first night, December 30, 1878, became for twenty-four years of my own
experience a quantity to be counted on. Nay more, for when the Lyceum
came as a theatre to an end, the audience followed Irving to Drury Lane.
They or their successors in title were present on that last night of his
season, June 10, 1905, that memorable night when he said farewell, not
knowing that it would be the last time, except one benefit performance,
he should ever appear in London as a player.
III
The production with which the season of 1878–9 opened was almost
entirely new. When Irving took over the Lyceum the agreement between him
and Mrs. Bateman entitled him to the use of certain plays and _matériel_
necessary for their representation. But he never contented himself with
the scenery, properties or dresses originally used. The taste of the
public had so improved and their education so progressed, chiefly under
his own influence, that the perfection of the seventies would not do for
later days. For _Hamlet_ new scenery had been painted by Hawes Craven,
and of all the dresses and properties used few if any had been seen
before. What we had seen in the provinces was the old production. I
remember being much struck by the care in doing things, especially with
reference to the action. It was the first time that I had had the
privilege of seeing a play “produced.” I had already seen rehearsals,
but these except of pantomime had generally been to keep the actors,
supers and working staff up to the mark of excellence already arrived
at. But now I began to understand _why_ everything was as it was. With
regard to stagecraft it was a liberal education. Often and often in the
years since then, when I have noticed the thoughtless or careless way in
which things were often done on other stages, I have wondered how it was
that the younger generation of men had not taken example and reasoned
out at least the requirements of those matters incidental to their own
playing. Let me give an example:
“In the last act, the cup from which Gertrude drinks the poison is an
important item inasmuch as it might have a disturbing influence. In one
of the final rehearsals, when grasped by Hamlet in a phrenzy of anxiety
lest Horatio should drink: ‘Give me the cup; let go; by heaven, I’ll
have it!’ the cup, flung down desperately rolled away for some distance,
and then following the shape of the stage rolled down to the footlights.
There is a sort of fascination in the uncertain movement of an inanimate
object, and such an occurrence during the play would infallibly distract
the attention of the audience. Irving at once ordered that the massive
metal goblet used should have some bosses fixed below the rim, so that
it could not roll. At a previous rehearsal he had ordered that as the
wine from the cup splashed the stage, coloured sawdust should be used—
which it did to exactly the same artistic effect.
In another matter of this scene his natural kindness made a sweet little
episode which he never afterwards omitted. When he said to the pretty
little cup-bearer who offered him the poisoned goblet: “Set it by
awhile!” he smiled at the child and passed his hand caressingly over the
golden hair.
Certain other parts of his Hamlet were unforgettable; his whirlwind of
passion at the close of the play scene which, night after night, stirred
the whole audience to frenzied cheers; the extraordinary way in which by
speech and tone, action and time, he conveyed to his auditory the sense
of complex and entangled thought and motive in his wild scene with
Ophelia; his wonderment at the announcement of Horatio:
“I think I saw him yester-night.”
_Hamlet._ “Saw who?”
_Horatio._ “My Lord, the King your Father.”
_Hamlet._ “The King—my father?”
And the effective way in which he conveyed his sense of difference of
the subjective origin of the ghost at its second appearance at which
Shakespeare hinted, following out Belleforest’s remark on the novel:
“In those days, the northe parts of the worlde, living as then under
Sathans lawes, were full of inchanters, so that there was not any
young gentleman whatsoever that knew not something therein sufficient
to serve his turne, if need required.... Hamlet, while his father
lived, had been instructed in that devilish art, whereby the wicked
spirite abuseth mankind, and advertiseth him (as he can) of things
past.”
_Of things past!_ Hamlet could know of things that had been though he
could not read the future. This it was which was the essence of his
patient acquiescence in the ways of time—half pagan fatalism, half
Christian belief—as shown in that pearl amongst philosophical phrases:
“If it be now, ’tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now;
if it be not now, yet it will come; the readiness is all.”
IV
_Hamlet_ was played ninety-eight nights on that first season. Four of
them hang in my mind for very different reasons. The first was that
wonderful opening night when the great audience all aflame with generous
welcome and exalted by ready sympathy lifted us to unwonted heights.
The second was on January 18, the eighteenth night of _Hamlet_. The
Chinese Ambassador, the Marquis Tsêng, came to see the play and with him
came Sir Halliday Macartney.
After the third act the Ambassador and Sir Halliday Macartney came to
see Irving in his dressing-room, where they stayed some time talking. It
was interesting to note—Sir Halliday translated his remarks verbally—how
accurately the Ambassador followed the play, which he had not read nor
heard of. Where he failed was only on some small points of racial or
theological difference. He seemed to be absolutely correct on the human
side.
Presently we all went down on the stage whilst Ellen Terry as Ophelia
was in the midst of her mad scene. Irving and Sir Halliday and I were
talking and, in the interest of the conversation, we all temporarily
overlooked the Ambassador. Presently I looked round instinctively and
was horrified to see that he had moved in on the stage and was then
close to the edge of the arch at the back of the scene where Ophelia had
made her entrance and would make her exit. He was in magnificent robes
of Mandarin yellow, and wore such adornments as are possible to a great
official who holds the high grade and honour of the Peacock’s Feather. I
jumped for him and just succeeded in catching him before he had passed
into the blaze of the limelight. I could fancy the sudden amazement of
the audience and the wild roar of laughter that would follow when in the
midst of this most sad and pathetic of scenes would enter unheralded
this gorgeous anachronism. Under ordinary circumstances I think I should
have allowed the _contretemps_ to occur. Its unique grotesqueness would
have ensured a widespread publicity not to be acquired by ordinary forms
of advertisement. But there was greater force to the contrary. The play
was not yet three weeks old in its run; it was a tragedy, and the holy
of holies to my actor chief to whom full measure of loyalty was due; and
beyond all it was Ellen Terry who would suffer.
V
The third was a very sad occasion, but one which showed that the manager
of a theatre must have “nerve” to do the work entailed by his high
responsibility. He remained in the wings O.P. (“Opposite Prompt” in
stage parlance) after scene ii of Act I of _Hamlet_. The following scene
(iii) is a front scene ready for the change to the scene where Polonius
gives good advice to his children Laertes and Ophelia. After the few
words between the brother and sister on the cue of Laertes: “here my
father comes,” Polonius enters speaking quickly as one in surprise: “Yet
here Laertes! Aboard, aboard, for shame!”
Irving instinctively turned on hearing the intonation of the voice, and
after one lightning glance signed to the prompter to let down the act
drop, which was done instantly. I was standing beside him at the time
talking to him and was struck by the marvellous rapidity of thought and
action; of the decision which seemed almost automatic. Then, the curtain
having been drawn back sufficiently to let him pass, he stepped to the
footlights and said:
“Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to have to tell you that something has
happened which I should not like to tell you; and will ask you to bear
in patience a minute. We shall, with your permission, go on from the
beginning of the third scene of Act I.” He stepped back amid
instantaneous and sympathetic applause. Perhaps they knew; some few must
have seen for themselves what had occurred, and many undoubtedly
guessed. But all recognised the mastery and decision which had saved a
very painful and difficult situation. The curtain straightened behind
him as he passed in on the stage.
In an incredibly short time all was ready, for stage workmen as well as
actors are adepts at their trade. Within seven or eight minutes the
curtain went up afresh and the play began anew—with a different
Polonius.
That night a call went up for the whole company and employees—“Everybody
concerned on the stage” at noon next day.
It was a grave and solemn gathering; and all were there except one who
had received a kindly intimation that he need not attend. Irving came on
the stage at the stroke of the hour. Loveday and I were with him. He
stood in front of the footlights with his back to the auditorium. He
spoke for a few minutes only; but that speech must have sunk deeply into
the hearts of every listener. He reminded them of the loyalty which is
due from craftsmen to one another; of the loyalty which is due to a
manager who has to think for all; and finally of the loyalty which is
due—and was on the unhappy occasion to which he referred—due to their
own comrade. “By that want of loyalty,” he said, “in any of the forms,
you have helped to ruin your comrade. Some of you _must_ have noticed;
at least those who dressed in the room with him or saw him in the Green
Room. Had I been told—had the stage manager had a single hint from any
one, we could, and would have saved him. The lesson would perhaps have
been a bitter one, but it would have saved him from worse disaster. As
it is, no other course was open to me to save him from public shame. As
it is, the disaster of last night may injure him for life. And it is
_you_ who have done this. Now, my dear friends and comrades, let this be
a lesson to us all. We must be loyal to each other. That is to be
helpful, and it is to the honour of our art and our calling!”
There he stopped and turned away. No one said a word. For a short space
they stood still and then melted slowly away in silence, like the
multitude of a dream.
VI
The fourth occasion was on the night of March 27 when Irving, having
been taken with a serious cold, was unable to play—the first time he had
been out of the bill for seven years! The note in my diary runs:
“Stage very dismal. Ellen Terry met me in the passage and began to
cry! I felt very like joining her!”
I instance this as a fair illustration of how Irving was loved by all
with whom he came in personal contact.
IX
SHAKESPEARE PLAYS—I
I
Irving did not think of playing _The Merchant of Venice_ until he had
been to the Levant. The season of 1879–80 had been arranged before the
end of the previous season. We were to commence with _The Iron Chest_;
Irving had considerable faith in Coleman’s play and intended to give it
a run. It was to be followed in due course, as announced in his farewell
speech at the end of the second season, by _The Gamester_, _The
Stranger_, _Coriolanus_, and _Robert Emmett_—a new play by Frank
Marshall. It was rather a surprise, therefore, when on October 8, before
the piece had run two weeks, he broached the subject of a new
production. It had been apparent to us since his return from a yachting
trip in the Mediterranean that he was not so much in love with the play
as he usually was with anything which he had immediately in hand. Even
if a play did not seem to possess him, I never saw him show the
slightest sign of indifference to it in any other case.
On that particular evening he asked Loveday and me if we could stay and
have a chop in the Beefsteak Room. He was evidently full of something of
importance; it seemed a relief to him when supper was finished and the
servant who waited had gone. When we had lit our cigars he said quietly:
“I am going to do _The Merchant of Venice_.” We both waited, for there
was nothing to say until we should know a little more. He went on:
“I never contemplated doing the piece, which did not even appeal very
much to me, until when we were down in Morocco and the Levant. You know
the _Walrus_” (that was the fine steamer which the Baroness Burdett
Coutts had chartered for her yachting party) “put into all sorts of
places. When I saw the Jew in what seemed his own land and in his own
dress, Shylock became a different creature. I began to understand him;
and now I want to play the part—as soon as I can. I think I shall do it
on the first of November! Can it be done?”
Loveday answered it would depend on what had to be done.
“That is all right,” said Irving. “I have it in my mind. I have been
thinking it over and I see my way to it. Here is what I shall have in
the ‘Casket’ scene.” He took a sheet of notepaper and made a rough
drawing of the scene, tearing out an arch in the back and propping
another piece of paper in it with a rough suggestion of a Venetian
scene. “I will have an Eastern lamp with red glass—I know where is the
exact thing. It is, or used to be two or three years ago, in that
furniture shop in Oxford Street, near Tottenham Court Road.”
Then he went on to expound his idea of the whole play; and did it in
such a way that he set both Loveday and myself afire with the idea. We
talked it out till early morning. Indeed the Eastern sun was outlining
the beauty of St. Mary’s-le-Strand as the time-roughened stone stood out
like delicate tracery against the blush of the sunrise. Then and often
since have I thought that Sir Christopher Wren must have got his
inspiration regarding St. Mary’s on returning late—or early in the
morning—from a supper in Westminster. The church is ugly enough at other
times, but against sunrise it is a picturesque delight.
As we parted Irving smiled as he said:
“Craven had better get out that red handkerchief, I think.”
Therein lay a little joke amongst us. Hawes Craven who was—as happily he
still is—a great scene painter, could work like a demon when time
pressed. Ordinarily he wore when at work in those days a long coat once
of a dark colour, and an old brown bowler hat, both splashed out of all
recognition with paint. Scene-painting is essentially a splashy
business, the drops of paint from the great brushes, of necessity
vigorously used to cover the acres of canvas, “come not in single spies
but in battalions.” But when matters got desperate, when the pressure of
the time-gauge registered not in hours but in minutes, the head-gear was
changed for a red handkerchief which twisted round the head made a sort
of turban. This became in time a sort of oriflamme. We knew that there
was to be no sleep, and precious little pause even for food, till the
work was all done.
Of course no mortal man could do the whole of the scenery in the three
weeks available. Scenes had to be talked over, entrances and exits fixed
and models made. Four scene-painters bent their shoulders to the task.
Craven did three scenes, Telbin three, Hann three, and Cuthbert one. The
whole theatre became alive with labour. Each night had its own tally of
work with the running play; but from the time the curtain went down at
night till when the doors were opened the following night full pressure
never ceased. Properties, dresses, and “appointments” came in completed
perpetually. Rehearsals went on all day. On Saturday night, November 1—
just over three weeks after he had broached the idea, and less than
three from the time the work was actually begun—the curtain went up on
_The Merchant of Venice_.
It had an unbroken run of two hundred and fifty nights, the longest run
of the play ever known.
It is a noteworthy fact that one of the actors, Mr. Frank Tyars, who
played the Prince of Morocco, after being perfect for two hundred and
forty-nine nights, forgot some of his words on the two hundred and
fiftieth.
For twenty-six years that play remained in the working _répertoire_ of
Henry Irving. He played Shylock over a thousand times.
II
The occasion of Irving’s producing _Othello_ during his own management
was due to his love and remembrance of Edwin Booth. In 1860, at the
Theatre Royal, Manchester, Irving began a long engagement. In the bill
his name is announced: “His first appearance.” In November of the
following year Booth appeared as a star, playing _Othello_, Irving being
the Cassio; _Hamlet_, Irving being the Laertes; _A New Way to Pay Old
Debts_, he of course taking Sir Giles Overreach, and Irving Wellborn.
For his benefit he gave on Friday night _Romeo and Juliet_, in which
Irving played Benvolio to his Romeo. Often, when we talked of Booth some
twenty years afterwards, he told me of the extraordinary alertness of
the American actor; of his fierce concentration and tempestuous passion;
of the blazing of his remarkable eyes. It will be seen from the
comparison of their respective parts in the plays set out that the
difference between them in the way of status as players was marked. The
theatre had its own etiquette, and stars were supposed to have a
stand-off manner of their own. These things have changed a good deal in
the interval, but in the early sixties it was a real though an
impalpable barrier, as hard to break through as though it were compact
of hardier material than shadowy self-belief. Naturally the men did not
have much opportunity for intimacy, but Irving never forgot the bright
young actor who had won his heart as well as his esteem. Twenty years
afterwards, when the younger man had won his place in the world and when
his theatre was becoming celebrated as a national asset, Booth again
visited England. Whoever had arranged his business did not choose the
best theatre for him. For in those days the Princess’s in Oxford Street
did not have a high dramatic _cachet_. He got a good reception of
course; but the engagement was not a satisfactory one, and Booth was
much chagrined. I was there myself on the night of his opening, November
6, 1880, on which he played _Hamlet_. I was much disappointed in the
_ensemble_; for though Booth was fine, neither the production nor the
support was worthy of his genius and powers. The management was a new
one, and the manager a man who had been used to a different class of
theatre. Also there were certain things which jarred on the senses of
any one accustomed to a finer order. This was none of Booth’s doings;
but he was the sufferer by it. Booth and Irving had met at once after
the former had come to London, and had renewed their old acquaintance—on
a more intimate basis. In those days there was a certain class of
busybodies who tried always to make mischief between Americans and
English; twenty-five years ago the _entente cordiale_ was not so marked
as became noticeable after the breaking out of the war between America
and Spain. There were even some who did not hesitate to say that Booth
had not been fairly received in London. Irving jumped to the difficulty,
went at once to Booth and said to him:
“Why don’t you come and play with me at the Lyceum? I’ll put on anything
you wish; or if there is any piece in which we can play together, let us
do that.”
Booth was greatly delighted, and took the overture in the same good
spirit in which it was meant. He at once told Irving that he would like
to appear in _Othello_. Irving said:
“All right! You decide on the time; and I’ll get the play ready, if you
will tell me how you would like it arranged.”
Booth said he would like to leave all that to his host, as he had not
himself taken a part in the production of plays for years and did not
even attend rehearsals. So Irving took all the task on himself. When he
asked Booth whether he would like to play Othello or Iago—for he played
both—he said he would like to begin with Othello and that it would, he
thought, be well if they changed week about; and so it was arranged. The
performance began on May 2, 1881.
By Booth’s wish _Othello_ was only to be played three times a week, as
he was averse from the strain of such a heavy part every night. The
running bill—_The Cup_ and _The Belle’s Stratagem_—kept its place on the
other three. For the special performances some of the prices were
altered, stalls nominally ten shillings becoming a guinea, the
dress-circle seats being ten shillings instead of six. The prices for
the off nights remained as usual.
The success of _Othello_ was instantaneous and immense. During the seven
weeks the arrangement lasted the houses were packed. And strange to say
the takings of the off nights were not affected in any way.
III
The two months thus occupied made a happy time for Booth. He came down
to rehearsal early in the week before the production, and was so pleased
that he never missed a rehearsal during the remainder of the time. He
said more than once that it had given him a new interest in his work. In
social ways too the time went pleasantly. Several of his distinguished
countrymen were then staying in London, and no matter how strenuous work
might be, time was found for enjoyment though the days had to be
stretched out in the manner suggested in Tommy Moore’s ballad:
“For the best of all ways to lengthen our days
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!”
On Sunday, June 12, John McCullough gave a party at Hampton Court, where
we dined at the Greyhound. We drove down in four-in-hand drags and spent
the late afternoon walking through the beautiful gardens of Hampton
Court. June in that favoured spot is always delightful.
There was an amusing episode on our dilatory journeying among the
flowers. One of the gardeners, a bright-faced old fellow for whom Nature
had been unkind enough to use the mould wrought for the shaping of
Richard III., on being asked some trivial question gave so smart an
answer that we all laughed. Then began a hail of questions; the old man,
smiling gleefully, answered them as quick as lightning. One by one
nearly all the party joined in; but to one and all a cunning answer was
given without slack of speed, till the whole crowd was worsted. One of
the party asked the gardener if he would lend him his hat for a minute.
The old man handed it, remarking in a manifestly intended stage aside:
“It’ll be no use to him. The brains don’t go with it!” The man who
borrowed it, “Billy” Florence, put it on the grass, open side up, and
said:
“Now boys!”
Instantly a rain of money—more of it gold than silver, and some folded
notes—fell into the hat. Then with a handshake all round the clever old
fellow toddled off. The names of that party will show most people of the
great world, even twenty years afterwards, that there was no lack of
“brains” in that crowd, even enough possibly to answer effectually to
the sallies of one old man. Most of them may be seen on the dinner
_menu_ which they signed.
One night at supper in the Beefsteak Room, Irving told me an amusing
occurrence which took place at Manchester when Booth played there. He
said it was “about” 1863, so it may have been that time of which I have
written—1861. _Richard III._ was put up, Charles Calvert, the manager,
playing Richmond, and Booth Gloster. Calvert determined to make a brave
show of his array against the usurper, and being manager was able to
dress his own following to some measure of his wishes. Accordingly he
drained the armoury of the theatre and had the armour furbished up to
look smart. Richard’s army came on in the usual style. They were not
much to look at though they were fairly comfortable for their work of
fighting. But Richmond’s army enthralled the senses of the spectators,
till those who knew the play began to wonder how such an army _could_ be
beaten by the starvelings opposed to them. They were not used to fight,
or even to move in armour, however; and the moment they began to make an
effort they one and all fell down and wriggled all over the stage in
every phase of humiliating but unsuccessful effort to get up; and the
curtain had to be lowered amidst the wild laughter of the audience.
[Illustration:
SUGGESTION FOR IAGO’S DRESS