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X
SHAKESPEARE PLAYS—II
I
_Romeo and Juliet_ was the first great Shakespearean production which
Irving made under his own management. _Hamlet_ had been done on very
simple lines, the age in which it is set not allowing of splendour. _The
Merchant of Venice_ had been entirely produced and rehearsed within
three weeks. But the story of “Juliet and her Romeo,” perhaps the
greatest and most romantic love-story that ever was written, is one
which not only lends itself to, but demands, picturesque setting. For
its tragic basis the audience must understand the power and antiquity of
the surroundings of each of those unhappy lovers. Under conditions of
humbler life the tragedy would not have been possible; in still loftier
station, though there might have been tragedy, it would have been
wrought by armed force on one of the rival Houses or the other. It is
necessary to give something of the luxury, the hereditary feud of two
dominant factions represented by their chiefs, of the ingrained
bloodthirstiness of the age of the Italian petty States. Irving knew
this well, and with his superlative stage instinct grasped the
picturesque possibilities. The Capulets and the Montagues must be made
not only forces, but typal.
What Irving’s intention was may be seen in the opening words which he
wrote himself in the short preface to the published Acting Version of
the play:
“In producing this tragedy, I have availed myself of every resource at
my command to illustrate without intrusion the Italian warmth, life,
and romance of this enthralling love-story.”
It was produced on May 8, 1882, and ran for one hundred and sixty-one
nights, the summer vacation intervening.
Extraordinary care was taken in the preparation of the play. In the
beginning Irving had asked Mr. Alfred Thompson, known as a popular
designer of dresses for many plays, to design the costumes. This he did;
but as they were not exactly what was wanted, not a single one of them
was used in the piece. Irving himself selected the costumes from old
pictures and prints, and costume books. He chose and arranged the
colours and stuff to be used. Nevertheless, with his characteristic
generosity, he put in the playbill and advertisements Mr. Thompson’s
name as designer. For the scenery also he made initial suggestions, all
in reference to exactness of detail and the needs of the play in the way
of sentiment as well as of action. The scenery was really most beautiful
and poetic and won much κυδος for the painters, Hawes Craven, William
Telbin and Walter Hann.
In another way too a new departure was made. Hitherto it had been a
custom in theatres that the musical director should compose or select
whatever incidental music was necessary. In every great theatre might be
found a really good musician in charge of the orchestra; and on him the
management wholly relied for musical help and setting. But with regard
to _Romeo and Juliet_ Irving thought that the theme was a tempting one
for a composer of note to take in hand. If this could be arranged not
only would the play as a whole benefit enormously, but even its business
aspect be greatly enhanced by the addition of the new strength. He
wished that Sir Julius Benedict should compose special music for the new
production. We were then on a provincial tour; but I ran up to London
and saw Sir Julius, who was delighted to undertake the task. In due time
charming music was completed.
So long before as June 1880, on two different nights, 14th and 16th,
Irving and I supped alone in the Beefsteak Room, and on each occasion
talked of _Romeo and Juliet_. For a long time the play had been in
Irving’s mind as one to be produced when the proper opportunity should
come. In his early days in the “fifties” he had played both Paris and
Tybalt; and we may be sure that in his ambitious soul and restless eager
brain the tragic part of Romeo was shaping itself for future use. More
than twenty years afterwards when the dreams of power to do as he wished
on the stage had grown first to possibilities and then to realities, he
certainly convinced me that his convictions of the phases of character
were quite mature. He had followed Romeo through all his phases, both of
character and emotion. He seemed to have not only the theory of action
and pose and inflection of voice proper for every moment of his
appearance, but the habit of doing it, which is the very stronghold of
an actor’s art. To me his conception was enlightening with a new light.
The words: “Thou canst not teach me to forget” he took to strike a
key-note of the play. He rehearsed them over and over again, not only on
the stage, but on several occasions when we were alone, or when Loveday
was also with us. I well remember one night when we three were alone and
had supped after the running play, _Two Roses_, when he was simply
bubbling over with the new play. Over and over again he practised the
action of leaning on Benvolio, and the tone and manner of the speech. In
it there was a distinct duality of thought—of existence. He managed to
convey that though his mind was to a measure set on love with a definite
object, there was still a sterner possibility of a deeper passion. It
seemed to show the heart of a young man yearning for all-compelling
love, even at the time when the pale phantom of such a love claimed his
errant fancy.
Once he was started on this theme he went on with fiery zeal to other
passages in the play, till at last the pathos of the end touched him to
his heart’s core. I find an entry in my diary:
“H. much touched at tragedy of last act, and in speaking the words
wept.”
That night too we practised carrying the body of Paris into the tomb. In
the first instance he asked me, as one who had been an athlete, to show
him how I would do it. Accordingly Loveday lay on the floor on his back
whilst I lifted him, Irving keenly watching all the time. Standing
astride over the body I took it by the hinches—as the wrestlers call the
upper part of the hips—and bending my legs whilst at the same moment
raising with my hands, keeping my elbows down, and swaying backwards I
easily flung it over my shoulder. Irving thought it was capital, and
asked me to lift him so that he could understand the motion. I did so
several times. Then I lay down and he lifted me, easily enough, in the
same way. It must have required a fair effort of strength on his part;
for he was a thin, spare man whilst I was over twelve stone. He said
that that method would do very well and looked all right, but that it
might prove too much of a strain in the stress of acting. So we put off
other experiments till another evening.
Some ten days after, my brother George, who had been all through the
Russo-Turkish war as a surgeon in the Turkish service, was in the
theatre. He had been Chief of Ambulance of the Red Crescent and had been
in the last convoy into Plevna and had brought to Philippopolis all the
Turkish wounded from the battle at the Schipka Pass, and so had had
about as much experience of dead bodies as any man wants. Irving thought
it might be well to draw on his expert knowledge, and after supper asked
him what was the easiest way of carrying a dead body, emphasising the
“easiest”; accordingly I, who was to enact the part of “body,” lay down
again. George drew my legs apart, and stooping very low with his back to
me, lifted the legs in turn so that the inside of my knees rested on his
shoulders. Then, catching one of my ankles in each hand, he drew my body
up till the portion of my anatomy where the back and legs unite was
pressed against the back of his neck. He then straightened his arms and
rose up, my body, face outward, trailing down his back and my arms
hanging limp. It was just after the manner of a butcher carrying the
carcase of a sheep. It was most certainly the “easiest” way to carry a
body—there was no possible doubt about that; but its picturesque
suitability for stage purpose was another matter. Irving laughed
consumedly, and when next we discussed the matter he had come to the
conclusion that the best way was to _drag_ the body into the entrance of
the monument. He would then appear in the next scene dragging the body
down the stone stair to the crypt. To this end a body was prepared,
adjusted to the weight and size of Paris so that in every way
_vraisemblance_ was secured.
That production was certainly wonderfully perfect. Some of the scenes
were of really entrancing beauty, breathing the Italian atmosphere. Even
the supers took fire with the reality of all around them. No matter how
carefully rehearsed, they would persist in throwing into their work a
martial vigour of their own. The rubric of the scene, as printed from
the original, does not give the slightest indication of the wonderful
stress of the first scene:
“Enter Several Persons of both Houses, who join in the Fray: then
enter Citizens and Peace Officers, with their Clubs and Partisans.”
The scene was of the market-place of Verona with side streets and at
back a narrow stone bridge over a walled-in stream. The “Several
Persons,” mostly apprentices of the Capulet faction, entered, at first
slowly, but coming quicker and quicker till quite a mass had gathered on
the hither side of the bridge. The strangers were being easily worsted.
Then over the bridge came a rush of the Montagues armed like their foes
with sticks or swords according to their degree. They used to pour in on
the scene down the slope of the bridge like a released torrent, and for
a few minutes such a scene of fighting was enacted as I have never
elsewhere seen on the stage. The result of the mighty fight was that
during the whole time of the run of the play there was never a day when
there was not at least one of the young men in hospital. We tried to
make them keep to the business set down for them, for on the stage even
a fight between supers is so carefully arranged that no harm can come if
they keep to their instructions. But one side or the other would grow so
ardent that a mighty trouble of some kind had to be counted upon.
When I look back upon other presentations of _Romeo and Juliet_ I can
see the exceeding value of all the picturesque realism of Irving’s
production. I have in my mind’s eye two others in London, one of which I
saw and the other of which I heard, for we were then in America, where
tragedy was lost in the mirth of the audience.
The former was held in the old Gaiety Theatre, then under the management
of the late John Hollingshead. It was at a _matinée_ given by a lady who
was ambitious of beginning her theatrical career as Juliet. Of course on
such an occasion one has to be contented with the local scenery; either
such as is used in the running play or can be easily taken from and to
the storage. The play went fairly well until the third act; William
Terriss was the Romeo, and his performance, if not subtle, was full of
life and go. But when the scene went up on Juliet’s chamber there was a
sudden and wild burst of laughter from every part of the house. The
stage management had used a picturesque scene without any idea of
suitability. Juliet’s bed was set right in the open, on a wide marble
terrace with steps leading to the garden!
The other occasion was when the property master, with a better idea of
customary utility than of picturesque accuracy, had set out for Juliet’s
bed one of double width—a matrimonial couch with _two_ pillows!
II
_Much Ado About Nothing_ followed close after _Romeo and Juliet_, the
theatre being closed for three nights to allow of full-dress rehearsals.
It began on October 11, 1882, and had an unbroken run of two hundred and
twelve nights, being only taken off because the other plays of the
_répertoire_ for the coming American tour had to be made ready and
rehearsed by playing them. This was not only the longest run the play
had ever had, but probably the only real run it had ever had at all. It
was always one of those plays known as “ventilators” which are put up
occasionally with hope on the part of the management that they _may_ do
something this time, and a moral conviction that they can’t in any case
do worse than the plays that have already been tried. But Irving had
faith in it, and in his own mind saw a way of doing it which would help
it immensely. It was beautifully produced and carefully rehearsed. The
first act was all brightness and beauty. The cathedral was such as was
never before seen on the stage. Even the cathedral servants were new,
their brown dresses giving picturesque sombre richness to the scene.
Irving had seen such dresses in the cathedral of Seville or Burgos—I
forget which—and had noted and remembered. Ellen Terry was born for the
part of Beatrice. It was almost as though Shakespeare had a premonition
of her coming.
_Don Pedro._ “Out of question, you were born in a merry hour.”
_Beatrice._ “No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a
star danced, and under that was I born.”
Surely such a buoyant, winsome, merry, enchanting personality was never
seen on the stage—or off it. She was literally compact of merriment,
until when her anger with Claudio blazed forth in a brief tragic moment,
half passion and whole pathos, that carried everything before it. And as
for tragic strength, none who have ever seen or may ever see it can
forget her futile helpless anger—the surging, choking passion in her
voice, as striding to and fro with long paces, her whirling words won
Benedick to her as in answer to his query “Is Claudio thine enemy,” she
broke out:
“Is he not approved in the height a villain, that hath slandered,
scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman?—O, that I were a man!—what? bear
her in hand until they come to take hands; and then with public
accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour—O God, that I were
a man! I’d—I’d—I’d eat his heart in the market-place!”
And then after some combative words with her lover?
“I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with
grieving.”
It was that last feminine touch that won Benedick to her purpose of
revenge. All the audience felt that he could do no less.
III
By the way, a curious evidence of the truth of its emotional effect came
one night, not very long after the play began its long career. I was in
my office just after the curtain had gone up on the fourth act when I
was sent for to the front of the house to see some one. In the vestibule
I found a tall, powerful, handsome man. He had masterful eyes, a
resonant voice and a mouth that shut like steel. A most interesting
personality I thought. I introduced myself, and as I had been told he
had expressed a wish to see Irving I asked him if he could wait a little
as the curtain had gone up. He was very cheery and friendly, and he said
at once:
“Of course I’ll wait. I’ve just come to London and I came at once to see
my cousin Johnny. I haven’t seen him since we were boys.” I had been
trying to place him. This gave me the clue I wanted.
“Are you John Penberthy?” I asked. This delighted him, and he shook my
hand again. I said that I had often heard of him. From the moment of our
meeting we became friends.
John Penberthy was one of the sons of Sarah Behenna, sister of Irving’s
mother, who had married Captain Isaac Penberthy, a famous mining captain
of his time in Cornwall. Whilst a very young man John had gone to South
America and had soon become, by his courage and forceful character as
well as by his gifts and skill as a miner himself, a great mining
captain. He was mostly in the silver mines; he it was who had developed
and worked the great Huanchaca mine in Bolivia. For some twenty or more
years he had lived in a place and under conditions where a quick eye and
a ready hand were the surest guarantees of long life—especially to a man
who had to control the fierce spirits of a Spanish mine.
I took him round on the stage, thinking what a surprise as well as a
pleasure it would be to Irving to find him there when he came off after
the scene. He at once got deeply interested in the scene going on, and
now and again as I stood beside him I could see his strong hands closed
and hear him grind his teeth. When the scene was over and Irving and
Ellen Terry were bowing in the glare of the footlights amid a storm of
applause, Captain Penberthy turned to me, his face blazing with generous
anger, and said in his native Cornwall accent which he had never lost:
“It was a damned good job for that cur Claudio that I hadn’t my shootin’
irons on me. If I had I’d soon have blasted hell out of him!”
IV
An instance of the interest of the public in a Lyceum production was
shown by a letter received by Irving a few nights after the play had
been produced. For one of the front scenes the scene-painter, Hawes
Craven, had been given a free hand. He chose for the subject a walk
curving away through giant cedars, brown trunks and twisted branches—a
noble spot in which to muse. Irving’s correspondent pointed out, as well
as I remember, that whereas the period is set in the third quarter of
the fifteenth century, the cedar was not introduced into Messina until
the middle of that century and could not possibly have attained the
stature shown in the scene.
Perhaps I may here mention that Irving had some other experiences of the
same kind:
When he reproduced _Charles I._ in June 1879, some critical observer
called attention to the fact that the trees in the Hampton Court scene,
having been planted in the time of Charles, could not possibly have
grown within his reign to the size represented.
Again, whilst in Philadelphia in 1894, where we had played _Becket_, the
secretary of a Natural History Society wrote a letter—a really charming
letter it was too—pointing out that Tennyson had made a mistake in that
passage of the last act of the play where Becket speaks of finding a
duck frozen on her nest of eggs. Such might certainly occur in the case
of certain other wild birds; but not in the case of a duck whose habits
made such a tragedy impossible. Irving replied in an equally courteous
letter, saying, after thanking him for the interest displayed in the
play and for his kindness in calling attention to the alleged error,
that there must have been some misreading of the poet’s words as he did
not mention a duck at all!
“... we came upon
A wild-fowl sitting on her nest....”
V
It may be well to mention here the way in which Irving cared always and
in every way for the feelings of the public. In religious matters he was
scrupulous against offence. When the church scene of _Much Ado About
Nothing_ was set for the marriage of Claudio and Hero, he got a Catholic
priest to supervise it. He listened carefully whilst the other explained
the emblematic value of the points of ritual. The then Property Master
was a Catholic and had taken some pains to be correct as to details.
When the reverend critic pointed out that the white cloth spread in
front of the Tabernacle on the High Altar meant that the Host was within
Irving at once ordered that a piece of cloth of gold should be spread in
its place. Again, when he was told that the cross on the ends of the
stole of the marrying priest was emblematical of the Sacrament he
ordered a fleur-de-lis to be embroidered instead. In the same way, on
knowing that the red lamp, hung over the altar-rail by his direction for
purely scenic effect, was a sacramental sign he had it altered and
others placed to destroy the significance. But not so when as Becket he
put on the pall to go into the cathedral where the murderous huddle of
knights awaited him. There he wore the real pall. There were no feelings
to be offended then, though the occasion was in itself a sacrament—the
greatest of all sacraments—martyrdom. All sensitiveness regarding ritual
was merged in pity and the grandeur of the noble readiness:
“I go to meet my King.”
XI
SHAKESPEARE PLAYS—III
I
Of all the plays of which Irving talked to me in the days of our
friendship when there was an eager wish for freedom of effort, or in
later times when a new production was a possibility rather than an
intention, I think _Macbeth_ interested me most. When I met him in 1876
he had already played it at the Lyceum; but somehow it was borne in on
me that what had been done was not up to his fullest sense of truth. His
instinctive idea of treatment—that which is the actor’s sixth sense
regarding character—was correct. So much I could tell, for the
conviction which was in him came out from him to others. But I do not
think that at that time his knowledge of the part was complete. In the
consideration of such a play it has to be considered what was
Shakespeare’s knowledge of its origin; for it is by this means that we
can get a guiding light on his intention. That he had studied Wintown
and Holinshed is manifest to any one who has read the “Cronykil” of the
former or the Chronicle of the latter. Now Irving had got hold of the
correct idea of Macbeth’s character, and from his own inner
consciousness of its working out, combined with the enlightenment of the
text, knew that Macbeth had thought of and intended the murder of Duncan
long before the opening of the play, and that he and his wife had talked
it over. But I think that not at first, nor till after he had re-studied
the play, was he aware of the personal relationship between Macbeth and
Duncan: that after the King and his sons Macbeth was the next successor
to the crown of Scotland. This is according to history, and Shakespeare
knew it from Holinshed. But even Shakespeare is somewhat wanting in his
way of setting it forth in the play. I know that I myself had from my
earliest recollection been always puzzled by the passage in Act I, scene
iv, where Macbeth in an aside says:
“The Prince of Cumberland! that is a step
On which I must fall down, or else o’erleap,
For in my way it lies.”
Nothing that has gone before in the play can afford to any unlearned
member of an audience any possible clue as to how Macbeth could have
been injured or thwarted by an honour shown to his own son by the King
who had already showered honours and thanks upon his victorious general.
In his Address at Owens College, Manchester, six years after his second
production of the play, Henry Irving set forth this and many other
critical points with admirable lucidity.
To me Irving’s intellectual position with regard to the character was
from the first irrefragable. He added scholarship as the time went on;
but every addition was a help to understanding. Between the time when I
had first heard him talk over the play and the character in 1876 and
when I saw him play it, twelve years elapsed. In all that time it was a
favourite subject to talk between us, and I think it was one evening in
February 1887 on which after he and I, having supped alone in the
Beefsteak Room, talked over the play till the windows began to show
their edges brightening in the coming day, that he made up his mind to
the reproduction.
We were then deep in the run of _Faust_, which had passed its three
hundredth representation at the Lyceum; but in the running of a London
theatre it is necessary to look a long way ahead; a year at least. In
this case there was need of a longer preview, for our plans had already
been made for a considerable time. We were to run _Faust_ through the
season except some weeks at the end to prepare other plays which
together with _Faust_ we were to take to America in the tour already
arranged for 1887–8. As we should not be back till the spring of the
later year the production of a new play, together with the music and
selection of the company, had all to be thought of in time. Irving had—
and justifiably—great hopes of the play, and spared on it neither pains
nor expense. With regard to the scenery he thought that he would get
Keeley Halswelle, A.R S.A., to make the designs. He was very fond of his
work and considered that it would be exactly suitable for his purpose.
The painter consented and made some lovely sketches.
He expressed a wish to paint the scenes himself, and when the sketches
and then the models in turn had to be approved of, we engaged the great
paint-rooms of the Covent Garden Opera House then available, for his
use. The canvas-cloths, framed pieces, borders and wings were got ready
by our own carpenters and “primed” for the painting.