sails away with the phantom lover whose soul had been released by her
unselfish love, was impossible of realisation by the resources of stage
art of the time. Nowadays, with calcium lights and coloured “mediums”
and electricity, and all the aids to illusion which Irving had himself
created or brought into use, much could be done. For such acting the
play ought to have been a great one; but it fell short of excellence. It
was a great pity; for Irving’s appearance and acting in it were of
memorable perfection.
On the next day, Sunday, I spent hours with Irving in his rooms in
Grafton Street helping him to cut and alter the play. We did a good deal
of work on it and altered it considerably for the better I thought.
The next morning I breakfasted with him in his rooms; and, after another
long spell of work on the play, I went with him to the Lyceum to attend
rehearsal of the altered business.
That even I attended the Lyceum again and thought the play had been
improved. So had Irving too, so far as was possible to a performance
already so complete. I supped with him at the Devonshire Club, where we
talked over the play and continued the conversation at his own rooms
till after five o’clock in the morning.
The next day I went to Paris, but on my return saw _Vanderdecken_ again
and thought that by practice it had improved. It played “closer,” and
the actors were more at ease—a most important thing in an eerie play!
II
In August of the same year, 1878, Henry Irving paid another visit
to Ireland. He had promised to give a Reading in the Ulster Hall
for the benefit of the Belfast Samaritan Hospital, and this was in
the fulfilment of it. By previous arrangement the expedition was
enlarged into a holiday. As the Reading was to be on the 16th he
travelled from London on the night mail of the 12th. I met him on
his arrival at Kingstown in the early morning, as he was to stay
with my eldest brother, Sir Thornley Stoker. He was in great
spirits; something like a schoolboy off on a long-expected
holiday. Here he spent three very enjoyable days, a large part of
which were occupied in driving-excursions to Lough Bray and
Leixlip. On the 15th Irving and Loveday and I went to Belfast.
After having a look at the Ulster Hall, a huge hall about as big
as the Manchester Free Trade Hall, we supped with a somewhat
eccentric local philanthropist, Mr. David Cunningham. Mr.
Cunningham was a large man, tall and broad and heavy, and with a
great bald head which rose dome-shaped above a massive frontal
sinus. He was the best of good fellows, the mainstay of the
Samaritan Hospital and a generous helper of all local charities.
The Reading was an immense success. Over three thousand persons were
present, and at the close was a scene of wild enthusiasm. We supped
again with David Cunningham—he was one of the “Christian name” men whose
surname is seldom heard, and never alone. A good many of his friends
were present, and we had an informal and joyous time. There were of
course lots of speeches. Belfast is the very home of fiery and
flamboyant oratory, and all our local friends were red-hot Orangemen.
On this occasion, however, we were spared any contentious matter, though
the harmless periods of the oratory of the “Northern Acropolis,” as some
of them called their native city, were pressed into service. One speaker
made as pretty an “Irish bull” as could be found—though the “bull” is
generally supposed to belong to other provinces than the hard-headed
Ulster. In descanting on the many virtues of the guest of the evening he
mentioned the excellence of his moral nature and rectitude of his
private life in these terms:
“Mr. Irving, sir, is a gentleman what leads a life of unbroken blemish!”
We sometimes kept late hours in the seventies. That night we left our
host’s house at three o’clock A.M. On our return to the hotel Irving and
I sat up talking over the events of the day. The sun was beginning to
herald his arrival when we began, but in spite of that we sat talking
till the clock struck seven.
I well understood even then, though I understand it better now, that
after a hard and exciting day or night—or both—the person most concerned
does not want to go to bed. He feels that sleep is at arm’s-length till
it is summoned. Irving knew that the next day he would have to start at
three o’clock on a continuous journey to London, which would occupy some
fifteen hours; but I did not like to thwart him when he felt that a
friendly chat of no matter how exaggerated dimensions would rest him
better than some sleepless hours in bed.
III
Irving’s visit to Dublin as an actor began in that year, 1878, on
September 23, and lasted a fortnight. During this time I was a great
deal with him, not only in the theatre during rehearsals as well as at
the performances, but we drove almost every day and dined and supped at
the house of my brother and sister-in-law, with whom he was great
friends; at my own lodgings or his hotel; at restaurants or in the
houses of other friends. It was a sort of gala time to us all, and
through every phase of it—and through the working time as well—our
friendship grew and grew.
We had now been close friends for over two years. We understood each
other’s nature, needs and ambitions, and had a mutual confidence, each
towards the other in his own way, rare amongst men. It did not, I think,
surprise any of us when six weeks after his departure I received a
telegram from him from Glasgow, where he was then playing, asking me if
I could go to see him at once on important business.
I was with him the next evening. He told me that he had arranged to take
the management of the Lyceum into his own hands. He asked me if I would
give up the Civil Service and join him; I to take charge of his business
as Acting Manager.
I accepted at once. I had then had some thirteen years in the public
service, a term entitling me to pension in case of retirement from
ill-health (as distinguished from “gratuity” which is the rule for
shorter period of service); but I was content to throw in my lot with
his. In the morning I sent in my resignation and made by telegram
certain domestic and other arrangements of supreme importance to me at
that time—and ever since. We had decided that I was to join him on
December 14 as I should require a few weeks to arrange matters at home.
I knew that as he was to open the Lyceum on December 30 time was
precious, and accordingly did all required with what expedition I could.
I left Glasgow on November 25, and took up my work with Irving at
Birmingham on December 9, having in the meantime altered my whole
business life, arranged for the completion of my book on _The Duties of
Petty Sessions Clerks_, and last, not least, having got married—an event
which had already been arranged for a year later.
Irving was staying at the Plough and Harrow, that delightful little
hotel at Edgbaston, and he was mightily surprised when he found that I
had a wife—_the_ wife—with me.
IV
We finished at Birmingham on Saturday, December 14, and on Sunday he
went on with the company to Bristol whilst we came on to London. The
week at Birmingham had been a heavy time. I had taken over all the
correspondence and the letters were endless. It was the beginning of a
vast experience of correspondence, for from that on till the day of his
death I seldom wrote, in working times, less than fifty letters a day.
Fortunately—for both myself and the readers, for I write an extremely
bad hand—the bulk of them were short. Anyhow I think I shall be very
well within the mark when I say that during my time of working with
Henry Irving I have written in his name nearly half a million letters!
But the week in Birmingham was child’s play compared with the next two
weeks in London. The correspondence alone was greater; but in addition
the theatre which was to be opened was in a state of chaos. The builders
who were making certain structural alterations had not got through their
work; plasterers, paper-hangers, painters, upholsterers were tumbling
over each other. The outside of the building was covered with
scaffolding. The whole of the auditorium was a mass of poles and
platforms. On the stage and in the paint-room and the property-rooms,
the gas-rooms and carpenter’s shop and wardrobe-room, the new production
of _Hamlet_ was being hurried on under high pressure.
On the financial side of things too, there were matters of gravity.
Irving had to begin his management without capital—at least without more
than that produced by his tour and by such accommodation as he could get
from his bankers on the security of his property.
These were matters of much work and anxiety, for before the curtain went
up on the first night of his management he had already paid away nearly
ten thousand pounds, and had incurred liability for at least half as
much more by outlay on the structure and what the lawyers call
“beautifyings” of the Lyceum.
He had taken over the theatre as from the end of August 1878, so that
there was a good deal of extra expense even whilst the theatre was lying
idle; though such is usual in some form in the “running” of a theatre.
In another place I shall deal with Finance. I only mention it here
because at the very start of his personal enterprise he had to encounter
a very great difficulty.
Nearly all the work was new to me, and I was not sorry when on the 19th
my colleague, the stage manager, arrived and took in hand the whole of
the stage matters. When Irving and the company arrived, four days after,
things both on the stage and throughout the house were beginning to look
more presentable. When the heads of departments came back to work,
preparations began to hum.
V
One of these men, Arnott, the property master and a fine workman, had
had an odd experience during the Bristol week. Something had gone wrong
with the travelling “property” horse used in the vision scene of _The
Bells_, and he had come up to town to bring the real one from the
storage. In touring it was usual to bring a “profile” representation of
the gallant steed. “Profile” has in theatrical parlance a special
meaning other than its dictionary meaning of an “outline.” It is thin
wood covered on both sides with rough canvas carefully glued down. It is
very strong and can be cut in safety to any shape. The profile horse was
of course an outline, but the art of the scene-painter had rounded it
out to seemingly natural dimensions. Now the “real” horse, though a
lifeless “property,” had in fact been originally alive. It was formed of
the skin of a moderately sized pony; and being embellished with
picturesque attachments in the shape of mane and tail was a really
creditable object. But it was expensive to carry as it took up much
space. Arnott and two of his men ran up to fetch this down as there was
not time to make a new profile horse. When they got to Paddington he
found that the authorities refused to carry the article by weight on
account of its bulk, and asked him something like £4 for the journey. He
expressed his feelings freely, as men occasionally do under irritating
circumstances, and said he would go somewhere else. The clerk in the
office smiled and Arnott went away; he was a clever man who did not like
to be beaten, and railways were his natural enemies. He thought the
matter over. Having looked over the time-table and found that the cost
of a horse-box to Bristol was only £1 13_s._, he went to the department
in charge of such matters and ordered one, paying for it at once and
arranging that it should go on the next fast train. By some manœuvring
he so managed that he and his men took Koveski’s horse into the box and
closed the doors.
When the train arrived at Bristol there had to be some shunting to and
fro so as to place the horse-box in the siding arranged for such
matters. The officials in charge threw open the door for the horse to
walk out. But he would yield to no blandishment, nor even to the
violence of chastisement usual at such times. A little time passed and
the officials got anxious, for the siding was required for other
purposes. The station at Bristol is not roomy and more than one line has
to use it. The official in charge told him to take out his damned horse!
“Not me!” said he, for he was now seeing his way to “get back” at the
railway company; “I’ve paid for the carriage of the horse and I want him
delivered out of your premises. The rate I paid includes the services of
the necessary officials.”
The porters tried again, but the horse would not stir. Now it is a
dangerous matter to go into a horse-box in case the horse should prove
restive. One after another the porters declined, till at last one plucky
lad volunteered to go in by the little window close to the horse’s head.
Those on the platform waited in apprehension, till he suddenly ran out
from the box laughing and crying out:
“Why you blamed fools. He ain’t a ’orse at all. He’s a stuffed ’un!”
VI
As I have said, Arnott always got even in some way with those who tried
to best him. I remember once when a group of short lines, now
amalgamated into the Irish Great Northern Railway and worked in quite a
different way, did what we all considered rather too sharp a thing. We
had to have a special train to go from Dublin to Belfast on Sunday. For
this they charged us full fare for every person and a rate for the train
as well. Then when we were starting they took, at the ordinary rate,
other passengers in our train for which we had paid extra. This,
however, was not that which awoke Arnott’s ire. The _causa teterrima
belli_ was that whilst they gave us only open trucks for goods they
charged us extra for the use of tarpaulins, which are necessary in
railway travelling where goods are inflammable and sparks many. Having
made the arrangement I had gone back to London on other business, and
did not go to Belfast, so I did not know, till after the tour had
closed, what had happened later. When I was checking the accounts in my
office at the Lyceum, I found that though the railway company had
charged us what we thought was an exorbitant price, still the cost of
the total journey compared favourably with that of other journeys of
equal length. I could not understand it until I went over the accounts,
comparing item by item with the other journeys. Thus I “focussed” the
difference in the matter of “goods.” Then I found that whereas the other
railways had charged us on somewhere about nineteen tons weight this
particular line had only assessed us at seven. I sent for Arnott and
asked him how could the difference be, as on the first journey I had
verified the weight as I usually did, such saving much trouble
throughout a tour as it made the check easier. He shook his head and
said that he did not know. I pressed him, pointing out that either this
railway had underweighed us or that others had overweighed.
“Oh, the others were all right, sir,” he said. “I saw them weighed at
Euston myself!”
“Then how on earth can there be such a difference?” I asked. “Can’t you
throw any light on it?” He shook his head slowly as though pondering
deeply and then said with a puzzled look on his face:
“I haven’t an idea. It must have been all right, for the lot of them was
there, and the lot of us, too. There couldn’t have been any mistake with
them _all_ looking on. No, sir, I can’t account for it; not for the life
of me!” Then seeing that I turned to my work again he moved away. When
he was half way to the door he turned round, his face brightening as
though a new light had suddenly dawned upon him. He spoke out quite
genially as though proud of his intellectual effort:
“Unless it was, sir, that there was some mistake about the weighin’. You
see, while the weighin’ was goin’ on we was all pretty angry about
things. We because they was bestin’ us, and they because we was tellin’
em so, and rubbin’ in what we thought of ’em in a general way. Most of
us thought that there might have been a fight and we was all ready—the
lot of us—on both sides. We was standin’ close together, for we wouldn’t
stir and they had to come to us.... An’—it might have been that me and
the boys was standin’ before they came to join us on the platform with
the weights! I daresay we wasn’t so quarrelsome when we moved a bit
away, for there was more of them than of us; an’ they stood where we had
been. They didn’t want to follow us. An’—an’—the weighin’ was done by
them!”
VII
One more anecdote of the Property Master.
We were playing in Glasgow at the Theatre Royal, which had just been
bought by Howard and Wyndham. J. B. Howard was a man of stern
countenance and masterful manner. He was a kindly man, but Nature had
framed him in a somewhat fierce mould. His new theatre was a sacred
thing, and he liked to be master in his own house. We were playing an
engagement of two weeks; and on the first Saturday night it was found
that a certain property—a tree trunk required for use in _Hamlet_, which
was to be played on Tuesday night—was not forthcoming. So Arnott was
told to make another at once and have it ready, for it required time to
dry. Accordingly he went down to the theatre on Sunday morning with a
couple of his men. There was no one in the theatre; in accordance with
the strict Sabbath-keeping then in vogue at Glasgow, local people were
all away—even the hall-keeper. Such a small matter as that would never
deter Arnott. He had his work to do, and get in he must. So he took out
a pane of glass, opened a window, and went in. In the property shop he
found all he required; wood, glue, canvas, nails, paint; so the little
band of expert workmen set to work, and having finished their task, came
away. They had restored the window-pane, and came out by the door. On
Monday morning there was a hubbub. Some one had broken into the theatre
and taken store of wood and canvas, glue, nails and paint, and there in
the shop lay a fine property log already “set” and drying fast. Inquiry
showed that none of the local people were to blame. So suspicion
naturally fell on our men, who did not deny the soft impeachment. Howard
was fuming; he sent for the man to have it out with him. Arnott was a
fine, big, well-featured north-countryman, with large limbs and massive
shoulders—such a man as commanded some measure of respect even from an
angry manager.
“I hear that you broke into my theatre yesterday and used up a lot of my
stores?”
“Yes sir! The theatre was shut up and there was no time.”
“Time has nothing to do with it, sir. Why did you do it?”
“Well, Mr. Howard, the governor ordered it, and Mr. Loveday told me not
to lose any time in getting it ready as we had to rehearse to-day.” This
accounted to Mr. Howard, the man, for the breach of decorum; but as the
manager he was not satisfied. He was not willing to relinquish his
grievance all at once; so he said, and he said it in the emphatic manner
customary to him:
“But, sir, if Mr. Loveday was to tell you to take down the flys of my
theatre would you do that, too?”
The answer came in a quiet, grave voice:
“Certainly, sir!”
Howard looked at him fixedly for a moment, and then raising both hands
in front of him said, as he shrugged his shoulders:
“In that case I have nothing more to say! I only wish to God that my men
would work like that!” and so the quasi-burglar went unreproved.
VII
LYCEUM PRODUCTIONS
During Henry Irving’s personal management of the Lyceum he produced over
forty plays, of which eleven were Shakespeare’s: _Hamlet_, _The Merchant
of Venice_, _Othello_, _Romeo and Juliet_, _Much Ado About Nothing_,
_Twelfth Night_, _Macbeth_, _Henry VIII._, _King Lear_, _Cymbeline_, and
_Richard III._ _Coriolanus_ was produced during his agreement with the
Lyceum Company. He also reproduced six plays which he had before
presented during his engagement by and partnership with the Batemans:
_Eugene Aram_, _Richelieu_, _Louis XI._, _The Lyons Mail_, _Charles I._,
_The Bells_. He also produced the following old plays, in most of which
he had already appeared at some time: _The Lady of Lyons_, _The Iron
Chest_, _The Corsican Brothers_, _The Belle’s Stratagem_, _Two Roses_,
_Olivia_, _The Dead Heart_, _Robert Macaire_, and a good many
“curtain-raisers” whose excellences were old and tried.
The new plays were in some instances old stories told afresh, and in the
remainder historic subjects treated in a new way or else quite new
themes or translations. In the first category were _Faust_, _Werner_,
_Ravenswood_, _Iolanthe_ (one act). In the second were: _The Cup_, _The
Amber Heart_, _Becket_, _King Arthur_, _Madame Sans-Gêne_, _Peter the
Great_, _The Medicine Man_, _Robespierre_ and the following one-act
plays: _Waterloo_, _Nance Oldfield_, and _Don Quixote_. _Dante_ was
produced after the Lyceum Company had been unable to carry out their
contract with him.
This gives an average of two plays, “by and large” as the sailors say,
for each year from 1878 to 1898, after which time he sold his rights to
the Lyceum Theatre Company, Limited. Regarding some of these plays are
certain matters of interest either in the preparation or the working. I
shall simply try, now and again, to raise a little the veil which hangs
between the great actor and the generations who may be interested in him
and his work.
VIII
IRVING BEGINS MANAGEMENT
I
The first half-year of Irving’s management was, in accordance with old
usage, broken into two seasons; the first ending on May 31 and the
second beginning on June 1. This was the last time, except in the spring
of 1881, that such an unnatural division of natural periods took place.
After that, during the entire of his management the “season” lasted
until the theatre closed. And as the coming of the hot weather was the
time when, for the reason the theatre-going public left London, the
theatre had to be closed, about the end of July became practically the
time for recess. It had become an unwritten law that Goodwood closed the
London theatre season, just as in Society circles the banquet of the
Royal Academy, on the first Saturday in May, marked the formal opening
of the London “season.” This made things very comfortable for the
actors, who by experience came to count on from forty-six to forty-eight
weeks’ salary in a year. This was certainly so in the Lyceum, and in
some other theatres of recognised position.
II
The first season made great interest for the public. It was all fairly
new to me, for except when I had been present at the first night of
Wills’s _Medea_ played by Mrs. Crowe (Miss Kate Bateman) in July 1872
and had seen Irving in _The Lyons Mail_ in 1877 and had been at the
performance and rehearsal of _Vanderdecken_ in 1878, I had not been into
the theatre till I came officially. As yet I knew nothing at all of the
audiences, from the management point of view. I soon found an element
which had only anything like a parallel in the enthusiasm of the
University in Dublin. Here was an audience that _believed_ in the actor
whom they had come to see; who took his success as much to heart as
though it had been their own; whose cheers and applause—whose very
presence—was a stimulant and a help to artistic effort.
This was the audience that he had won—had made; and I myself, as a
neophite, was in full sympathy with them. With such an audience an
artist can go far; and in such circumstances there seems nothing that is
not possible on the hither side of life and health. The physicists tell
us that it is a law of nature that there must be two forces to make
impact; that the anvil has to do its work as well as the hammer. And it
is a distinguishing difference between scientific and other laws that
the former has no exceptions. So it is in the world of the theatre.
Without an audience in sympathy no actor can do his best. Nay more, he
should have the assurance of approval, or else sustained effort at high
pitch becomes impossible. Some people often think, and sometimes say,
that an actor’s love of applause is due to a craving vanity. This may be
in part true, and may even be wholly true in many cases; but those who
know the stage and its needs and difficulties, its helps and thwarting
checks, learn to dread a too prolonged stillness. The want of echoing
sympathy embarrasses the player. For my own part, having learned to
understand their motives, to sympathise with their aims, and to
recognise their difficulties, I can understand the basic wisdom of
George Frederick Cook when on the Liverpool stage he stopped in the
middle of a tragic part and coming down to the footlights said to the
audience:
“Ladies and gentlemen, if you don’t applaud I can’t act!”
It was from Irving I heard the story; and he certainly understood and
felt with that actor of the old days. If the members of any audience
understood how much better value they would get for their money—to put
the matter on its lowest basis—when they show appreciation of the
actor’s efforts, they would certainly now and again signify the fullest
recognition of his endeavour.