day had increased the interest of the public, and vast crowds had
assembled to await the opening of the doors. A little before seven the
sound of horns was heard in the College, and from the gate in
Brunswick Street swept a body of five hundred students, who took the
seats reserved for them in the pit of the theatre. Then gradually the
boxes began to fill, and as each Fellow and Professor and well-known
University character made his appearance, he was cheered according to
the measure of his popularity.... All University men, past and
present, wore rosettes. Long before the time appointed for beginning
the play the whole house was crammed from floor to ceiling; the pit
and galleries were seas of heads, and the box lobbies were filled with
those who were content to get an occasional glimpse of the stage
through the door. When Mr. Irving made his appearance the pit rose at
him, and he was received with a cheer which somewhat resembled a May
shower, for it was sudden, fierce, and short, as the burst of welcome
was not allowed to interrupt the play. Mr. Irving’s performance was
magnificent. It seemed as though he were put on his mettle by the
University distinction of the day to do justice to the stateliness of
his mighty theme, and, at the same time, was fired to the utmost
enthusiasm—as it was, indeed, no wonder—at the warmth of his
reception. In the philosophic passage ‘To be or not to be,’ and the
advice to the players, there was a quiet, self-possessed dignity of
thought which no man could maintain if he did not know that he had an
appreciative audience, and that he was not talking over their heads.
In the scene with Ophelia he acted as though inspired, for there was a
depth of passionate emotion which even a great actor can but seldom
feel; and in the play scene he stirred the house to such a state of
feeling that there was a roar of applause. During the performance he
was called before the drop-scene several times; but it was not till
the green curtain fell that the pent-up enthusiasm burst forth. There
was a tremendous applause, and when the actor came forward the whole
house rose simultaneously to their feet, and there was a shout that
made the walls ring again. Hats and handkerchiefs were waved, and
cheer upon cheer swelled louder and louder as the player stood proudly
before his audience, with a light upon his face such as never shone
from the floats. It was a pleasant sight to behold—the sea of upturned
faces in the pit, clear, strong young faces, with broad foreheads and
bright eyes—the glimpse of colour as the crimson rosettes which the
student’s wore flashed with their every movement—the gleaming jewels
of the ladies in the boxes—the moving mass of hats and handkerchiefs,
and above all the unanimity with which everything was done. It was
evident that in the theatre this night was a body moved by a strong
_esprit de corps_, for without any fugleman every movement was
simultaneous. They took their cue from the situation, moved by one
impulse to do the same thing. It was, indeed, a tribute of which any
human being might be proud. For many minutes the tempest continued,
and then, as one man, the house sat down, as Mr. Henry Irving stepped
forward to make his speech, which was as follows:
“‘Ladies and Gentlemen,—Honest steadfast work in any path of life is
almost sure to bring rewards and honours; but they are rewards and
honours so unexpected and so unprecedented that they may well give the
happy recipient a new zest for existence. Such honours you have heaped
upon me. For the welcome you have given me upon these classic boards—
for the proud distinction your grand University has bestowed upon me—
for these honours accept the truest, warmest, and most earnest thanks
that an overflowing heart tries to utter, and you cannot think it
strange that every fibre of my soul throbs and my eyes are dim with
emotion as I look upon your faces and know that I must say “Good-bye.”
Your brilliant attendance on this, my parting performance, sheds a
lustre upon my life.’
“At the close of his speech Mr. Irving seemed much affected, as,
indeed, it was no wonder, for the memory of Saturday night is one
which he will carry to his grave. Not Mr. Irving alone, but the whole
of the profession should be proud of such a tribute to histrionic
genius, for the address in the University and the assemblage at the
theatre not only adds another sprig to the actor’s well-won crown of
laurel, but it marks an era in the history of the stage.”
When the performance was over a vast crowd of young men, nearly all
students, waited outside the stage door to escort the actor to his
hotel, the Shelbourne, in St. Stephen’s Green. This they did in noble
style. They had come prepared with a long, strong rope, and taking the
horses from the carriage harnessed themselves to it. There were over a
thousand of them, and as no more than a couple of hundred of them could
get a hand on the rope the rest surrounded us—for I accompanied my
friend on that exciting progress—on either side a shouting body. The
street was a solid moving mass and the wild uproar was incessant. To us
the street was a sea of faces, for more than half the body were turning
perpetually to have another look at the hero of the hour. Up Grafton
Street we swept, the ordinary passengers in the street falling of
necessity back into doorways and side streets; round into St. Stephen’s
Green, where the shouting crowd stopped before the hotel. Then the
cheering became more organised. The desultory sounds grew into more
exact and recurring volume till the cheers rang out across the great
square and seemed to roll away towards the mountains in the far
distance. Irving was greatly moved, almost overcome; and in the
exuberance of his heart asked me seriously if it would not be possible
to ask all his friends into the hotel to join him at supper. This being
manifestly impossible, as he saw when he turned to lift his hat and say
good-night and his eyes ranged over that seething roaring crowd, he
asked could he not ask them all to drink a health with him. To this the
hotel manager and the array of giant constables—then a feature of the
Dublin administration of law and order, who had by this time arrived,
fearing a possibility of disorder from so large a concourse of students—
answered with smiling headshake a _non possumus_. And so amid endless
cheering and relentless hand-shaking we forced a way into the hotel.
That the occasion was marked by rare orderliness—for in those days town
and gown fights were pretty common—was shown by the official Notice
fixed on the College gate on Monday morning:
“At Roll-call to-night the Junior Dean will express his grateful sense
of the admirable conduct of the Students on Saturday last, at Mr.
Irving’s Reception in Trinity College and subsequently at the
performance in the Theatre Royal.”
After that glorious night Henry Irving, with brave heart and high hopes,
now justified by a new form of success, left Ireland for his own
country, where fresh triumphs awaited him.
V
CONVERGING STREAMS
I
In June 1877 Henry Irving paid a flying visit to Dublin in order to
redeem his promise of giving a Reading in Trinity College. It must have
been for him an arduous spell of work. Leaving London by the night mail
on Sunday, he arrived at half-past six in the morning of Monday, June
18, at Kingstown, where I met him. He had with him a couple of friends:
Frank A. Marshall, who afterwards edited Shakespeare with him, and Harry
J. Loveday, then and afterwards his stage manager. The Reading was in
the Examination Hall, which was crowded in every corner. It consisted of
part of _Richard III._, part of _Othello_, Calverley’s _Gemini et
Virgo_, Dickens’ _Copperfield and the Waiter_, and _The Dream of Eugene
Aram_.
He was wildly cheered in the Hall; and in the Quadrangle, when he came
out, he was “chaired” on men’s shoulders all round the place. Knowing
how that particular game is best played by the recipient of the honour,
and surmising what the action of the crowd would be, I was able to help
him. I had already coached him when we had breakfasted together at the
hotel as to how to protect himself; and in the rush I managed to keep
close to him to see that the wisdom of my experience was put in force.
Years afterwards, in 1894, I saw Irving saved by this experience from
possibly a very nasty accident when, at his being chaired in the
Quadrangle of the Victoria University of Manchester, the bearers got
pulled in different ways and he would otherwise have fallen head down,
his legs being safe held tight in the clutches of two strong young men.
That night he dined in Hall with the Fellows at the High Table and was
afterwards in the Commination Room where I too was a guest, and where we
remained till it was time for him to leave for London by the night mail.
I saw him off from Kingstown.
His reading that day of _Richard III._ gave me a wonderful glimpse of
his dealing with that great character. There was something about it so
fine—at once so subtle and so masterly—that it made me long to see the
complete work.
II
Thirteen days afterwards I was in London and saw him at the Lyceum in
_The Lyons Mail_; I sat in his dressing-room between the acts. My visit
to London was to attend the Handel Festival. I saw a good deal of
Irving, meeting him on most days.
I may here give an instance of his thoughtful kindness. Since our first
meeting the year before, he had known of my wish to get to London, where
as a writer I should have a larger scope and better chance of success
than at home. One morning, July 12, I got a letter from him asking me to
call at 17 Albert Mansions, Victoria Street, at half-past one and see
Mr. Knowles. I did so, and on arriving found it was the office of the
_Nineteenth Century_. There I saw the editor and owner, Sir (then Mr.)
James Knowles, who received me most kindly and asked me all sorts of
questions as to work and prospects. Presently while he was speaking he
interrupted himself to say:
“What are you smiling at?” I answered:
“Are you not dissuading me from venturing to come to London as a
writer?”
After a moment’s hesitation he said with a smile:
“Yes! I believe I am.”
“I was smiling to think,” I said, “that if I had not known the accuracy
and wisdom of all you have said I should have been here long ago!”
That seemed to interest him; he was far too clever a man to waste time
on a fool. Presently he said:
“Now, why do you think it better to be in London? Could you not write to
me, for instance, from Dublin?”
“Oh! yes, I could write well enough, but I have known that game for some
time. I know the joy of the waste-paper basket and the manuscript
returned—unread. Now Mr. Knowles,” I went on, “may I ask you something?”
“Certainly!”
“You are, if I mistake not, a Scotchman?” He nodded acquiescence,
keeping his eye on me and smiling as I went on:
“And yet you came to London. You have not done badly either, I
understand? Why did you come?”
“Oh!” he answered quickly, “far be it from me to make little of life in
London or the advantages of it. Now look here, I know exactly what you
feel. Will you send me anything which you may have written, or which you
may write for the purpose, which you think suitable for the _Nineteenth
Century_? I promise you that I shall read it myself; and if I can I will
find a place for it in the magazine!”
I thanked him warmly for his quick understanding and sympathy, and for
his kindly promise. I said at the conclusion:
“And I give you my word that I shall never send you anything which I do
not think worthy of the _Nineteenth Century_!”
From that hour Sir James and I became close friends. I and mine have
received from him and his innumerable kindnesses; and there is for him a
very warm corner in my heart.
Strange to say, the next time we spoke of my writing in the _Nineteenth
Century_ was when in 1881 he asked me to write an article for him on a
matter then of much importance in the world of the theatre. I asked him
if it was to be over my signature. When he said that was the intention,
I said:
“I am sorry I cannot do it. Irving and I have been for now some years so
closely associated that anything I should write on a theatrical subject
might be taken for a reflex of his opinion or desire. Since we have been
associated in business I have never signed any article regarding the
stage unless we shared the same view. And whilst we are so associated I
want to keep to that rule. Otherwise it would not be fair to him, for he
might get odium in some form for an opinion which he did not hold! As a
matter of fact we join issue on this particular subject!”
The first time I had the pleasure of writing for him was when in 1890 I
wrote an article on “Actor-Managers” which appeared in the June number.
Regarding this, Irving’s opinion and my own were at one, and I could
attack the matter with a good heart. I certainly took pains enough, for
I spent many, many hours in the Library of my Inn, the Inner Temple,
reading all the “Sumptuary” laws in the entire collection of British
Statutes. Irving himself followed my own article with a short one on the
subject of the controversy on which we were then engaged.
III
In the autumn of that year, 1877, Irving again visited Dublin, opening
in _Hamlet_ on Monday, November 19. The year’s work had smoothed and
rounded his impersonation, and to my mind, improved even upon its
excellence. I venture to quote again some sentences from my own
criticism upon it as the evidence of an independent and sincere
contemporary opinion. In the year that had passed not the public only
had learned something—much; he too had learned also, even of his own
instinctive ideas—up to then not wholly conscious. We all had learned,
acting and reacting on each other. We had followed him. He, in turn,
encouraged and aided by the thought as well as the sympathy of others
and feeling justified in further advance, had let his own ideas grow,
widening to all the points of the intellectual compass and growing
higher and deeper than had been possible to his unaided efforts. For
original thought must, after all, be in part experimental and tentative.
It is in the consensus of many varying ideas, guesses and experiences—
reachings out of groping intelligences into the presently dark unknown—
that the throbbing heart of true wisdom is to be found. In my criticism
I said:
“Mr. Irving has not slackened in his study of Hamlet, and the
consequence is an advance. All the little fleeting subtleties of
thought and expression which arise from time to time under slightly
different circumstances have been fixed and repeated till they have
formed an additional net of completeness round the whole character. To
the actor, art is as necessary as genius, for it is only when the
flashes of genius evoked by occasion have been studied as facts to be
repeated, that a worthy reproduction of effect is possible.... Hamlet,
as Mr. Irving now acts it, is the wild, fitful, irresolute, mystic,
melancholy prince that we know in the play; but given with a sad,
picturesque gracefulness which is the actor’s special gift.... In his
most passionate moments with Ophelia, even in the violence of his
rage, he never loses that sense of distance—of a gulf fixed—of that
acknowledgment of the unseen which is his unconscious testimony to her
unspotted purity....”
The lesson conveyed to me by his acting of which the above is the
expression was put by him into words in his Preface to the edition of
Diderot’s _Paradox of Acting_, translated by Walter Pollock and
published in 1883, six years after he had been practising the art by
which he taught and illuminated the minds of others.
During this engagement Irving played _Richard III._, and his wonderful
acting satisfied all the hopes aroused by sample given in his Reading at
the University. For myself I can say truly that I sat all the evening in
a positive quiver of intellectual delight. His conception and
impersonation of the part were so “subtle, complete, and masterly”—these
were the terms I used in my criticism written that night—that it seemed
to me the power of acting could go no further; that it had reached the
limit of human power. Most certainly it raised him still higher in
public esteem. Its memory being still with me, I could fully appreciate
the power and fineness of Tennyson’s criticism which I heard long
afterwards. When the poet had seen the piece he said to Irving:
“Where did you get that Plantagenet look?”
IV
In those days a small party of us, of whom Irving and I were always two,
very often had supper in those restaurants which were a famous feature
of men’s social life in Dublin. There were not so many clubs as there
are now, and certain houses made a speciality of suppers—Jude’s, Burton
Bindon’s, Corless’s. The last was famous for “hot lobster” and certain
other toothsome delicacies and had an excellent grill; and so we often
went there. By that time Irving had a great vogue in Dublin, and since
the Address in College and the University night in 1876 his name was in
the public mind associated with the University. All College men were
naturally privileged persons with him, so that any one who chose to pass
himself off as a student could easily make his acquaintance. The waiters
in the restaurant, who held him in great respect, were inclined to
resent this, and one night at Corless’s when a common fellow came up and
introduced himself as a Scholar of Trinity College—he called it
“Thrinity”—Irving, not suspecting, was friendly to him. I looked on
quietly and enjoyed the situation, hoping that it might end in some fun.
The outsider having made good his purpose, wished to show off before his
friends, men of his own style, who were grinning at another table. When
he went over towards them, our waiter, who had been hovering around us
waiting for his chance—his napkin taking as many expressive flickers as
the tail of Whistler’s butterfly in _The Gentle Art of Making Enemies_—
stooped over to Irving and said in a hurried whisper:
“He said he was a College man, sur! He’s a liar! He’s only a
Commercial!”
V
During his fortnight in Dublin I drove one Sunday with Irving in the
Phœnix Park, the great park near Dublin which measures some seven miles
in circumference. Whilst driving through that section known as the “Nine
Acres” we happened on a scene which took his fancy hugely. In those days
wrestling was an amusement much in vogue in Ireland, chiefly if not
wholly among the labouring class. Bouts used to be held on each Sunday
afternoon in various places, and naturally the best of the wrestlers
wished to prove themselves in the Capital. Each Sunday some young man
who had won victory in Navan, or Cork, or Galway, or wherever
exceptional excellence had been manifested, would come up to town to try
conclusions in the “Phaynix,” generally by aid of a subscription from
his fellows or his club, for they were all poor men to whom a long
railway journey was a grave expense. There was no prize, no betting; it
was Sport, pure and simple; and sport conducted under fairer lines I
have never seen or thought of. We saw the gathering crowd and joined
them. They did not know either of us, but they saw we were gentlemen,
strangers to themselves, and with the universal courtesy of their race
put us in the front when the ring had been formed. This forming of the
ring was a unique experience. There were no police present, there were
no stakes or ropes; not even a whitened mark on the grass. Two or three
men of authority amongst the sportsmen made the ring. It was done after
this fashion: One man, a fine, big, powerful fellow, was given a
drayman’s heavy whip. Then one of those with him took off his cap and
put it before the face of the armed man. Another guided him from behind
in the required direction. Warning was called out lustily, and any one
not getting at once out of the way had to take the consequence of that
fiercely falling whip. It was wonderful how soon and how excellently
that ring was formed. The manner of its doing, though violent
exceedingly, was so conspicuously and unquestionably fair that not even
the most captious or quarrelsome could object.
Then the contestants stepped into the ring and made their little
preparations for strife. Two splendid young men they were—Rafferty of
Dublin and Finlay of Drogheda—as hard as nails and full of pluck. The
style of wrestling was the old-fashioned “collar and elbow” with the
usual test of defeat: both shoulders on the ground at once. It was
certainly a noble game. A single bout sometimes lasted for over a
quarter of an hour; and any one who knows what the fierce and
unrelenting and pauseless struggle can be, and must be in any kind of
equality, can understand the strain. What was most noticeable by us
however was the extraordinary fairness of the crowd. Not a word was
allowed; not a hint of method of defence or attack; not an encouraging
word or sign. The local men could have cheered their own man to the
echo; but the stranger must of necessity be alone or with only a small
backing at best. And so, as encouragement could not be equal for the
combatants, there should be none at all!
It was a lesson in fair play which might have shone out conspicuously in
any part of the civilised world. Irving was immensely delighted with it
and asked to be allowed to give a prize to be divided equally between
the combatants; a division which showed the influence on his mind of the
extraordinary fairness of the conditions of the competition. In this
spirit was the gift received. Several of the men came round me whom they
had by this time recognised as an old athlete of “the College”—now a
“back number” of some ten years’ standing. When I told them who was the
donor they raised a mighty cheer.
The only difficulty we left behind us was that of “breaking” the
bank-note which had been given. We saw them as we moved off producing
what money they had so as to make up his half for the stranger to take
with him to Drogheda.
VI
One evening in that week Irving came up to supper with me in my rooms
after _The Bells_. We were quite alone and talked with the freedom of
understanding friends. He spoke of the future and of what he would try
to do when he should have a theatre all to himself where he would be
sole master. He was then in a sort of informal partnership with Mrs.
Bateman, and had of course the feeling of limitation of expansive ideas
which must ever be when there is a sharing of interests and
responsibilities. He was quite frank as to the present difficulties,
although he put them in the most kindly way possible. I had a sort of
dim idea that events were moving in a direction which within a year
became declared. He had spoken of a matter at which he had hinted
shortly after our first meeting: the possibility of my giving up the
post I then occupied in the Public Service and sharing his fortunes in
case he should have a theatre quite his own. The hope grew in me that a
time might yet come when he and I might work together to one end that we
both believed in and held precious in the secret chamber of our hearts.
In my diary that night, November 22, 1877, I wrote:
“London in view.”
VI
JOINING FORCES
I
Henry Irving produced Wills’s play _Vanderdecken_ at the Lyceum on June
8, 1878. I had arrived in London the day before and was able to be
present on the occasion. The play was a new version of the legend of the
“Flying Dutchman” and was treated in a very poetical way. Irving was
fine in it, and gave one a wonderful impression of a dead man
fictitiously alive. I think his first appearance was the most striking
and startling thing I ever saw on the stage. The scene was of the
landing-place on the edge of the fiord. Sea and sky were blue with the
cold steely blue of the North. The sun was bright, and across the water
the rugged mountain-line stood out boldly. Deep under the shelving
beach, which led down to the water, was a Norwegian fishing-boat whose
small brown foresail swung in the wind. There was no appearance anywhere
of a man or anything else alive. But suddenly there stood a mariner in
old-time dress of picturesque cut and faded colour of brown and peacock
blue with a touch of red. On his head was a sable cap. He stood there,
silent, still and fixed, more like a vision made solid than a living
man, realising well the description of the phantom sailor of whom Thekla
had told him in the ballad spoken in the first act:
“And the Captain there
In the dismal glare
Stands paler than tongue can tell
With clenchéd hand
As in mute command,
And eyes like a soul’s in Hell!”
It was marvellous that any living man should show such eyes. They really
seemed to shine like cinders of glowing red from out the marble face.
The effect was instantaneous, and boded well for the success of the
play.