L’ENVOI.
Irving has always shown himself eager to plead for his profession, to
urge its claim as a wholesome and instructive moral influence that will
implant in the community elevating instincts of even a religious kind.
All our great actors have been forward in this way, notably Garrick,
Kemble, and Macready. The former’s reply to the bishop as to the success
and failure of their different styles of preaching is well known. In
these days, when we have that singular “Church and State Guild,” with
the pleadings of the Reverend Stewart Headlam, and of other clergymen,
in favour of the ballet, it is curious to find how this indulgent and
tolerant view is repaid by the introduction on the stage of grotesque
curates, vicars, and deans, the line being drawn at bishops, who now
figure in many a comic opera in absurd and even degrading situations. Our
actor is very earnest, and fondly believes that the day is approaching
when the stage, and its ways and works, will be recognised by the Church,
and by good people generally, as healthy, useful agents in the work of
reforming men and women. He is fond of repeating the Bishop’s remark to
him, when he asked why, with such a taste for the theatre, he did not
frequent it—“My dear Irving, I am afraid of the _Rock_ and the _Record_.”
In his numerous addresses at institutes, and before the Universities, he
has urged the same plea. And yet, with this skilful and loyal advocacy,
we have an instinct that the stage can have but small effect on the
masses, and does little beyond making them acquainted with certain
refining ideas and situations. As for its fostering moral or religious
impressions, by exhibiting “virtue triumphant and vice defeated,” that
seems to be rather fanciful. It is probable that the playwrights,
managers, actors, and audiences use the theatres for profit and for
amusement, not for self improvement in religion or morals. Even the
great classical works, such as those of Shakespeare, are set forward
with so much magnificence, show, and spectacle, that the teachings are
overpowered in the spectacle and general entertainment. But even granting
the contention that it may become a pure leaven in the profession, or
sweetening salt to purify the rest, who can maintain that the stage as
a whole, with its burlesques, “grotesques,” frivolities, fooleries, and
license of speech and manners, can be considered an edifying school for
morality and religion? What a deep impression, on the other hand, leaves
such a piece as ‘The School for Scandal’! what a genuine disgust for
deceit and insincerity! How it shows the danger of “playing with fire”!
What a pleasant sympathy is aroused with the natural, manly virtues!
Here is a certain sort of teaching if you will, and here, too, is there
an elemental morality. But in these days we unhappily not only lack the
talent to supply such comedies, but the public taste is debauched and
gorged with grosser dishes.
In his paper, addressed to the Church of England Temperance Society,
and read on March 3, 1876, Irving very valiantly pressed for the
formal recognition of his profession by the Church. “Make the theatre
respected by openly recognising its services. Let members of religious
congregations know that there is no harm, but rather good, in entering
into ordinary amusements, so far as they are decorous. Use the pulpit,
the press, and the platform to denounce not the stage, but certain evils
that find allowance on it. Change your attitude towards the stage, and,
believe me, the stage will co-operate with you,” etc.
It must be said, however, as regards this friendly invitation, that this
idea of the churches cordially recommending the stage and of the clergy
being seen in the stalls, and of bishops who would go to the theatre but
for fear of the _Rock_ and the _Record_, seems but a pleasant delusion.
Some few stray clerical visitants there are, no doubt; but in all ages
and climes the Church has found itself opposed to the stage, on the
ground that in the majority of theatres is found what is destroying and
corrupting. As I have said, the pieces in which anything instructive, or
even elevating, is set forth are but few.
Irving has collected his various addresses in a charming little volume,
“The Drama,” 1893. Here, in an exceedingly persuasive and graceful
style, he has expounded the principles of his art. On every point he has
something to say, and all is marked by judiciousness and a temperate
reserve. He does not adopt Diderot’s well-known theory. How true, for
instance, is this: “Nor do I think that servility to archæology on
the stage is an unmixed good. Correctness of costume is admirable and
necessary up to a certain point, but when it ceases to be ‘as wholesome
as sweet’ it should, I think, be sacrificed. The nicest discretion is
needed in the use of the materials which are nowadays at the disposal
of the manager. Music, painting, architecture, costume, have all to be
employed, with a strict regard to the production of an artistic whole
in which no element shall be obtrusive.” When ‘Much Ado about Nothing’
was produced, there was a scene representing a cedar walk, and a critic
discovered that there were no cedars in England until fifty years later,
on which he comments—“Absolute realism on the stage is not always
desirable, any more than the photographic reproduction of Nature can
claim to rank with the highest art.”
A little bit of pleasant comedy is found in a recent speech of his at the
dinner of the Cabdrivers’ Benevolent Association in June last. He had
always a friendly feeling for this hard-worked body of men, as he told
his audience autobiographically: “I have spent a great part of my life
in cabs. There was a time, indeed, when a hansom, by a slight stretch
of the picturesque, might have been described as my address. That was
in the days of youth and high spirits. But there comes a moment in the
experience of all of us when the taste for adventure is satiated, when we
are no longer eager to sit under the charioteer of the sun, and snatch a
fearful joy from sharp corners and a sudden congestion of the traffic.
So when the decisive moment came for me I dropped the hansom and took
up with the growler. I remember that my first appearance in that staid
and unambitious vehicle excited a certain amount of feeling amongst my
old friends the hansom cabmen. There were letters of remonstrance. One
correspondent, as genial a humorist as Gentleman Joe, hinted that to be
seen in a growler was equivalent to being dead, and I think he offered
to paint my epitaph on the back. I must say that I am very comfortable
in a growler, except when the bottom drops out almost as suddenly as if
it were a gold mine. That accident once happened to a friend of mine
whose professional business compelled him to make a quick change of dress
in the cab, and as it was a light summer evening the passers-by were
astonished to see a pair of white legs running under the vehicle, and not
apparently connected with the horse.”
Again a pleasant sketch: “Taking them as a body, the cabmen are as
industrious and deserving a class as you can find in the community.
There still lingers amongst them, perhaps, some of the old spirit which
prompted the cabmen to expostulate rather forcibly with Mr. Pickwick. And
considering the vast area in which these public servants have to work,
and the elasticity of the four-mile radius in the minds of some citizens,
the friction is surprisingly small. Not a few of us have known cabmen
whom we held in special regard. There was one affable driver that I
invited to the Lyceum, giving him the money for admission. The next time
I saw him I said, ‘Well, and how did you like the play?’ He hesitated for
a moment, choosing, as I thought, the most grateful words to express his
pleasure and admiration, and then he said, ‘Well, sir, I didn’t go.’ ‘You
didn’t go! Why not?’ ‘Well, sir, you see, there’s the missus, and she
preferred the Waxworks.’
“A friend of mine, a great ornament of the medical profession, used to
tell a story of the cabman who drove him regularly on his rounds for
some years, and always spoke of him with affectionate familiarity by
his Christian name. The time came for the rising surgeon to set up a
brougham, and with much reluctance he broke this news to his good friend
the cabby, who responded with cheerful alacrity, ‘Oh, you’re going to get
rid of me, are you? Not a bit of it—I’ll drive that brougham.’ And drive
it he did, till he became too old and infirm for the duty. ‘Ah, well, I
must give it up,’ he said one day; ‘I ain’t fit for it any longer.’ ‘Dear
me,’ said the doctor, in great concern, ‘I am very sorry, very sorry
indeed. And what are you going to do?’ ‘What am I going to do? What are
_you_ going to do for me? Don’t you fear—I’ll never leave you!’ And he
spent the rest of his days on a pension. That story has always seemed to
me to put the spirit of charity and goodwill in a thoroughly practical
light. You can scarcely get through life in this town without a sense of
your dependence on cabby’s skill and endurance, and with as grateful an
obligation to him as that of the voyager to the pilot amidst the reefs in
a storm. In this labyrinth of London, it is rare for cabby not to know
his way. I have never ceased to wonder at the cabman’s dexterity of eye
and hand—unrivalled, I venture to say, in any other capital in Europe.
And when you consider how small is the proportion of accidents in this
vast business of locomotion, you may cheerfully grant that cabby has some
claim upon your respect and generosity.”
I think the whole “key” of this is admirably appropriate, and the touch
of the lightest.[61]
At dinners and meetings he often glides into lively recollections of his
early days, related in an unaffected style, as when, not long since, he
told his lieges at Bristol: “My recollections of Bristol carry me back
to the days when my father told me stirring tales of the great Bristol
Riots, which had brought him the honours of a special constable. I think
I wanted to grow up to be a special constable too, and I had great hopes
that Bristol would kindly become sufficiently riotous to favour that
ambition. But I also had a turn for natural history, and it is indelibly
stamped upon my memory that on one occasion, when I was about four years
old, I made a little excursion by myself from St. James’s Barton to
Redcliffe Street in order to study a stag’s head which projected as
a sign from a certain house, where I was found by my anxious mother
peacefully contemplating the head of the antlered beast and wondering why
on earth he smelt so strongly of tallow. It was soon after this incident
that I witnessed a great event in the history of Bristol, the launching
of the steamship _Great Britain_. There was a vast throng of people to
see this mighty vessel, but the one thing which monopolized my attention
was the moustache of Prince Albert, who presided over the ceremony. I
was fired by an unquenchable longing to possess a similar ornament, and
I consulted a friend of mine, a chemist, who kept a particular brand
of acid-drops which I patronized at that time, and who consented to
make a moustache for me. It was a long business, and when I impatiently
inquired how it was getting on, he used to explain that he was growing it
somewhere at the back of his shop. Well, one day I demanded it with an
imperious energy which was not to be resisted, so he put me on a chair
and adorned my upper lip with burnt cork, with which I went home feeling
much elated, though a little disturbed by the demonstrations of the
juvenile public on the way. I have sometimes wondered whether it was that
burnt cork—the earliest of the rites in honour of Thespis—which gave my
career the bent that has brought me among you to-day. If my distinguished
colleague, Miss Ellen Terry, were here, she could tell you many stories
of the Bristol Theatre, in which I may almost say she was cradled.”
* * * * *
Such is an imperfect picture of a really remarkable man, who has left a
deep impression on his contemporaries. It was lately written of him by
one not always inclined to be partial to him: “We find the quality of
nobility to be the keynote of his character. No one ever accused him of
a mean or low act. His instincts are, to use a word that has been often
applied to them, ‘princely.’ He has in him that curious combination of
gentleness and dignity which used to be called ‘the grand style.’ Without
being tortuous in his methods, he is instinctively diplomatic, and there
are suggestions of delicacy, almost of asceticism, in his physique,
which convey an impression of refinement and possible self-denial.” Such
a character as this given of some stranger unknown would irresistibly
attract and make us eager to know him. And the author of animated
pictures of society in the various capitals adds these touches: “Whatever
he does is done on a great, even a grand, scale, and done without
ostentation, without violating any of the laws of good taste. His figure
is interesting, and not wanting in distinction. His manner is polished
and gentle; his voice, off the stage, always agreeable, and his style
peculiarly winning.”
THE END
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
FOOTNOTES
[1] Long after, in his prosperity, he recalled to American listeners an
excellent piece of advice given him by this actress. He was speaking of
the invaluable practice of revealing thoughts in the face before giving
them utterance, where, he said, it “will be found that the most natural,
the most seemingly accidental, effects are obtained when the working
of the mind is seen before the tongue gives its words. This lesson was
enjoined on me when I was a very young man by that remarkable actress,
Charlotte Cushman. I remember that when she played Meg Merrilies I was
cast for Henry Bertram, on the principle, seemingly, that an actor
with no singing voice is admirably fitted for a singing part. It was
my duty to give Meg Merrilies a piece of money, and I did it after the
traditional fashion by handing her a large purse full of coin of the
realm, in the shape of broken crockery, which was generally used in
financial transactions on the stage, because when the virtuous maiden
rejected with scorn the advances of the lordly libertine, and threw his
pernicious bribe upon the ground, the clatter of the broken crockery
suggested fabulous wealth. But after the play, Miss Cushman, in the
course of some kindly advice, said to me, ‘Instead of giving me that
purse, don’t you think it would have been much more natural if you had
taken a number of coins from your pocket and given me the smallest? That
is the way one gives alms to a beggar, and it would have added greatly to
the realism of the scene.’ I have never forgotten that lesson.”
[2] It is not surprising that many more should have been found to claim
the credit of “discovering” Henry Irving. Mr. W. Reeve writes: “A long
talk again with Miss Herbert. As I have two theatres on my hands and a
company, decided not to go. She seemed very disappointed; asked me what
she should do. Thought of Henry Irving, who followed me in Manchester;
advised her to write to Mr. Chambers; promised to do so as well, if
engaged, for Mr. Knowles to release him. Wrote to Chambers about Irving.”
All which, as I know from the best authority, is somewhat imaginative.
The engagement was entirely owing to Boucicault.
[3] Related in one of his conversations with Mr. Joseph Hatton. I have
heard Mr. Walter Lacy describe the modest, grateful fashion in which
our actor received some hints given him at rehearsal by this old and
experienced performer as to the playing of his part.
[4] I may be allowed to refer those who would learn the importance of
this agent of “facial expression” to a little treatise of my own, _The
Art of Acting_—lecture at the Royal Institution, where it is fully
discussed.
[5] Of this night, my friend Mr. Arthur A’Beckett has recently
recalled some memories: “All the dramatic critics were assembled. John
Oxenford—kindest of men and ripest of scholars—for the _Times_, E. L.
Blanchard for the _Daily Telegraph_, John Hollingshead (still amongst
us), the predecessor of my good friend Moy Thomas of the _Daily News_,
Leicester Buckingham for the _Morning Star_, Desmond Ryan (I think)
for the _Standard_, Heraud for the _Illustrated London News_, Tomlins
or Richard Lee for the Advertiser, and Joseph Knight (again one of our
veterans) for the _Sunday Times_. There were others—Clement Scott, W. S.
Gilbert, Andrew Halliday, Tom Robertson, Harry Leigh, Jeff Prowse, Tom
Hood—all members of the Savage Club in the days before clay-pipes went
out of fashion. We were assembled to see a new piece by Dion Boucicault,
then one of the most prolific of dramatists. Well, we were waiting for
the curtain to draw up on the first act of the new play. It was called
‘Hunted Down,’ and it was buzzed in the stalls that Dion had picked up
a very clever young actor in the provinces, who, after a short career
in town, had made his mark in Manchester. He was called Henry Irving.
Then there was another comparatively new name on the bills—Ada Dyas.
The piece had a strong plot, and was fairly successful; but, assisted
by the title, I believe it was a fight against long odds. A repentant
woman ‘with a past’ was hunted down. I fancy Miss Herbert (one of the
most charming actresses that ever trod the boards) was the ‘woman with
the past,’ and that it was she who was ‘hunted down.’ But, although my
impressions of the play are vague and blurred, I can see Henry Irving as
the most admirable villain—cool, calm, and implacable—and Ada Dyas as his
suffering wife. They stand before me as I write, two distinct figures. Of
the rest of the piece, I repeat, I remember next to nothing.”
[6] At this time I happened to be living in Dublin, and recall with
pleasure the comedian’s striking face and figure, and the entertainment
that he imparted. Once buying a newspaper in a shop that was close by the
fine old Theatre Royal, since destroyed by fire, a “characteristical”
pair entered, whom I recognised from having seen them on the stage. I
was particularly struck with the pale, well-marked features, the black
flowing hair, the dress of correct black, the whole very much suggesting
Nicholas Nickleby, or some other of Dickens’ “walking gentlemen.” There
was something strangely attractive about him, and a courteous, kindly
tone to the owner of the shop as he made his purchase. When the pair
had departed the lady’s tongue “grew wanton in his praise.” “Oh, but
Mr. Irving,” she said enthusiastically, “he is the _one_; a perfect
gentleman! Every morning he comes in to buy his newspaper, and he do
speak so _nicely_. I _do_ think he is a charming young man,” etc.
[7] The good-looking Montague, following the invariable development,
seceded from the management and set up a theatre for himself. This not
proving successful, he went to America, where he died early.
[8] It has been stated, I know not with what truth, that he was engaged
at a salary of £15 a week, which was raised on the success of ‘The Bells’
to £35.
[9] Originally the piece opened with the second act, and the manager was
said to have exclaimed: “Oh, bother politics! give us _some domestic
business_.” This led to the introduction of the tranquil, pastoral
scene at Hampton Court. The closing scene, as devised by the author,
represented the capture of the king on the field of battle. “Won’t do,”
said the “Colonel” bluntly; “must wind up with _another_ domestic act.”
Sorely perplexed by this requirement, which they felt was correct,
both author and actor tried many expedients without success, until one
evening, towards the small hours, the manager, who appeared to be dozing
in his chair, suddenly called out: “Look at the last act of ‘Black-eyed
Susan,’ with the prayer-book, chain, and all.” All which may be
legendary, and I give it for what it is worth.
[10] I recall the manager’s complacent anticipation of the success of his
_coup_. “Clayton,” he said, “was a clever, spirited fellow, and would
assuredly make a hit in the part.” He certainly played respectably,
and made up by earnestness what he lacked in other points. He was
particularly proud of his own “make up.” But his inharmonious voice was
against him, and it was impossible to “take him” seriously.
[11] “_Lyceum.—Charles I., Mr. Henry Irving._ The profound admiration
that has been manifested by all classes (for the past four months) in
this noble poetic play, and the unqualified approval bestowed by the
most illustrious auditors upon Mr. Henry Irving’s great creation of the
martyr-king, have marked a new era in public taste. The manager is proud
to be able to announce that the immense audiences nightly assembled
render any change in the performances impossible.—_Miss Isabel Bateman_,
in her tender and exquisitely pathetic portraiture of Queen Henrietta
Maria.—_Mr. George Belmore_, in his vigorous and masterly assumption of
Oliver Cromwell.” Thus the modern Elliston.
[12] I have seen in an old criticism a notice of a leading performer who
in similar fashion “condescended”—so it was phrased—to the part of the
Ghost, and whose impersonation was declared to be “more than usually
_gentlemanlike and reputable_.”
[13] Old Cibber thus grumbled at Garrick’s rise, and other quidnuncs at
Kemble’s; and when Edward Kean came, there was the old prompter, who,
when asked his opinion if he were not equal to Kemble, said: “Very clever
young man indeed, very clever; but Lord bless you, sir, Mr. Kemble _was a
different thing altogether_.”
[14] I have a vast collection of these things, filling some fourteen
great folio volumes—an extraordinary tribute to the actor’s success.
[15] At the close of the performance, Mr. Chippendale presented to
him the sword used by Kean when playing Richard. Later a friend gave
him “the George,” which the great actor also wore in the part. Lady
Burdett-Coutts, always one of his great admirers, added Garrick’s ring,
“in recognition of the gratification derived from his Shakespeare
representations, uniting to many characteristics of his great
predecessors in histrionic art (whom he is too young to remember) the
charm of original thought.” I may add that I was the medium of conveying
to Irving Macready’s dress as Virginius, at the request of Mrs. John
Forster, to whose husband it had been given by the great tragedian, with
the accompanying “tinfoil dagger” with which he used to immolate Virginia.
[16] One night, during the performance of ‘Hamlet,’ something was thrown
from the gallery on to the stage. It fell into the orchestra, and for
a time could not be found. A sad-looking working-woman called at the
stage-door to ask about it, and was glad to learn it was found. It was
only a cheap, common thing. “I often go to the gallery,” she said, “and
I wanted Mr. Irving to have this. I wanted him alone in the world to
possess it.” “This,” he added, telling the story, “is the little trinket
which I wear on my watch-chain.”
[17] Her valedictory address ran: “Mrs. Bateman begs to announce that
her tenancy of the Lyceum Theatre terminates with the present month. For
seven years it has been associated with the name she bears. During the
three years and a half that the business management has been under her
special control, the liberal patronage of the public has enabled her
to wind up the affairs of each successive season with a profit. During
this period ‘Macbeth’ was produced for the first time in London without
interpolation from Middleton’s ‘Witch.’ Tennyson’s first play, ‘Queen
Mary,’ was given; and Shakespeare’s ‘King Richard III.,’ for the first
time in London from the original text. Mrs. Bateman’s lease has been
transferred to Mr. Henry Irving, to whose attraction as an artist the
prosperity of the theatre is entirely attributable, and she confidently
hopes that under his care it may attain higher artistic distinction and
complete prosperity. In conclusion, Mrs. Bateman ventures to express
her gratitude for the kindness and generosity extended to her by the
public—kindness that has overlooked many shortcomings, and generosity
that has enabled her to faithfully carry out all her obligations to the
close of her tenancy.—Lyceum, August 31, 1878.”
[18] It was built in 1830, so it is now over sixty-five years of age. The
lease, held from Lord Exeter, has not many years to run—some twenty or
so, I believe.
[19] He was described by a friend as “always just arrived by the mail in
time to see the fish removed, or as going off by the early coach after
the last dance at four in the morning.” He wrote his own epitaph—
“Here lies Samuel Beazely,
Who lived hard and died easily.”
[20] The actress is of a genuinely theatrical family. Readers of Scott’s
Life will recall the clever, industrious Terry, who was long connected
with the Edinburgh stage, and had himself adapted so many of the Scott
novels. Miss Terry’s father was also long connected with the Edinburgh
stage; her three sisters, her brother, her two children, have all
found their way to the “boards.” Even the precocious child performer,
Minnie Terry, is different from other prodigy children, and imparts a
distinction to what is usually a disagreeable sort of exhibition. I
take from the pages of _The Theatre_ the following minute account of
Miss Terry’s career:—“Miss Ellen Terry was born at Coventry on February
27, 1848. Her first appearance on the stage was made at the Princess’s
Theatre, under the management of Mr. Charles Kean, on April 28, 1856.
On October 15 of the same year she appeared as Puck in the revival of
‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’ In Mr. Kean’s production of ‘King John,’
on October 18, 1858, she acted the part of Arthur. She next appeared at
the Royalty and Haymarket Theatres, and at the latter house she played
in ‘Much Ado About Nothing.’ In March, 1863, she acted Gertrude in ‘The
Little Treasure,’ at the Haymarket. She then acted at the Queen’s Theatre
in Long Acre, where, on October 24, 1867, she sustained the character
of Rose de Beaurepaire in ‘The Double Marriage,’ also in ‘Still Waters
Run Deep’; and, on December 26 of the same year she acted for the first
time with Mr. Henry Irving, playing Katherine to his Petruchio in ‘The
Taming of the Shrew.’ Miss Terry then retired from the stage for some
years, reappearing on February 28, 1874, at the Queen’s Theatre, as
Philippa Chester in ‘The Wandering Heir.’ On April 18 of the same year
she acted Susan Merton in ‘It’s Never Too Late to Mend,’ at Astley’s
Theatre, a performance which the _Daily News_ thought worthy of ‘especial
mention.’ Miss Terry’s first ‘hit,’ however, was made in April, 1875,
when she acted Portia in ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ at the Prince of
Wales’s Theatre. At the same theatre, in May following, she acted Clara
Douglas in ‘Money’; and on August 7, 1875, she appeared at the Princess’s
Theatre, for one night only, as Pauline in ‘The Lady of Lyons.’ In
November following she acted Mabel Vane in ‘Masks and Faces’; and in
May, 1876, she played Blanche Haye in ‘Ours,’ at the Prince of Wales’s
Theatre. Going to the Court Theatre, in the autumn of the same year, she
appeared in ‘The House of Darnley,’ and represented Lilian Vavaseur in
‘New Men and Old Acres.’”—Her first appearance was not in 1856, as so
many have set down, but in 1854. This was in the part of one of the young
princes “murdered in the Tower,” though it has been often stated that
the part was the child one of Mamilius in ‘The Winter’s Tale.’ This was
ascertained by my late friend Dutton Cook, one of the most painstaking
and accurate of men.
Two rival houses in Coventry at this moment claim to be her birthplace.
A greengrocer, at No. 5, Market Street, displays a plate or placard,
announcing that she was born in his house: while a haberdasher, at No.
26, over the way, protests that “This house is the original birthplace of
Miss Ellen Terry, _and no other_. Observe the name, _Terry House_.” Two
other householders make the same claim. But an “old nurse” declares for
No. 5.
[21] Time moves so quickly on that many will have forgotten that the
popular writer Pinero, whose dramatic works are now in such demand, was
at this time an obscure, painstaking actor, and one of the first to take
service in Irving’s _corps_. By-and-by he brought the manager some slight
pieces, such as ‘Daisy’s Escape,’ to serve as _levers de rideau_. These
were neatly written and full of spirit. He thus practised his pen, and,
as the stage was of large size, had to aim at broad, bold effects, a
treatment which has been of material service in his more formal pieces.
To his efforts as an actor we can scarcely extend the admiration we
have for his writings; and his performance of Sir Peter Teazle at the
Haymarket was a strange, wonderful thing.
[22] Amiable and forbearing as Irving has always shown himself to his
subordinates, he can be resolute in seeing that what he wishes or wants
is carried out. Schemes of scenery found available on trial have again
and again been condemned because they failed to bring about the effect
desired. This, however, is the secret of the unity and homogeneousness of
his productions. It is admitted that even in the matter of the elaborate
orchestral music, which we might fancy he would leave to the professors,
he has much to say and alter. It may strike him as not being suited to
the situation. Fresh experiments will have to be made, to be also set
aside, to the despair of the composer. Then the _difficile_ manager will
be heard to attempt, vocally, some rude outline of what he desires, and
this rude suggestion the ready musician will grasp and put into shape,
and it will be agreed _nem. con._ that somehow this last attempt suits
the situation exactly. This sense of perfect propriety _in omnibus_ is a
“note” of our manager’s character.
[23] Once, at Edinburgh, during a performance of ‘The Merchant of
Venice,’ the students of the University had been very tumultuous, and
scarcely a word was heard of the first scenes. Suddenly the drop-scene
descended, and the actor appeared. There was silence when, with perfect
good-humour and firmness, he said that, owing to some misunderstanding,
the first portion of the piece had not been heard by the audience, and
that he was now going to recommence the whole from the beginning. And so
it was done.
[24] Arthur Matthison, a quaint, clever American, who had written some
successful dramas, was chosen to play “the double” of the leading actor:
that is, after passing behind the “practicable” tree, he was to emerge,
taking care to keep his back to the audience. Unluckily for stage
effect, no known art will help “to dodge Nature” in such points. She
has no _replicas_ in her store: makes everything distinct. And it is
significant of the strong individuality which belongs to the whole body
as well as to the face, that the eye will at once note the difference
of expression in the outline of the figure, arms, etc. I believe no two
people could be found so alike in their general appearance as to be
indistinguishable—thus illustrating the late Mr. Carlyle’s quaint phrase
when speaking of someone whose character he had interpreted unfavourably,
“_I knew it by the twist of the hip of him_.”
[25] A curious little controversy arose as to the authorship of the
_Ghost Melody_. It was claimed for Mr. Stöpel, who was acting as _chef
d’orchestre_ at the Théâtre Historique when the play was originally
produced. Another claim was made for Varney, author of the stirring
hymn, _Mourir pour la patrie_. Oddly enough, Stöpel, who was then at the
Adelphi, could not be got “to say yes or no.” “He was amused,” he said,
“at the importance attached to such a trifle, and could, if he chose, set
the matter at rest in a few words.” But he did not. Still, there used to
be a pianoforte piece by one Rosellen—a _Reverie_—which certainly began
and went on for many bars in the same fashion. However, a copy of the
music of the _Ghost Melody_, arranged for the pianoforte, and published
in 1852, was unearthed, which bore on its title the words: “Composed by
M. Varney, of the Théâtre Historique: arranged by R. Stöpel, director
of the music at the Princess’s Theatre.” This settled the point, and it
explained the ambiguous declaration of the arranger. We must assuredly
give the whole credit of this air to Varney.
[26] One agreeable night which was spent behind the scenes enabled me to
study the admirable arrangements by which this complicated operation was
carried out with smoothness and success.
No sooner has the drop-scene fallen—and a person always “stands by” to
see that the huge roller is kept clear of careless spectators—than a
busy scene sets in. Instantly men emerge from every side; the hills and
banks, the slopes leading down the hill, the steps and massive pedestal
that flank the entrance to the Temple on the right, are lifted up and
disappear gradually; the distant landscape mounts slowly into the air;
the long rows of jets are unfastened and carried off—in three or four
minutes the whole is clear. At this moment are seen slowly coming down
from aloft what appear to be three long heavy frames or beams—two in
the direction of the length, one across the whole breadth of the stage.
These make a sort of enclosure open on one side, and form the pediment
or upper portion of the Temple meant to rest on the pillars. Soon busy
hands have joined these three great joists by bolts and fastenings; the
signal is given, and it begins to ascend again. Meanwhile, others have
been bringing out from the “scene dock” pillars with their bases, and
arranging them; and as the great beams move slowly up to their place,
they hoist with them the columns, attached by ropes which pass through.
By this time all the columns are swinging in the air; another moment and
they have dropped into their places in the pedestal. The place of each
pedestal is marked on the floor. In a few moments everything is fitted
and falls into its place, with an almost martial exactness. Then are seen
slowly descending the other portions of the roof, sky-borders, etc., all
falling into their places quietly and with a sort of mysterious growth.
We have glimpses in the galleries aloft of men hauling at ropes and
pulleys, or turning “drums.” Finally the whole is set and complete, and
men bear in the altars and steps and the enormous idol at the back—over
twenty feet high. It is worth while looking close even at the sound and
effective modelling of the raised classic figures that encircle the lower
portions of each column, all in good relief, such as we see in Mr. Alma
Tadema’s pictures. The variety and richness of these are surprising, and
they fairly bear a close inspection. They are coloured, too, with that
ivory tone which the older marbles acquire. All this was wrought in the
property-room, and worked in clay; the figures were then plastered over
with paper, or _papier-mâché_, a material invaluable to the scenic artist
as furnishing relief and detail so as to catch the lights and shadows,
having the merit of being exceedingly light and portable, of bearing
rough usage and knocking about, which carved wood would not. The idol,
now looming solemnly at the back, is formed of the same material. It is
curious to find that the pillars and their capitals are all constructed
literally in the lines of perspective, as such would be drawn on a flat
surface; they diminish in height as they are farther off, and their top
and bottom surfaces are sloped in a converging line. Thus the “building”
stood revealed and complete, and round the pillars ran an open space,
enclosed as it were by the walls. What with the gloom and the general
mystery, the whole would pass, even to those standing by, as a very
imposing structure.
[27] One morning, during the preparations, I found myself in the
painting-room, where Mr. Craven was busy with one of the interesting
little models of scenery by which the effect can be tested. The reader
may not know that the scenic artist has his model theatre, a foot or
so wide, but made “to scale.” He has also ground-plans of the stage,
showing all the exits, etc., also done to scale. By these aids the most
complicated scenes can be designed and tried. I was struck with the
careful, conscientious fashion in which the manager discussed a little
Venetian scene, rudely painted in water-colours, which had just been
set. He saw it in connection with the entrances of the actors, and was
not quite satisfied with the arrangement. He tried various devices, and
proposed a gateway, which entailed making a new design. This he suggested
to the painter with pleasant persuasion and kindly apologetic courtesy,
but was, as always, firm in his purpose. If a second experiment did not
satisfy, it must be tried again. _Suaviter in modo_, etc., is certainly
his maxim.
[28] This performer is associated with the best traditions of the good
old school; and is linked with many interesting associations. It is
curious, too, to think that he belongs, or belonged, to the Society of
Friends. We have, and have had, a good many Jews upon the stage, but a
Quaker is a rarity. When he was in America, he related the story of his
life to an inquirer: “I was attending a public school in Yorkshire. It
was a Quaker school at Ackworth, although boys not of Quaker parentage
attended it. Somehow I was always selected to recite some piece for
the visitors—some of those old pieces, you know, such as _The Roman
Gladiator_, or _Paul before Agrippa_. In this way I acquired my first
liking for the stage. One night I went with my cousin John to the Old
Drury Lane Theatre to see Kean, who was then creating a _furore_ by his
magnificent acting. In those days, you know, they sold good seats in the
gallery for a shilling; so I and my cousin Jack paid our shilling—the
usual half-price—and went into the gallery. I shall never forget that
night. The playing opened, I think, with the third act. I see Kean as
plainly as if it were only yesterday. There he sat, a small man, upon his
throne in the middle of the stage. Well, after leaving the theatre, Jack
and I had to cross a bridge on our way home. I sat down in the recess of
the bridge, almost overcome by my emotion, and said, ‘John, I am going to
be an actor.’ He tried to dissuade me, and laughed at the folly of the
idea, but my mind was made up.” One of the most striking incidents at
a recent production of ‘King Lear’ was the ‘ovation,’ as it is called,
which greeted the veteran as he presented himself in a small character.
[29] For a time the house was “on crutches,” as it is called, an
operation of considerable architectural delicacy. In the great
“cellarage” below the stage, huge storehouses filled with the rubbish of
half a century, were discovered masses of decayed peacocks’ feathers,
which much perplexed the explorers and everybody else, until it was
recalled that these were the antique “properties” used by Madame Vestris
in one of her Planché burlesques. The labour was herculean, and the
indefatigable Bram Stoker threw himself with heart and soul into the
business. We might lament, however, that the beautiful interior suffered
somewhat in the later alterations. The elegant contour was disturbed;
the double pillars, which recurred periodically in the dress tier, were
reduced to a single one. The fine entrance-hall lost its symmetry from
being enlarged. But such sacrifices are absolutely necessary, and are not
the first that have had to be made under “the form and pressure of the
time.” The alterations cost a very large sum indeed, but our manager has
always been an improving tenant, and has periodically laid out vast sums
on the improvement and decoration of his house.
[30] Mr. Labouchere, a shrewd observer, a friend and admirer of the
actor’s abilities, always speaks out his opinions in plain, blunt terms:
“An actor must, in order to win popularity, have mannerisms, and the
more peculiar they are, the greater will be his popularity. No one
can for a moment suppose that Mr. Irving could not speak distinctly,
progress about the stage after the fashion of human beings, and stand
still without balancing to and fro if he pleased. Yet, had he not done
all this, he would—notwithstanding that there is a touch of real genius
about his acting sometimes—never have made the mark that he has. He
is, indeed, to the stage what Lord Beaconsfield was to politics. That
exceedingly able man never could utter the resonant clap-trap in which
he so often indulged, and which made men talk about him, without almost
showing by his manner that he himself despised the tricks which gave him
individuality. Were Mr. Irving at present to abate his peculiarities,
his fervent worshippers would complain that their idol was sinking into
mere common-place. Therefore, as I sincerely hope that, for his sake, the
idolaters will continue to bow down before him and fill his treasury, I
trust that he will never change.” There is a cynical flavour in this, and
it is not very flattering to the audience, but underlying it there is
some truth.
[31] A rapturous article from a Liverpool critic, Mr. Russell, had
appeared in _Macmillan’s Magazine_, which was, indeed, somewhat
indiscriminating in its praises of the Lyceum ‘Romeo and Juliet.’
[32] Mr. Forbes Robertson, who is painter as well as actor, depicted this
striking scene on canvas, giving portraits of the performers. It has been
engraved (or rather “processed”) with very happy result.
[33] It was an unusual tribute to the interest excited in every direction
by the actor’s personality, that in the December of this year the lady
students at University College should have chosen him for the subject of
a formal debate, under the presidency of the clever Miss Fawcett. The
thesis set down was, “That Henry Irving has, by his dramatic genius,
earned his place as foremost among living actors,” and the discussion
was begun with much spirit and fluency by Miss Rees, who proceeded to
give an analysis of his Hamlet and other characters, contending that
his extraordinary _success_ was a proof of his merit. The opposition
was led by Mrs. Brooksbanks, who fairly and unsparingly attacked the
actor for his mannerisms and various defects. After a reply from Miss
Rees, the original motion was put to the ladies, and was carried by a
slender majority. The actor must have read these proceedings, which were
flattering enough, with much enjoyment.
[34] An idea of what a “tremendous” business this was may be gathered
from a single detail. A well-known experienced wigmaker from Covent
Garden, with two assistants, was engaged to look after the _coiffures_
of the company, and these “artists in hair” had under their charge a
collection of wigs, entirely new, no fewer than eleven hundred in number.
On a later visit there were fifteen hundred wigs!
[35] Where it now hangs over the chimneypiece in the Guests’ Room. It
is not so successful as many others of Millais’ works; it is rather
sketchily painted, and lacks force and expression. The late Mr. Long
painted the actor as Hamlet and Richard III. These are not very striking
performances, but they are refined and interesting portraits. Mr.
Whistler produced an extraordinary one of him as Philip II., strangely
“shadowy” but powerful, and of preternatural length. A number of artists
of less pretension have also essayed to limn the actor; but all have
failed to sketch the mobile, delicate expression of the lips. Boldly
daring, I myself have fashioned a bust of him in terra-cotta.
[36] It is said that the origin of the acquaintance between Irving and
this statesman was an accidental encounter in the street, when the
latter, with a sympathetic impulsiveness, stopped Irving and introduced
himself. He has since been an assiduous frequenter of the Lyceum, and
in his eighty-third year was seen in the stalls or behind the scenes,
following the course of ‘Henry VIII.’ with unabated interest.
[37] These newspapers were sent to me without interruption through the
whole tour by Irving’s direction.
[38] A description of a “first-night” at the Clement Street Opera House
is worth quoting here:
“Ladies took their place in line and waited for hours to get tickets for
the opening performance. The face of the tall and genial Bram Stoker,
Mr. Irving’s agent, wore a broad smile as, standing in the vestibule,
he noticed the swelling crowd passing between the continually swinging
doors. The array of regular first-nighters was up to the notch, and all
the familiar faces, not only those most looked for with the lorgnettes,
but those that vanish between the acts, were there. Tall Tom Donaldson,
one of Blaine’s lieutenants, whose wife and daughter were in one of the
boxes, was leaning against the wall talking to Judge William Haydon,
formerly of Nevada, one of the oldest theatre-goers in the United States,
who saw Edmund Kean play Hamlet, and thinks Irving the best actor he
has seen since. Joseph F. Tobias, ruddy, genial, and Chesterfieldian as
ever, was shaking hands at every turn, and L. Clark Davis, in immaculate
evening dress and pearl studs, but with the inevitable Bohemian hat, was
the centre of a chatty group. Charles E. Cramp and Horace Warding were
talking to Dr. Thomas H. Andrews, who has the largest theatrical practice
of any physician in Philadelphia, and has been called to attend half the
stars who have appeared here in recent years. Almost every well-known
first-nighter was on hand, and the invariable sentiment was that this
was the big event of the present year. There were many well-known people
who are not often seen at the theatre, notably Daniel M. Fox, Director
of the Mint, who sat in the centre aisle, near the stage, with a party
of friends, and appeared to enjoy the performance very much. Just back
of him was a large party from Bethlehem, Pa. John R. Jones, the Bible
publisher, had with him Miss Jones, in a stunning gray imported costume,
one of the most artistic in the theatre. Robert W. Downing had quite a
party. There were several large theatrical parties. The most noticeable
was the one given by Miss K. N. Green, which included many attractive
ladies. Ex-Attorney-General Brewster was the centre of quite a large
party in the orchestra, including several ladies. A very beautiful bevy
was the party given by Miss Hattie Fox, daughter of George S. Fox, which
numbered thirty-five. They all had seats in the orchestra circle. Some of
the most fashionable people had to be content with seats upstairs, and
there was one party of young ladies in the family circle who were in full
dress and went direct in carriages, at the close of the performance, to
the dancing-class.”
[39] When the piece was first given at the Court Theatre, there was a bit
of realism that was almost too conscientious. The little family music was
accompanied on a genuine old harpsichord, which, it was gravely announced
in the bill, was actually dated 1768, about the period of the novel, and
was of course, “kindly lent” by the owner.
[40] It is but fair to add that Mr. Conway was suffering from the
approach of a serious illness, which declared itself shortly after.
[41] I recall a Sunday morning during this visit, when a message arrived
from the manager asking me to join a festive party to Dorking, to which
he had invited some members of the French comedy. At the Garrick Club,
the favourite coach, “Old Times,” was waiting, and presently it was
“Buzz!—here come the players.” A delightful drive it was, and a truly
enjoyable day. There was Mounet Sully, the fervent stage lover—then,
it was whispered, the prey of a hopeless attachment to the gifted
“Sarah”—the _spirituel_ Delaunay, still a _jeune premier_ in spite of his
years; with two or three others of the _corps_. Of the party were also
my friend Mr. Walter Pollock, with his genial, well-cultured father, the
late Sir Frederick; Campbell Clarke, French correspondent to the _Daily
Telegraph_, and some other _littérateurs_. There was the drive down to
the inviting little town, with a lunch at the old inn, some wanderings
about its leafy lanes, and a return in the evening to the club, where
the host gave a banquet, at which speeches in French and English were
delivered. The interesting strangers took away with them the lasting
impression that he was “truly a sympathetic personage, with a great deal
of French grace and _bonhomie_ in his nature.”
[42] This also seemed rather unintelligible to the audience; but its
secret was the secret of the creator or originator of the part. Such
devices are really significant of something dramatic that has actually
prompted them; they become an expression. The revived “business,”
therefore, will not serve unless the original spirit attends it. This
squeaking snuff-box was a note of _diablerie_, introduced with strange
sudden spasms at unexpected moments, and corresponded to the twitches
and spasms of Macaire’s mind. For the manager I collected much of old
Lemaître’s business, with those curious chants with which the robber
carried off his villainies. Jingle and Job Trotter were certainly
modelled on Macaire and his man; for the piece was being played as
_Pickwick_ came out.
[43] We may at least admire this writer’s perseverance and intrepidity,
who from that time has never relaxed his efforts to win the approbation
or secure the attention of the public. One could have wished him better
success with his later venture and most ambitious attempt, the management
of the Avenue Theatre, where he introduced his own piece illustrative of
“modern English Life,” with which his critics—for whom, like the sapper,
nothing is sacred—made merry. He is not likely to be daunted by this, and
I have little doubt he will “arrive” at last.
[44] The quaint name of this club, “the Kerneuzers,” was suggested by
a simple attendant, who actually so described the members; it was his
pronunciation of the word “connoisseurs.”
[45] Once, when visiting Stratford-on-Avon with Toole, he saw a rustic
sitting on a fence, whom they submitted to an interrogatory. “That’s
Shakespeare’s house, isn’t it?” it was asked innocently. “Ees.” “Ever
been there?” “Noä.” “How long has he been dead?” “Dunno.” “What did he
do?” “Dunno.” “Did he not write?” “Oh yes, he did summat.” “What was it?”
“Well, I think he writ _Boible_.” A pleasantry that both the players once
contrived in Scotland, at the expense of an old waiter at a hotel, is of
a higher order of merit than such hoaxes usually offer. At this country
inn they had noted that the spoons, forks, etc., seemed to be of silver,
and with some artfully designed emphasis they questioned the waiter about
the property. As soon as he had gone out, they concealed all the plate,
and, having rung the bell, jumped out of the window, which was close to
the ground, and hid themselves in the shrubbery. The old man re-entered:
they heard his cries of rage and astonishment at the robbery, and at the
disappearance of the supposed thieves. He then rushed from the room to
summon the household. The rest of the story is worth giving in Irving’s
words, as reported by Mr. Hatton.
“We all crept back to the room, closed the window, drew down the blind,
relighted the gas and our cigars, put each piece of silver back into its
proper place, and sat down to wait for our bill. In a few minutes we
heard evidently the entire household coming pell-mell to the dining-room.
Then our door was flung open; but the crowd, instead of rushing in upon
us, suddenly paused _en masse_, and Sandy exclaimed, ‘Great God! Weel,
weel! Hae I just gane clean daft?’
“‘Come awa’, drunken foo’, come awa’!’ exclaimed the landlord, pulling
Sandy and the rest back into the passage and shutting the door.”
[46] Quite a number of relics of great actors have, as we have already
shown, found their way to Irving’s custody; and there is always something
pleasant for him to think of when he recalls the presentation. Thus on
his visit to Oxford he had spoken of the last days of Edmund Kean, who
had died in sore straits. A few days later he received a purse of faded
green silk found in the pocket of the great actor just after his death,
and found empty. It had been given by Charles Kean to John Forster, and
by him to Robert Browning. Edmund and Charles Kean, Forster, Browning,
and Irving form a remarkable pedigree. “How can I more worthily place
it,” wrote Browning, “than in your hands, if they will do me the honour
to take it, with all respect and regard?”
[47] One of these many “snappers-up of trifles” described the nightgown
worn by Lady Macbeth in her sleep-walking scene, which was all of wool
knitted into a pretty design. Mrs. Comyns Carr designed Miss Terry’s
dresses, which certainly did not lack bold originality. There was the
curious peacock blue and malachite green dress which contrasted with the
locks of copper-coloured hair, from which the half American artist, Mr.
Serjeant, formed a striking but not very pleasing portrait.
[48] It was likely that the majority of these persons were incapacitated
by age from forming a judgment on this matter; but it was curious that
I should have conversed with two persons at least who were capable of
making the comparison. One was Mr. Fladgate of the Garrick Club, a most
interesting man, well stored with anecdotes of Kemble, Kean, and others,
who once, in the library of the club, gave me a vivid delineation of
the good John’s methods in ‘The Stranger.’ The other was Mr. Charles
Villiers, who is, at the moment I write, in about his ninetieth year. A
most characteristic incident was a letter from the veteran Mrs. Keeley,
with much generous criticism of Miss Terry’s performance, thus showing
none of the old narrow spirit which can only “praise bygone days.” She
frankly added that until visiting the Lyceum she had never witnessed a
performance of the play from one end to the other, though she had seen
many a great performer in it, and had herself performed in it. This
recalls Mrs. Pritchard, one of the great Lady Macbeths, who, as Dr.
Johnson said, had never seen the fifth act, as it did not fall within her
part.
[49] Charles Reade’s strange, odd appreciation of this gifted, mercurial
woman is worth preserving:
“Ellen Terry is an enigma. Her eyes are pale, her nose rather long, her
mouth nothing particular, complexion a delicate brick-dust, her hair
rather like tow. Yet, somehow, she is _beautiful_. Her expression _kills_
any pretty face you see beside her. Her figure is lean and bony, her hand
masculine in size and form. Yet she is a pattern of fawn-like grace.
Whether in movement or repose, grace _pervades the hussy_. In character
impulsive, intelligent, weak, hysterical—in short, all that is abominable
and charming in woman. Ellen Terry is a very charming actress. I see
through and through her. Yet she pleases me all the same. _Little Duck!_”
This suggests the old rhyme:
“Thou hast so many pleasing, teazing ways about thee,
There’s no living with thee or without thee.”
[50] It was interesting to note, at a St. James’s Hall performance, June
25, the pleasant, eager vivacity of the actress, who, familiar as she was
with the play, seemed to be repeating with her lips all the portions in
which she was not concerned. In the more dramatic portions, it was plain
she was eager to be on the scene once more. As she sat she anxiously
waited for the orchestra to come in at their proper places, sometimes
giving them the signal. This very natural behaviour interested everyone.
[51] Another play was written for him on the subject of ‘Mahomet,’ which
he was inclined to bring out; but here again authority interposed,
and “invited him,” as the French so politely have it, to abandon his
purpose. It was at the end of the summer season of 1879 that our manager,
after naming these pieces, spoke of others which he had in reserve,
either revivals or wholly new ones. It is interesting to think that
he had thought of the stormy and pathetic ‘Gamester,’ which has ever
an absorbing attraction; ‘The Stranger’ also was spoken of; but their
treatment would have offered too many points of similarity to Eugene
Aram and other characters of “inspissated gloom.” On this occasion, when
speaking of “the romantic and pathetic story” of Emmett, he announced a
drama on the subject of Rienzi, which his friend Wills had prepared for
him, but which has never yet seen the light. Years have rolled by swiftly
since that night, and the author has often been heard to bewail the
delays and impediments which hindered the production of what he no doubt
considered his finest performance. Another great drama long promised and
long due is ‘Coriolanus,’ for which Mr. Alma Tadema has designed scenery.
[52] An American lady, a Californian artist, was the first to enter the
pit for the opening performance of ‘Henry VIII.’ at the Lyceum. “I and
a friend went with our camp-stools and took our places next the door at
ten o’clock in the morning. We were provided with a volume of _Harper’s
Magazine_, a sketch-book, writing-paper, and a fountain-pen, caricatures
of Henry Irving, and much patience. A newspaper spread under the feet and
a Japanese muff warmer, with sandwiches and a bottle of wine, kept us
comfortable. Two ladies were the next comers, and shortly a crowd began
to collect. Real amusing it was, but not very elegant. After about two
hours Mr. Bram Stoker came and had a look at us, and cheered our hearts
by telling us that tea would be served from the neighbouring saloon
(public-house). At last, at seven o’clock, we were rewarded for our
patience by getting seats in the front row. The play was superb, and the
audience—well, everyone looked as if he had done something.”
[53] As an instance of the manager’s happy touch in a trifling matter, we
might name the State trumpets constantly “blaring” and sounding as the
King approached, which offered nothing of the usual “super” arrangement.
The men seemed to tramp along the street as though conscious of their own
dignity, warning those whom it might concern to make way for their high
and puissant lord.
[54] It was publicly stated that the “mounting” of this play had cost
£15,000, and that the weekly expenses were some £800. The manager wrote
to contradict this, as being altogether beyond the truth; though, he
added, with a sigh, as it were, that he heartily wished the second
statement were true, and that the expenses could be put at so low a
figure.
[55] According to one writer, “an emissary was sent to Rome to acquire
a Cardinal’s robe. After some time a friend managed to secure one of
the very period, whereupon an exact copy, ‘both of colour and texture,’
was made. A price has to be paid for scenic splendours in the shape of
the delays that they necessarily occasion. Thanks to the ingenuity of
stage-carpenters and machinists, these delays at the Lyceum are reduced
to a minimum time. ‘Henry VIII.’ being not one of the longest of the
plays—though it is one-third longer than ‘Macbeth’—the text at the Lyceum
has been treated with comparative leniency. ‘Hamlet,’ on the other
hand, which comprises nearly four thousand lines, cannot on the modern
system of sumptuous mounting possibly be given in anything approaching
its entirety.” As a fact, very nearly one-half the play disappears
from the modern acting copies. My friend Mr. W. Pollock, in a paper in
the _National Review_, has justly urged in this connection that half a
‘Hamlet’ is better than no ‘Hamlet’ at all.
[56] To illustrate his most recent productions, the manager is accustomed
to issue what is called “a souvenir,” an artistic series of pictures of
the scenes, groupings, etc. It may be added, as a proof of the pictorial
interest of the Lyceum productions, that in little more than a week
after the first performance of ‘Becket’ no fewer than five-and-twenty
illustrations, some of great pretension, had appeared in the papers.
On the first night of ‘Lear’ a marchioness of artistic tastes was seen
making sketches, which were published in an evening paper.
[57] One touch, which might escape the superficial, showed the fine,
delicate sense of the manager. The scene where Kent is exhibited in the
stocks has always suggested something grotesque and prosaic. It was here
so dignified in its treatment as to become almost pathetic. I may add
here that the deepest strokes of Shakespeare, not being on the surface,
are apt to escape us altogether, save when some inspired critic lays his
finger on them. The faithful Kent at the close is brought to his master’s
notice, who does not recognise him. Here Lamb points out how noble is
Kent’s self-sacrifice in not bringing himself to the King’s recollection.
[58] On March 18, 1893, Irving and his whole company were bidden to
Windsor Castle to play ‘Becket’ before her Majesty. A theatre was fitted
up in the Waterloo Chamber; special scenery was painted; the Lyceum was
closed; and the company, 170 strong, was transported to Windsor and
brought back on the same night. The performance was given with much
effect and to the enjoyment of the Queen. Some three or four years
before, a no less interesting entertainment was arranged at Sandringham
by the Prince of Wales, who was anxious that her Majesty should see the
two favourite performers in their most effective pieces—‘The Bells’
and the “Trial scene” in ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ The outlay of time,
trouble, and skilful management to provide for all the arrangements
within a short space of time can scarcely be imagined. The pecuniary
cost, owing to the closing of the theatre, transport, etc., was serious.
[59] An Irving “Bibliography” would fill many columns, and would
include a vast quantity of controversial writing—attacks, defences,
and discussions. Besides his official discourses, he has written many
agreeable papers in the leading “monthlies.” I have already spoken of
the “skits” and personalities which followed his early successes, and
which he encountered with excellent temper and a patient shrug. These
have long since been forgotten. At attempts at “taking him off,” though a
favourite pastime, he could afford to smile; though when it was carried
beyond legitimate bounds, as in the instance of the late Mr. Leslie, he
interposed with quiet firmness, and put it down in the interests of the
profession. An American burlesque actor, named Dixie, with execrable
taste gave an imitation of him in his presence. More curious is the
unconscious imitation of him which is gaining in the ranks of the
profession, and which has had some droll results. Thus one Hudson—when
playing the Tetrarch in ‘Claudian’ in the States—was so strangely like
him in manner and speech, that it was assumed by the American audience
that he was maliciously “taking him off.” His own company have caught up
most of his “ways” and fashions—notably Haviland, and even Alexander.
At the opening of ‘Vanderdecken,’ two at least of the performers were
mistaken for him—from their walk—and had a “reception” accordingly.
[60] This “triple bill” is an unmeaning term, for a triple bill means, if
anything, three bills in one, and not, as is supposed, a single bill in
three parts.
[61] In this connection there is a characteristic story told of our
actor. He was driving in a hansom one night to the Lyceum when the
‘Merchant of Venice’ was running. In a fit of absence of mind he tendered
a shilling for his fare, whereas it should have been eighteenpence or
two shillings. Whereupon the cabby, who had recognised his man, burst
out: “If yer plays the Jew inside that theayter as well as yer does
outside, darned if I won’t spend this bob on coming to see yer.” It is
said he was so delighted with the retort that he promptly gave the man
half-a-sovereign.
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