_PLAYS AND PLAYWRIGHTS_
Interview with Ibsen—His Appearance—His Home—Plays Without
Plots—His Writing-table—His Fetiches—Old at Seventy—A Real Tragedy
and Comedy—Ibsen’s First Book—Winter in Norway—An Epilogue—Arthur
Wing Pinero—Educated for the Law—As Caricaturist—An Entertaining
Luncheon—How Pinero writes his Plays—A Hard Worker—First Night of
_Letty_.
Probably the man who has had the most far-reaching influence on modern
drama is Henrik Ibsen. Half the dramatic world of Europe admire his
work as warmly as the other half deplore it.
Ibsen has a strange personality. The Norwegian is not tall, on the
contrary, rather short and thick-set—one might almost say stout—in
build, broad-shouldered, and with a stooping gait. His head is
splendid, the long white hair is a glistening mass of tangled locks.
He has an unusually high forehead, and in true Norse fashion wears his
plentiful hair brushed straight back, so that, being long, it forms a
complete frame for the face. He has whiskers, which, meeting in the
middle, beneath his chin, leave the chin and mouth bare. Under the
upper lip one sees by the indentation the decision of the mouth, and
the determination of those thin lips, which through age are slightly
drawn to one side. He has a pleasant smile when talking; but in repose
the mouth is so firmly set that the upper lip almost disappears.
The great dramatist has lived for many years in Christiania, and it
was in that town, on a cold snowy morning in 1895 I first met him.
The streets were completely buried in snow; even the tram-lines,
despite all the care bestowed upon them, were embedded six or seven
inches below the surface of the frozen mass. It can be very cold
during winter in Christiania, and frost-bite is not unknown, for the
thermometer runs down many degrees below zero. That is the time to
see Norway. Then everything is at its best. The sky clear, the sun
shining—all Nature bright, crisp, and beautiful. Icicles many feet long
hung like a sparkling fringe in the sunlight as I walked—or rather
stumbled—over the snow to the Victorian Terrasse to see the celebrated
man. Tall posts leaning from the street gutters to the houses reminded
pedestrians that deep snow from the roofs might fall upon them.
The name of Dr. Henrik Ibsen was written in golden letters at the
entrance to the house, with the further information that he lived
on the first floor. There was nothing grand about his home, just an
ordinary Norwegian flat, containing eight or ten good rooms; and
yet Ibsen is a rich man. His books have been translated into every
tongue, his plays performed on every stage. His work has undoubtedly
revolutionised the drama. He started the idea of a play without plot,
a character-sketch in fact, a psychological study, and introduced
the “no-ending” system. Much he left to the imagination, and the
imagination of various nationalities has run in such dissimilar lines
that he himself became surprised at the thoughts he was supposed to
have suggested.
Brilliant as much of his work undoubtedly is, there is quite as much
which is repellent and certainly has not added to the betterment of
mankind. His characters are seldom happy, for they too often strive
after the impossible.
The hall of his home looked bare, the maid was capless and apronless,
according to Norwegian fashion, while rows of goloshes stood upon
the floor. The girl ushered me along a passage, at the end of which
was the great man’s study. He rose, warmly shook me by the hand, and
finding I spoke German, at once became affable and communicative.
He is of Teutonic descent, and in many ways has inherited German
characteristics. When he left Norway in 1864—when, in fact, Norway
ceased to be a happy home for him—he wandered to Berlin, Dresden,
Paris, and Rome, remaining many years in the Fatherland.
“The happiest summer I ever spent in my life was at Berchtesgaden in
1880,” he exclaimed. “But to me Norway is the most lovely country in
the world.”
[Illustration: DR. HENRIK IBSEN.]
Ibsen’s writing-table, which is placed in the window so that the
dramatist may look out upon the street, was strewn with letters, all
the envelopes of which had been neatly cut, for he is faddy and tidy
almost to the point of old-maidism. He has no secretary, it worries
him to dictate, and consequently all communications requiring answers
have to be written by the Doctor himself. His calligraphy is the
neatest, smallest, roundest imaginable. It is representative of the
man. The signature is almost like a schoolboy’s—or rather, like what a
schoolboy’s is supposed to be—it is so carefully lettered; the modern
schoolboy’s writing is, alas! ruined by copying “lines” for punishment,
time which could be more profitably employed learning thought-inspiring
verses.
On the table beside the inkstand was a small tray. Its contents were
extraordinary—some little wooden carved Swiss bears, a diminutive black
devil, small cats, dogs, and rabbits made of copper, one of which was
playing a violin.
“What are those funny little things?” I ventured to ask.
“I never write a single line of any of my dramas unless that tray and
its occupants are before me on the table. I could not write without
them. It may seem strange—perhaps it is—but I cannot write without
them,” he repeated. “Why I use them is my own secret.” And he laughed
quietly.
Are these little toys, these fetishes, and their strange fascination,
the origin of those much-discussed dolls in _The Master Builder_? Who
can tell? They are Ibsen’s secret.
In manner Henrik Ibsen is quiet and reserved; he speaks slowly and
deliberately, so slowly as to remind one of the late Mr. Bayard, the
former American Minister to the Court of St. James, when he was making
a speech. Mr. Bayard appeared to pause between each word, and yet the
report in the papers the following day read admirably. This slowness
may with Ibsen be owing to age, for he was born in 1828 (although in
manner and gait he appears at least ten years older), or it may be
from shyness, for he is certainly shy. How men vary. Ibsen at seventy
seemed an old man; General Diaz, the famous President of Mexico, young
at the same age. The one drags his feet and totters along; the other
walks briskly with head erect. Ibsen was never a society man in any
sense of the word, a mug of beer and a paper at the club being his idea
of amusement. Indeed, in Christiania, until 1902, he could be seen any
afternoon at the chief hotel employed in this way, for after his dinner
at two o’clock he strolled down town past the University to spend a few
hours in the fashion which pleased him.
Norwegian life is much more simple than ours. The inhabitants dine
early and have supper about eight o’clock. Entertainments are
hospitable and friendly, but not as a rule costly, and although Ibsen
is a rich man, the only hobby on which he appears to have spent much
money is pictures. He loves them, and wherever he has wandered his
little gallery has always gone with him.
Ibsen began to earn his own living at the age of sixteen, and for five
or six years worked in an apothecary’s shop, amusing himself during
the time by reading curious books and writing weird verses. Only
twenty-three copies of his first book were sold, the rest were disposed
of as waste paper to buy him food. Those long years of struggle
doubtless embittered his life, but relief came when he was made manager
of the Bergen Theatre with a salary of £67 a year. For seven years he
kept the post, and learnt the stage craft which he later utilised in
his dramas.
A strange comedy and tragedy was woven into the lives of Ibsen and
Björnson. As young men they were great friends; then politics drove
them apart; they quarrelled, and never met for years and years. Strange
fate brought the children of these two great writers together, and
Björnson’s daughter married Ibsen’s only child. The fathers met after
years of separation at the wedding of their children.
Verily a real comedy and tragedy, woven into the lives of Scandinavia’s
two foremost writers of tragedy and comedy.
I spent part of two winters in Norway, wandering about on snow-shoes
(ski) or in sledges, and during various visits to Christiania tried
hard to see some plays by Ibsen or Björnson acted; but, strange as it
may seem, plays by a certain Mr. Shakespeare were generally in the
bill, or else amusing doggerel such as _The Private Secretary_.
At last, however, there came a day when _Peer Gynt_ was put on the
stage. This play has never been produced in England, and yet it is one
of Ibsen’s best, at all events one of his most poetic. The hero is
supposed to represent the Norwegian character, vacillating, amusing,
weak, bound by superstition, and lacking worldly balance. The author
told me he himself thought it was his best work, though _The Master
Builder_ gave him individually most satisfaction.
In 1898 Ibsen declared, “My life seems to me to have slipped by like
one long, long, quiet week”; adding that “all who claimed him as a
teacher had been wrong—all he had done or tried to do was faithfully,
closely, objectively to paint human nature as he saw it, leaving
deductions and dogmatism to others.” He declared he had never posed as
a reformer or as a philosopher; all he had attempted was to try and
work out that vein of poetry which had been born in him. “Poetry has
served me as a bath, from which I have emerged cleaner, healthier,
freer.” Thus spoke of himself the man who practically revolutionised
modern drama.
In the early days of the twentieth century Ibsen finished his life’s
work—he relinquished penmanship. The celebrity he had attained failed
to interest him, just as attack and criticism had failed to arouse him
in earlier years. His social and symbolical dramas done, his work in
dramatic reform ended, he folded his hands to await the epilogue of
life. It is a pathetic picture. He who had done so much, aroused such
enthusiasm and hatred, himself played out—he whose works had been read
in every Quarter of the globe, living in quiet obscurity, waiting for
that end which comes to all.
It is a proud position to stand at the head of English dramatists; a
position many critics allot to Arthur Wing Pinero. The Continent has
also paid him the compliment of echoing that verdict by translating
and producing many of his plays: and if in spite of translation
they survive the ordeal of different interpretations and strange
surroundings, may it not be taken as proof that they soar above the
ordinary drama?
About the year 1882 Mr. Pinero relinquished acting as a profession—like
Ibsen, it was in the theatre he learnt his stage craft—and devoted
himself to writing plays instead. Since that period he has steadily and
surely climbed the rungs of that fickle ladder “Public Opinion” and
planted his banner on the top.
Look at him. See the strength of the man’s mind in his face. Those
great shaggy eyebrows and deep-set, dark, penetrating eyes, that round
bald head, within which the brain is apparently too busy to allow
anything outside to grow. Though still young he is bald, so bald that
his head looks as if it had been shaven for the priesthood. The long
thin lips and firm mouth denote strength of purpose, which, coupled
with genius make the man. Under that assumed air of self-possession
there is a merry mind. His feelings are well under control—part of the
actor’s art—but he is human to the core. Pinero is no ordinary person,
his face with its somewhat heavy jaw is full of thought and strength.
He has a vast fund of imagination, is a keen student of human nature,
and above all possesses the infinite capacity for taking pains, no
details being too small for him. He and Mr. W. S. Gilbert will, at
rehearsals, go over a scene again and again. They never get angry, even
under the most trying circumstances; but politely and quietly show
every movement, every gesture, give every intonation of the voice, and
in an amiable way suggest:
“Don’t you think that so and so might be an improvement?”
They always get what they want, and no plays were ever more successful
or better staged.
Mr. Pinero believes in one-part dramas, and women evidently fascinate
him. Think of _Mrs. Tanqueray_ and _Mrs. Ebbsmith_, for instance, both
are women’s plays; in both are his best work. He is always individual;
individual in his style, and individual in the working out of his
characters. During the whole of one August Mr. Pinero remained in his
home near Hanover Square finishing a comedy of which he superintended
rehearsals in the September following. He must be alone when he works,
and apparently barred windows and doors, and a charwoman and her cat,
when all London is out of town, give him inspiration.
London is particularly proud of Arthur Pinero, who was born amid
her bustle in 1855. The only son of a solicitor in the City, he was
originally intended for the law, but when nineteen he went upon the
stage, where he remained for about seven years. One can only presume,
however, that he did not like it, or he would not so quickly have
turned his attention to other matters. Those who remember his stage
life declare he showed great promise as a young actor. But be this
as it may, it is a good thing he turned his back upon that branch of
the profession and adopted the _rôle_ of a dramatist, for therein he
has excelled. Among his successful plays are _The Magistrate_, _Dandy
Dick_, _Sweet Lavender_, _The Cabinet Minister_, _The Second Mrs.
Tanqueray_, _The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith_, _Trelawny of the Wells_,
_The Gay Lord Quex_, and _Iris_.
Among other attributes not usually known, Mr. Pinero is an excellent
draughtsman, and can make a remarkable caricature of himself in a
few moments. His is a strong and striking head which lends itself to
caricature, and he is one of those people who, while poking fun at
others, does not mind poking fun at himself.
When asked to what he attributed his success, Mr. Pinero replied:
“Such success as I have obtained I attribute to small powers of
observation and great patience and perseverance.”
His work is always up-to-date, for Mr. Pinero is modern to his
finger-tips.
How delightful it is to see people who have worked together for years
remaining staunch friends. One Sunday I was invited to a luncheon the
Pineros gave at Claridge’s. The room was marked “Private” for the
occasion, and there the hospitable couple received twenty guests, while
beyond was a large dining-room, to which we afterwards adjourned. That
amusing actor and charming man, John Hare, with whom Pinero has been
associated for many years, was present; Miss Irene Vanbrugh, his Sophy
Fullgarney in the _Gay Lord Quex_, and Letty, in the play of that name,
that dainty and fascinating American actress, Miss Fay Davis, and Mr.
Dion Boucicault. There they were, all these people who had worked so
long together, and were still such good friends as to form a merry,
happy little family party.
Gillette, the American hero of the hour, was also present, and charming
indeed he proved to be; but he was an outsider, so to speak, for most
of the party had acted in Pinero’s plays, and that was what seemed
so wonderful; because just as a secretary sees the worst side of his
employer’s character, the irritability, the moments of anxious thought
and worry, so the actor generally finds out the angles and corners of a
dramatist. Only those who live in the profession can realise what such
a meeting as that party at Claridge’s really meant, what a fund of good
temper it proclaimed, what strength of character it represented, what
forbearance on all sides it proved.
That party was representative of friendship, which, like health, is
seldom valued until lost.
[Illustration:
_Photo by Langfier, 23a, Old Bond Street, London, W._
MR. ARTHUR W. PINERO.]
There are as many ways of writing a play as there are of trimming a
hat. Some people, probably most people, begin at the end, that is to
say, they evolve some grand climax in their minds and work backwards,
or they get hold of the chief situations as a nucleus, from which they
work out the whole. Some writers let the play write itself, that is
to say, they start with some sort of idea which develops as they go
on, but the most satisfactory mode appears to be for the writer to
decide everything even to the minutest detail, and then sketch out each
situation. In a word, he ought to know exactly what he means to do
before putting pen to paper.
The plots of Mr. Pinero’s plays are all conceived and born in movement.
He walks up and down the room. He strolls round Regent’s Park, or
bicycles further afield, but the dramas are always evolved while his
limbs are in action, mere exercise seeming to inspire him with ideas.
It is long before he actually settles down to write his play. He thinks
and ponders, plans and arranges, makes and remakes his plots, and
never puts pen to paper until he has thoroughly realised, not only his
characters, but the very scenes amid which these characters are to move
and have their being.
He knows every room in which they are to enact their parts, he sees
in his mind’s eye every one of his personalities, he dresses them
according to his own individual taste, and so careful is he of the
minutest details that he draws a little plan of the stage for each act,
on which he notifies the position of every chair, and with this before
him he moves his characters in his mind’s eye as the scene progresses.
His play is finished before it is begun, that is to say, before a line
of it is really written.
His mastery of stage craft is so great that he can definitely arrange
every position for the actor, every gesture, every movement, and thus
is able to give those minute details of stage direction which are so
well known in his printed plays.
In his early days he wrote _Two Hundred a Year_ in an afternoon; _Dandy
Dick_ occupied him three weeks; but as time went on and he became more
critical of his own work, he spent fifteen months in completing _The
Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith_, nine months over _The Second Mrs. Tanqueray_,
and six months over _The Gay Lord Quex_, helped in the latter drama, as
he said, “by the invigorating influence of his bicycle.”
He is one of the most painstaking men alive, and over _Letty_ he spent
two years.
“I think I have done a good day’s work if I can finish a single speech
right,” he remarked, and that sums up the whole situation.
Each morning he sees his secretary from eleven to twelve, dictates
his letters, and arranges his business; takes a walk or a ride till
luncheon, after which he enjoys a pipe and a book, and in the afternoon
lies down for a couple of hours’ quiet.
When he is writing a play he never dines out, but after his afternoon
rest enjoys a good tea (is it a high tea?), shuts the baize doors of
that delightful study overlooking Hanover Square, and works until quite
late, when he partakes of a light supper.
No one dare disturb him during those precious hours, when he smokes
incessantly, walks about continually, and rarely puts a line on paper
until he feels absolutely certain he has phrased that line as he wishes
it to remain.
Pinero’s writing-table is as tidy as Ibsen’s; but while Ibsen’s study
is small and simply furnished, Pinero’s is large, contains handsome
furniture, interesting books, sumptuous _Éditions de luxe_, charming
sketches, portraits, caricatures, handsome carpets, and breathes an air
of the owner’s luxurious taste.
Like his writing-table, his orthography is a model of neatness. When he
has completed an act he carefully copies it himself in a handwriting
worthy of any clerk, and sends it off at once to the printers. But few
revisions are made in the proof, so sure is the dramatist when he has
perfected his scheme.
Mr. Pinero keeps a sort of “day-book,” in which he jots down
characters, speeches, and plots likely to prove of use in his work. It
is much the same sort of day-book as that kept by Mr. Frankfort Moore,
the novelist, who has the nucleus of a hundred novels ever in his
waistcoat pocket.
Formerly men jotted down notes on their shirt-cuffs, from which the
laundress learned the wicked ways of society. The figures now covering
wristbands are merely the winnings or losings at Bridge.
The dramatist loves ease and luxury, and his plays represent such
surroundings.
“Wealth and leisure,” he remarked, “are more productive of dramatic
complications than poverty and hard work. My characters force me in
spite of myself to lift them up in the world. The lower classes do not
analyse or meditate, do not give utterance either to their thoughts or
their emotions, and yet it is easier to get a low life part well played
than one of high society.”
Mr. Pinero is a delightful companion and he has the keenest sense of
humour. He tells a good story in a truly dramatic way, and his greatest
characteristic is his simple modesty. He never boasts, never talks big;
but is always a genial, kindly, English gentleman. He rarely enters
a theatre; in fact, he could count on his fingers the times he has
done so during the last twenty years. Life is his stage, men and women
its characters, his surroundings the scenes. He does not wish a State
theatre, and thinks Irving has done more for the stage than any man in
any time. He has the greatest love for his old master, and considers
Irving’s Hamlet the “most intelligent performance of the age.” He waxes
warm on the subject of Irving’s “magnetic touch,” which influences all
that great actor’s work. Pinero’s love for, and belief in, the powers
of the stage for good or ill are deep-seated, and each year finds him
more given to careful psychological study, the only drawback to which
is the fear that in over-elaboration freshness somewhat vanishes. Ibsen
always took two years over a play, and Pinero seems to be acquiring the
same habit.
A Pinero first night is looked upon as a great theatrical event,
and rightly so. It was on a wet October evening (1903) that the
long-anticipated _Letty_ saw the light.
Opposite is the programme.
Duke of York’s Theatre,
ST. MARTIN’S LANE, W.C.
Proprietors Mr. & Mrs. FRANK WYATT.
Sole Lessee and Manager CHARLES FROHMAN.
EVERY EVENING at a Quarter to Eight
CHARLES FROHMAN
Presents
A Drama, in Four Acts and an Epilogue, entitled
LETTY
By ARTHUR W. PINERO.
Nevill Letchmere Mr. H. B. IRVING
Ivor Crosbie Mr. IVO DAWSON
Coppinger Drake Mr. DORRINGTON GRIMSTON
Bernard Mandeville Mr. FRED KERR
Richard Perry Mr. DION BOUCICAULT
Neale (_A Commercial Traveller_) Mr. CHARLES TROODE
Ordish (_Agent for an Insurance Company_) Mr. JERROLD ROBERTSHAW
Rugg (_Mr. Letchmere’s Servant_) Mr. CLAYTON GREENE
Frédéric (_A Maître d’Hôtel_) M. EDOUARD GARCEAU
Waiters Mr. W. H. HAIGH &
Mr. WALTER HACK
Mrs. Ivor Crosbie Miss SARAH BROOKE
Letty Shell } _Clerks at_ { Miss IRENE VANBRUGH
Marion Allardyce } _Dugdale’s_ { Miss BEATRICE FORBES
{ ROBERTSON
{ _An Assistant at Madame_ }
Hilda Gunning { _Watkins’s_ } Miss NANCY PRICE
A Lady’s-maid Miss MAY ONSLOW
The Scene is laid in London:—the First and Fourth Acts at Mr.
Letchmere’s Flat in Grafton Street, New Bond Street; the Second at
a house in Langham Street; the Third in a private room at the Café
Régence; and the Epilogue at a photographer’s in Baker Street. The
events of the four acts of the drama, commencing on a Saturday in
June, take place within the space of a few hours. Between the Fourth
Act and the Epilogue two years and six months are supposed to elapse.
THE PLAY PRODUCED UNDER THE PERSONAL DIRECTION OF THE AUTHOR.
The Scenery Painted by Mr. W. HANN.
FIRST MATINÉE SATURDAY, OCTOBER 17th, at 2.
General Manager (for CHARLES FROHMAN) W. LESTOCQ.
For once the famous dramatist descended from dukes and duchesses to
a typewriter girl and a Bond Street swell. For once he left those
high-class folk he finds so full of interest, moods, whims, ideas,
self-analysis, and the rest of it, and cajoled a lower stratum of life
to his pen.
Almost the first actor to appear was H. B. Irving—what a reception he
received, and, brilliant cynic-actor though he be, his nervousness
overpowered him to the point of ashen paleness and unrestrained
twitching of the fingers. His methods, his tact, his cynicism were
wonderful, and as Nevill Letchmere his resemblance to his father was
remarkable.
What strikes one most in a Pinero play is the harmony of the whole.
Every character is a living being. One remembers them all. The
limelight is turned on each in turn, and not as at so many theatres
on the actor-manager only. The play is a complete picture—not a frame
with the actor-manager as the dominant person. He is so often the only
figure on the canvas, his colleagues mere side-show puppets, that it is
a real joy to see a play in England where every one is given a chance.
Mr. Pinero does that. He not only creates living breathing studies of
humanity, but he sees that they are played in a lifelike way. What is
the result? A perfect whole. A fine piece of mosaic work well fitted
together. We may not altogether care for the design or the colour, but
we all admire its aims, its completeness, and feel the touch of genius
that permeates the whole.
No more discriminating audience than that at the first night of _Letty_
could possibly have been brought together. Every critic of worth was
there. William Archer sat in the stalls immediately behind me, W. L.
Courtney and Malcolm Watson beyond, J. Knight, A. B. Walkley, and A.
E. T. Watson near by. Actors and actresses, artists, writers, men and
women of note in every walk of life were there, and the enthusiasm
was intense. Mr. Pinero was not in the house, no call of “author”
brought him before the footlights, but his handsome wife—a prey to
nervousness—was hidden behind the curtains in the stage box.