
and pageants, that all this was _his_ work and of his creation!
There were many diverse criticisms on Irving’s conception of this famous
character; some held that it was scarcely “large,” rude, or overbearing
enough. His view, however, as carried out, seemed natural and consistent.
The actor wished to exhibit the character as completely overwhelmed by
adverse fortune; witness Macbeth, Othello, and many other characters. In
the last great soliloquy it was urged there was a want of variety. Still,
allowing for all traditional defects, it stands beyond contradiction that
it was a “romantic” performance, marked by “distinction,” and a fine
grace; and we might vainly look around for any performer of our time
who could impart so poetical a cast to the character. And we may add a
praise which I am specially qualified to give, viz., that he was the
perfect ecclesiastic: as he sat witnessing the revels, now disturbed, now
careless—there was the Churchman revealed; he was not, as was the case
with so many others, a performer robed in clerical garb.
Of Miss Terry’s Queen Katharine, it can be said that it was an
_astonishing_ performance, and took even her admirers by surprise.
She made the same almost gigantic effort as she did in ‘Macbeth’ to
interpret a vast character, one that might have seemed beyond her
strength, physical as well as mental. By sheer force of will and genius
she contrived to triumph. It was not, of course, the _great_ Queen
Katharine of Mrs. Siddons, nor did she awe and command all about her;
but such earnestness and reality and dramatic power did she impart to
the character that she seemed to supply the absence of greater gifts.
Her performance in the Court and other scenes of the persecuted, hunted
woman, now irritated, now resigned, was truly pathetic and realistic.
There may have been absent the overpowering, queen-like dignity, the
state and heroism, but it was impossible to resist her—it was her “way,”
and by this way she gained all hearts. It must be confessed that nothing
ever supplied such an idea of the talents and “cleverness” of this truly
brilliant woman as her victory over the tremendous difficulties of these
parts. The performance won her the sympathies of all in an extraordinary
degree.
So admirably had our manager been penetrated with the spirit of the
scenes, that he was enabled to present them in a natural and convincing
way, and seemed to revive the whole historic time and meaning of the
situation. This was particularly shown in the scene when Buckingham is
led to execution; his address to the crowd was delivered with so natural
a fashion, with such judicious and pathetic effect, that it not only
gained admiration for the performance, but brought the scene itself
within range of every day life. For, instead of the old conventional
declamatory speech to a stage crowd, we had some “words” which the
sufferer, on entering the boat, stopped for a moment to address to
sympathizers who met him on the way.
The music, the work of a young composer, Mr. Edward German, was truly
romantic and expressive; stately and richly-coloured. How wonderful, by
the way, is the progress made of late years in theatrical music! We have
now a group of composers who expend their talents and elegancies in the
adornment of the stage. The flowing melodies and stately marches of the
Lyceum music still linger in the ear.
It was in January, 1892, when he was performing in ‘Henry VIII.,’ that a
very alarming piece of news, much magnified by report, reached him. His
son Laurence was playing at Belfast in the Benson Company, and had by
some accident shot himself with a revolver; this casualty was exaggerated
to an extraordinary degree,—three local doctors issued bulletins; “the
lung had been pierced”—until the anxious father at last sent over an
experienced surgeon, Mr. Lawson Tait, who was able to report that the
wound was trivial, and the weapon a sort of “toy-pistol.” Much sympathy
was excited by this casualty. The manager has two sons, Henry and
Laurence, the latter named after Mr. Toole, who are now both following
their father’s profession.