1892.
‘KING LEAR’—‘BECKET.’
After presenting so many of Shakespeare’s great dramas, it was to be
expected that the manager could not well pass by what has been justly
styled the Titanic play of ‘King Lear.’ This had, indeed, always been
in his thoughts; but he naturally shrank from the tremendous burden
it entailed. It was prepared in his usual sumptuous style. There were
sixteen changes of scene and twenty-two characters, and the music was
furnished by Hamilton Clarke. The scenery was divided between Craven and
Harker, the latter a very effective artist of the same school. There
were some beautiful romantic effects: the halls, the heath, and notably
the Dover scenes, were exquisite. I doubt if their presentation has been
excelled by any preceding attempts. The barbaric tone and atmosphere
of the piece was conveyed to perfection, without being insisted on or
emphasized. It is only when we compare the ambitious attempts of other
managers who would indulge in effects equally lavish and sumptuous,
that we recognise the ability, ease, reserve, and force of the Lyceum
manager.[56] They, too, will have their “archæology” and their built-up
temples, designed by painters of repute, and crowds; but there is present
only the sense of stage effect and the flavour of the supernumerary.
The secret is the perfect subordination of such details to the general
effect. They should be, like the figures on a tapestry, indistinct, but
effective as a background. Charles Lamb’s well-worn dictum, that ‘Lear’
should never be acted, was trotted forth in every criticism. There
is some truth in this exaggerated judgment, because it can never be
_adequately_ presented, and the performance must always fall short of the
original grandeur. With his remarks on the pettiness of the stage-storm,
one would be inclined to agree, even on this occasion, when every art was
exhausted to convey the notion of the turmoil of the elements. The truth
is, an audience sitting in the stalls and boxes will never be seduced
into accepting the rollings and crashings of cannon-balls aloft, and the
flashing of lycopodium, as suggesting the awful warring of the elements.
‘Lear’ was brought forward on Thursday, November 10, 1892, and its
presentation was a truly romantic one. The figure had little of the
usual repulsive aspects of age—the clumsy white beard, etc.—but was
picturesque. The entry into his barbaric court, the strange retainers
with their head-dresses of cows’ horns, was striking and original. The
whole conception was human. The “curse” was delivered naturally. In
presenting, however, the senile ravings of the old monarch, the actor
unavoidably assumed an indistinctness of utterance, and many sentences
were lost. This imperfection was dwelt on in the criticisms with
superfluous iteration, and though the actor speedily amended and became
almost emphatically distinct, this notion seemed to have settled in the
public mind, with some prejudice to the success of the piece. Though
he was thus quick to remedy this blemish, distinctness was secured by
deliberation, and at some loss of effect. The actor’s extraordinary
exertions—for he was at the same time busy with the preparation of a new
piece—exhausted him, and obliged him for some nights to entrust the part
to another. But the real obstacle to full success could be found in the
general lugubrious tone of the character; the uninterrupted sequence
of horrors and distresses led to a feeling of monotony difficult for
the actor to vanquish. The public never takes very cordially to pieces
in which there is this _sustained misery_, though it can relish the
alternations of poignant tragedy attended by quick dramatic changes.
Cordelia, though a small part, was made prominent by much touching pathos
and grace, and the dying recognition by the old King brought tears to
many eyes.[57]
An interesting feature in Irving’s career has been his long friendship
with Tennyson, poet and dramatist, which lasted for some fifteen or
sixteen years. The actor showed his appreciation of the poet’s gifts by
the rather hazardous experiment of presenting two of his poetical dramas
to the public. We have seen what sumptuous treatment was accorded to
‘The Cup’; and in ‘Queen Mary’ the actor contributed his most powerful
dramatic efforts in the realization of the grim Philip.
The poet, however, made little allowance for the exigencies of the
stage. During the preparation of ‘The Cup,’ he contended eagerly for the
retention of long speeches and scenes, which would have shipwrecked the
piece. Yet, undramatic as most of his dramas are, a taste for them was
springing up, and not long before his death he had the gratification of
knowing that his ‘Foresters’ had met with surprising success in America.
No less than six pieces of his have been produced, and though the idea
prevails that he has been “a failure” as a dramatist, it will be found
that on the whole he has been successful. It may be that by-and-by he
will be in higher favour. But he will have owed much to Irving, not
merely for presenting his plays with every advantage, but for putting
them into fitting shape, with firm, unerring touch removing all that is
superfluous.
So far back as the year 1879 the poet had placed in Irving’s hands a
drama on the subject of Becket and the Fair Rosamund. It was really
a _poem_ of moderate length, though in form a drama, and the actor
naturally shrank from the difficulties of dealing with such a piece.
The “pruning knife” would here have been of little avail; the axe or
“chopper” would have to be used unsparingly. The piece was accordingly
laid aside for that long period; the lamented death of the poet probably
removed the chief obstacle to its production. It is said, indeed,
that almost one-half was cut away before it could be put in shape for
performance. On Monday, February 6, 1893, the actor’s birthday, this
posthumous piece was brought out with every advantage, and before an
assemblage even more brilliant than usual. It revived the memories of
the too recent ‘Henry VIII.,’ in which there is much the same struggle
between Prince and Bishop. The actor has thus no less than three eminent
Catholic ecclesiastics in his _répertoire_—Richelieu, Wolsey, and Becket;
but, as he pleasantly said, he could contrast with these an English
clergyman, the worthy Dr. Primrose, Vicar of Wakefield. Yet he admirably
and dramatically distinguished their several characters.
There is always a curiosity to have the curtain lifted, so that we may
have a glimpse of a play in the throes and troubles of rehearsal. Mr.
Burgin, in one of the magazines, gave a very dramatic sketch of how
things were conducted during the preparation of ‘Becket’:
“After Mr. Irving has grouped the men on the benches, he steps back
and looks at the table. ‘We ought to have on it some kind of mace or
crozier,’ he says—‘a large crozier. Now for the “make up.” All the
barons and everyone who has a moustache must wear a small beard. All the
gentlemen who have no beards remain unshaven. All the priests and bishops
are unshaven. The mob can have slight beards, but this is unimportant.
Now, take off your hats, gentlemen, please. Some of you must be old, some
young. Hair very short;’ and he passes from group to group selecting the
different people. ‘Now, I think that is all understood pretty well. Where
are the sketches for dresses?’
“The sketches are brought, and he goes carefully through them. Miss
Terry and Mr. Terriss also look over the big white sheets of paper.
The fox-terrier strolls up to the group, gives a glance at them, and
walks back again to Miss Terry’s chair with a slightly cynical look.
Then Mr. Irving returns to the groups by the benches. ‘Remember,
gentlemen, you must be arguing here, laying down the law in this way,’
suiting the action to the word. ‘Just arrange who is to argue. Don’t
do it promiscuously, but three or four of you together. Try to put a
little action into it. I want you to show your arms, and not to keep
them glued to your sides like trussed fowls. No; that isn’t half enough
action. Don’t be frightened. Better make too much noise rather than too
little, but don’t stop too suddenly. Start arguing when I ring the first
bell. As I ring the second bell, you see me enter, and stop.’ The dog
stands one bell, but the second annoys him, and he disappears from the
stage altogether, until the people on the benches have finished their
discussion.
“Mr. Irving next tries the three-cornered stools which are placed around
the table, but prefers square ones. The dog returns, walks over to the
orchestra, looks vainly for a rat, and retreats under the table in the
centre of the stage as if things were getting really too much for him.
But his resting-place is ill-chosen, for presently half-a-dozen angry
lords jump on the table, and he is driven forth once more. After a stormy
scene with the lords, Mr. Irving walks up the steps again. ‘When I say
“I depart,” you must let me get up the steps. All this time your pent-up
anger is waiting to burst out suddenly. Don’t go to sleep over it.’ He
looks at the table in the centre of the stage, and turns to a carpenter.
‘This table will never do. It has to be jumped on by so many people that
it must be very strong. They follow me.’ (To Miss Terry) ‘They’d better
catch hold of me, up the steps here.’
“Miss Terry: ‘They must do something. They can’t stand holding you like
that.’
“Mr. Irving: ‘No.’ The door opens suddenly at top of steps, and discovers
the crowd, who shout, ‘Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord.’
“The doors open and the crowd shout, but the effect is not good.
“Miss Terry: ‘It would be better if it were done at the foot of the
steps. The people needn’t show their faces as they do it, and the effect
will be so much better.’”
‘Becket’ contained thirty characters, and was set off by fine scenery
and excellent music, written specially by Professor Stanford, this not
being the first time his notes had been associated with the poet. Never
have Irving’s efforts been greeted with such overpowering, tumultuous
applause. At the end of every act there were as many as five “recalls.”
In such pieces, as well as in some of Shakespeare’s, there is always a
matter of interesting debate in fixing the era, dresses, architecture,
etc.—a matter perhaps of less importance than is supposed. Irving’s
conception of ‘Becket’ was truly picturesque and romantic; he imported
a pathetic tone, with a sort of gloomy foreboding of the impending
martyrdom, conveyed by innumerable touches. The actor has the art of
moulding his features and expression to the complexion of the character
he is performing nightly. Thus, in ‘Becket,’ it can be seen that he had
already assumed the meditative, wary look of the aspiring ecclesiastic.
It is evidence of the interest excited by ‘Becket,’ that a little
discussion arose between a Benedictine Father and another ecclesiastic on
the hymn, “Telluris ingens Conditor,” which was played in the cathedral
scene and through the piece. The Benedictine contended that it must have
been some older form of the hymn before the pseudo-classicalization
“of the Breviary Hymns in the sixteenth century.” “I do not suppose,”
he added, “that Mr. Irving’s well-known attention to detail extends to
such _minutiæ_ as these. The famous cathedral scene, in his presentment
of ‘Much Ado about Nothing,’ was received with a chorus of praise as a
marvel of liturgical accuracy. But I am told that to Catholic eyes at
least some of its details appeared incorrect.” Thus, to the monastery
even, does the fame of our manager’s efforts reach!
One of the most remarkable things connected with ‘Becket’ was the
unanimous applause and approbation of the entire press.[58] Even one or
two evening papers, which had spoken with a little hesitation, returned
to the subject a few nights later to correct their judgment and to admit
that they had been hasty. All confessed that they had been captivated by
the picturesqueness of the central figure.
Apart from his professional gifts, Irving is assuredly one of those
figures which fill the public eye, and of which there are but few. This
is owing to a sort of sympathetic attraction, and to an absence of
affectation. He plays many parts in the social scheme, and always does
so with judiciousness, contributing to the effect of the situation.
His utterances on most subjects are thoughtful and well considered,
and contribute to the enlightenment of the case. At his examination
by the London County Council, when many absurd questions were put to
him, he answered with much sagacity. His views on the employment of
children in theatres are truly sensible. More remarkable, however, are
his opinions on the science of acting, the art of management, and of
dealing with audiences and other kindred topics, which show much thought
and knowledge. He has, in truth, written a great deal, and his various
“discourses,” recently collected in a pretty little volume, do credit to
his literary style and power of expression.[59]
Here we must pause. We have seen what our actor has done, what a change
he has worked in the condition of the stage: what an elegant education
he has furnished during all these years. And though he has been
associated with the revival of the stage, and a complete reform in all
that concerns its adornment, it will be his greatest glory that he has
presented SHAKESPEARE on a grand scale, under the sumptuous and judicious
conditions and methods that have made the poet acceptable to English
audiences of our day.
There have been many laments over the fleeting, evanescent character of
an actor’s efforts. If his success be triumphant, it is like a dream for
those who have not seen. Description gives but the faintest idea of his
gifts. The writer, as it were, continues to write after his death, and
is read, as he was in his lifetime. But the player gone, the play is
over. The actor, it is true, if he be a personality, has another audience
outside his theatre. As I have shown in these pages, he can attract by
force of character the interest and sympathies of the general community.
Whatever he does, or wherever he appears, eyes are turned to him as they
would be to one on a stage. There is a sort of indulgent partiality in
the case of Irving. He is a dramatic figure, much as was Charles Dickens.
Eyes are idly bent on him that enters next. And this high position is not
likely to be disturbed; and though all popularity is precarious enough,
he has the art and tact to adapt his position to the shifty, capricious
changes of taste, and in the hackneyed phrase is more “up to date” than
any person of his time. The fine lines in ‘Troilus and Cressida’—the
most magnificent in Shakespeare, as they seem to me—should ring in every
actor’s ear, or indeed in that of everyone that enjoys public favour.
Alas! it must be his lot to be ever at the oar. There is no relaxing, no
repose; no coy retirement, or yielding to importunate rivalry:
“To have done, is to hang quite out of fashion,
Like a rusty mail in monumental mockery....
For honour travels in a strait so narrow,
Where one but goes abreast: keep, then, the path;
For emulation hath a thousand sons,
That one by one pursue: if you give way,
Or turn aside from the direct forth-right,
Like to an enter’d tide, they all rush by,
And leave you hindmost;—and there you lie
Like a gallant horse fallen in first rank,
For pavement to the abject rear, o’er-run
And trampled on; then, what they do in present,
Though less than yours in past, must o’ertop yours.”