and asking and asking as to time of completion; but without result.
Finally I paid a visit of inspection to Covent Garden and to my surprise
and horror found the acres of white untouched even to the extent of a
charcoal outline.
The superb painter of pictures, untutored in stage art and perspective,
had found himself powerless before those vast solitudes. He had been
unable even to begin his task!
The work was then undertaken by Hawes Craven, J. Harker, T. W. Hall, W.
Hann, and Perkins and Caney, with magnificent result.
_Macbeth_ is a play that really requires the aid of artistic
completeness. Its diction is so lordly, so poetical, so searching in its
introspective power that it lifts the mind to an altitude which requires
and expects some corresponding elevation of the senses.
Here, by the way, a certain incident comes back to my memory. In the
Queen’s Theatre, Dublin, some forty years ago the tragedy was being
given, and when the actor who played Lennox came to the lines
“The night has been unruly: where we lay,
Our chimneys were blown down....”
he spoke them, in the very worst of Dublin accents, as follows:
“The night hath been rumbunctious where we slep,
Our chimbleys was blew down.”
For the music incidental to the play Sir Arthur Sullivan undertook the
composition. He wrote overtures, preludes, incidental music and
choruses, one and all suitable as well as fine. Throughout there is a
barbaric ring which seems to take us back and place us amongst a warlike
and undeveloped age. Wherever required he altered it during the progress
of rehearsal.
It was a lesson in collaboration to see the way in which these two men,
each great in his own craft, worked together. Arthur Sullivan knew that
with Irving lay the responsibility of the _ensemble_, and was quite
willing to subordinate himself to the end which the other had in view.
Small-minded men are unwilling, or perhaps unable, to accept this
position. If their susceptibilities are in any way wounded by even a
non-recognition of the superiority of their work they are apt to sulk;
and when an artist sulks those who have to work with him are apt to
encounter a paralysing dead-weight. In any form _vis inertia_ is
cramping to artistic effort. But both these men were too big for chagrin
or jealousy. As example of the harmony of their working and of the
absolute necessity in such matters for absolute candour let me instance
one scene. Here the music had all been written and rehearsed, and Sir
Arthur sat in the conductor’s chair. In a pause of the rehearsal of
action on the stage he said:
“We are ready now, Irving, if you can listen.”
“All right, old man; go ahead!” When the numbers of that particular
piece of incidental music had been gone through the composer asked:
“Do you like that? Will it do?” Irving replied at once with kindly
seriousness:
“Oh, as music it’s very fine; but for our purpose it is no good at all.
Not in the least like it!”
Sullivan was not offended by the frankness. He was only anxious to get
some idea of what the other wanted. He asked him if he could give any
hint or clue as to what idea he had. Irving, even whilst saying in words
that he did not know himself exactly what he wanted, managed, by sway of
body and movement of arms and hands, by changing times and undulating
tones, and by vowel sounds without words, to convey his inchoate
thought, instinctive rather than of reason. Sullivan grasped the idea
and the anxious puzzlement of his face changed to gladness.
“All right!” he said heartily, “I think I understand. If you will go on
with the rehearsal I shall have something ready by-and-by.” Sitting
where he was, he began scoring, the band waiting. When some of the
scenes had been rehearsed there was some movement in the orchestra—the
crowding of heads together, little chirpy sounds from some of the
instruments and then in a pause of the rehearsal:
“Now, Mr. Ball!”—John Meredith Ball was the Musical Director of the
Lyceum. “If you are ready now, Irving, we can give you an idea. It is
only the theme. If you think it will do I will work it out to-night.”
The band struck up the music and Irving’s face kindled as he heard.
“Splendid!” he said. “Splendid! That is all I could wish for. It is
fine!”
I could not help feeling that such recognition and praise from a fellow
artist was one of the rewards which has real value to the creator of
good work.
II
It was necessary that _Henry VIII._ should be very carefully done; for
its period is well recorded in architecture, stone-carving, goldsmith
work, tapestry, stuffs, embroideries, costumes and paintings. Indeed
many historical lessons may be taken from this play. Shakespeare, if he
did not actually know or intend this, had an intuition of it. _Henry
VIII._ marks one of the most important epochs in history, and as it was
by the very luxury and extravagance of the nobles of the time that the
power of the old feudalism was lowered, such naturally becomes a pivotal
point of the play. It was a part of the subtle policy of Cardinal Wolsey
to bring the great nobles to London, instead of holding local courts of
their own and surrounding themselves with vast retinues of armed
retainers. Combination amongst a few such might shake even the throne.
When once at the Court of the King they were encouraged and incited to
vie with each other in the splendour of their dress and equipment; and
soon their capacity for revolt was curbed by the quick wasting of their
estates. The wonderful pageant of the Field of the Cloth of Gold had its
political use and bearing which the student of the future will do well
to investigate. In his play Shakespeare bore all this in mind, and took
care to lay down in exact detail the order of his processions and
rituals. It can be, therefore, seen that in this renaissance of art with
a political meaning—and, therefore, a structural part of a historical
play—it was advisable, if not necessary, to be exact in the _décor_ of
the play. To this end the greatest care was taken, with of course the
added managerial intention of making the piece as attractive as
possible. Seymour Lucas (then A.R.A. now R.A.), who undertook to
superintend the production, went to and fro examining the buildings and
picture and art work of the period wherever to be found. For months he
had assistants working in the South Kensington Museum making coloured
drawings of the many stuffs used at that time; reproducing for the
guidance of the weavers, who were to take up their part of the work in
turn, both texture and pattern and colour. Further months were occupied
with the looms before the antique stuffs thus reproduced were ready for
the costumier.
Irving’s own dress—his robe as Cardinal—was, after months of experiment,
exactly reproduced from a genuine robe of the period, kindly lent to him
by Rudolph Lehmann, the painter.
Many lessons in stage values and effects were to be learned from this
magnificent production. Let me give a couple of instances. As the period
was that of the Field of the Cloth of Gold, there was naturally a good
deal of cloth of gold used in the English Court; and such, or the effect
of it, had to be set forth in the play. A day was fixed when Seymour
Lucas was to choose the texture, make and colour of the various patterns
of gold cloth submitted. For this purpose the curtain was taken up and
the footlights were turned on. A row of chairs, back out, were placed
along the front of the stage, and on each was hung a sample of cloth of
gold. Lucas and Irving, with Loveday and myself, sat in the stalls; and
with us the various artists and workpeople employed in the production of
the play—property master, wardrobe mistress, costumiers, &c. Something
like the following took place as the painter’s eye ranged along the
glittering line of fabrics:
“That first one—well, fair. Let it remain! The next, take it away. No
use at all! Third and fourth—put them on one side—We may want them for
variety. Fifth—Oh! that is perfect! Just what we want!”
When the examination was finished we all went on the stage to look at
the specimens accepted and discarded. There we found the second so
peremptorily rejected was real cloth of gold at ten guineas a foot;
whilst the fifth whose excellence for the purpose we had so
enthusiastically accepted was Bolton sheeting stencilled in our own
property-room, and costing as it stood about eighteen pence a yard.
Again, very fine jewellery—stage jewellery—had been prepared to go with
the various dresses. In especial in the procession at the beginning of
the fourth act the collars of the Knights of the Garter were of great
magnificence. One of the actors, however, was anxious to have everything
as real as possible, and not being content with the splendour of the
diamond collars provided, borrowed a real one from one of the Dukes,
whose Collar of the Garter was of a magnificence rare even amongst such
jewels. He expected it to stand out amongst the other jewelled collars
seen in the procession. But strange to say, it was the only one amongst
them all that did not look well. It did not even look real. Stage jewels
are large, and are backed with foil, which throws back the fierce light
of the “floats,” and the “standards,” and the “ground rows,” and all
those aids to illusion which have been perfected by workmen competent to
their purpose.
III
The play ends with the christening of the infant Princess Elizabeth, in
which of course a dummy baby was used. This gave a chance to the voices
clamant for realism on the stage. When the play had run some forty
nights Irving got a letter, from which I quote:
“The complete success of _Henry VIII._ was marred when the King kissed
the china doll. The whole house tittered.... Herewith I offer the hire
of our real baby for the purpose of personating the offspring....” To
this I replied:
“Mr. Irving fears that there might be some difficulty in making the
changes which you suggest with regard to the infant Princess Elizabeth
in the play. If reality is to be achieved it should of necessity be real
reality and not seeming reality; the latter we have already on the
stage. A series of difficulties then arises, any of which you and your
family might find insuperable: If your real baby were provided it might
be difficult, or even impossible, for the actor who impersonates King
Henry VIII. to feel the real feelings of a father towards it. This would
necessitate your playing the part of the King; and further would require
that your wife should play the part of Queen Anne Boleyn. This might not
suit either of you—especially as in reality Henry VIII. had afterwards
his wife’s head cut off. To this your wife might naturally object; but
even if she were willing to accept this form of reality, and you were
willing to accept the responsibility on your own part, Mr. Irving would,
for his own sake, have to object. By law, if you had your wife
decapitated you would be tried for murder; but as Mr. Irving would also
be tried as an accessory before the fact, he too would stand in danger
of his life. To this he distinctly objects, as he considers that the end
aimed at is not worth the risk involved.
“Again, as the play will probably run for a considerable time, your baby
would grow. It might, therefore, be necessary to provide another baby.
To this you and your wife might object—at short notice.
“There are other reasons—many of them—militating against your proposal;
but you will probably deem those given as sufficient.”
_Henry VIII._ was produced on the night of Tuesday, January 5, 1892, and
ran at the Lyceum for two hundred and three performances, ending on
November 5. Its receipts were over sixty-six thousand pounds.
XII
SHAKESPEARE PLAYS—IV
I
In the Edinburgh theatre during his three years’ engagement there,
1856–9, Irving had played the part of Curan in _King Lear_. This was, I
think, the only part which he had ever played in the great tragedy; and
it is certainly not one commending itself to an ambitious young actor.
It is not what actors call a “fat” part; it is only ten lines in all,
and none of those of the slightest importance. But the ambitious young
actor had his eye on the play very early, and had thought out the doing
of it in his own way. The play was not produced till the end of 1892;
but nearly ten years before he had talked it over with me. I find this
note rough in my diary for January 5, 1883:
“Theatre 7 till 2. H. and I supper alone. He told me of intention to
play Lear on return from America. Gave rough idea of play—domestic—
gives away kingdom round a wood fire, &c.”
On the night of the 9th he spoke again of it under similar
circumstances. And on April 10 he returned to the subject.
_King Lear_, in the production of which Ford Madox Brown advised, was
produced on November 10, 1892, and ran in all seventy-six nights. My
diary of November 10 says:
“First night; _King Lear_. Great enthusiasm between acts. Whilst scenes
on, stillness like the grave. An ideal audience. Thunders of applause
and cheers at end.”
II
On the morning of January 19, after _King Lear_ had run for sixty
nights, I received a hurried note, written with pencil, from Irving,
asking me to call and see him as soon as possible. I hurried to his
rooms and found him ill and speechless with “grippe.” This was one of
the early epidemics of influenza and its manifestations were very
sudden. He could not raise his head from his pillow. He wrote on a slip
of paper:
“Can’t play to-night. Better close the theatre.”
“No!” I said, “I’ll not close unless you order me to. I’ll _never_
close!” He smiled feebly and then wrote:
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know,” I said; “I’ll go down to the theatre at once.
Fortunately this is a rehearsal day and everybody will be there.” He
wrote again:
“Try Vezin.”
“All right,” I said. Just then Ellen Terry, to whom he had sent word,
came in. When she knew how bad he was she said to me:
“Of course you’ll close, Bram” (we use Christian names a good deal on
the stage).
“No!” I said again.
“Then what will you do?”
“I don’t know. But we’ll play—unless _you_ won’t consent to!”
“Don’t you know that I’ll do anything!”
“Of course I do! It will be all right.” This was a wild presumption, for
at the time the Stage Manager was away ill.
All the time Irving was hearing every word, and smiled a little through
his pain and illness. He never liked to hear of any one giving up; and I
think it cheered him a little to know that things were going on. I went
to Mr. Vezin’s rooms at once but he was out of town. When I got to the
theatre all the company were there, I asked Terriss if he could play
Lear. He said no, that he had not studied the part at all—adding in
regret: “I only wish to goodness that I had. It will be a lesson to me
in the future.” I then asked the company in general if any of them had
ever played Lear—or could play it; but there was no affirmative reply.
In the company was Mr. W. J. Holloway, who played the part of Kent. He
was an old actor—that is, the _actor_ was old though the _man_ was in
active middle age. He had, I knew, played in what is called “leading
business” with his own company in Australia, where he had made much
success. I asked him if he could read the part that night. If so, I
should before the play ask the favour of the audience in the emergency;
and that he would then play it “without the book” on the next night. He
answered that he would rather wait till the next night, by which time he
would be ready to play. To this I replied that if we closed for the
night we should not re-open until Mr. Irving was able to resume work.
After thinking a moment he said:
“Of course any one can _read_ a part.”
“Then,” said I, “will you read it to-night and play to-morrow?”
He answered that he would. So I said to him:
“Now, Mr. Holloway, consider that from this moment till the curtain goes
up you own the theatre. If there is anything you want for help or
convenience, order it; you have _carte blanche_. Mr. Irving’s dresser
will make you up, and the Wardrobe Mistress will alter any dress to suit
you. We will have a rehearsal if you wish it, now or in the evening
before the play; or all day, if you like.”
“I think,” he said after a pause, “I had better get home and try to get
hold of the words. I know the business pretty well as I have been at all
the rehearsals. I am usually a quick study, and it will be so much
better if I can do without the book—for part of the time at any rate.”
In this he was quite wise; his experience as an old actor stood to him
here. Kent is all through the play close to Lear, either in his own
person or in disguise. The actor, therefore, who played the part, which
in stage parlance is a “feeder,” had been at all the rehearsals of
Lear’s scenes when the “business” of the play is being fixed and when
endless repetitions of speech and movement make all familiar with both
text and action. Also for sixty nights he had gone through the play till
every part of it was burned into his brain. Still, knowledge of a thing
is not doing it; and it was a very considerable responsibility to
undertake to play such a tremendous part as Lear at short notice.
When he came down at night he seemed easier in his mind than I expected;
his wife, who was present—though without his knowing it lest it might
upset him—told me privately that he was “letter perfect” in at least the
two first acts. “I have been going over it with him all day,” she said,
“so I am confident he will be all right.”
And he was all right. From first to last he never needed a word of
prompting. Of course we had prepared for all emergencies. Not only had
the prompter and the call-boy each a prompt-book ready at every wing,
but all his fellow actors were primed and ready to help.
I shall never forget that performance; it really stirred me to look at
it as I did all through from the wings in something of the same state of
mind as a hen who sees her foster ducklings toddling into the ditch. I
had known that good actors were fine workmen of their craft, but I think
I never saw it realised as then. It was like looking at a game of Rugby
football when one is running with the ball for a touch-down behind goal
with all the on-side men of his team close behind him. He _could_ not
fail if he wanted to. They backed him up in every possible way. The cues
came quick and sharp and there was not time to falter or forget. If any
of the younger folk, upset by the gravity of the occasion, forgot or
delayed in their speeches, some one else spoke them for them. The play
went with a rush right through; the only difference from the sixty
previous performances being that though the _entr’actes_ were of the
usual length the play was shorter by some twenty minutes. When the call
came at the end the audience showed their approval of Mr. Holloway’s
plucky effort by hearty applause. When the curtain had finally fallen
the actor received that most dear reward of all. His comrades of all
ranks closed round him and gave him a hearty cheer. Then the audience
beyond the curtain, recognising the rare honour, joined in the cheer
till from wall to wall the whole theatre rang.
It was a moving occasion to us all, and I am right sure that it bore two
lessons to all the actors present, young and old alike: to be ready for
chances that _may_ come; and to accept the responsibility of greatness
in their work when such may present itself.
Of acting in especial, of all crafts the motto might be:
“The readiness is all!”
III
One other incident of the run of _King Lear_ is, I think, worthy of
record, inasmuch as it bears on the character and feeling of that great
Englishman, Mr. Gladstone. In the second week of the run he came to see
the play, occupying his usual seat on the stage on the O.P. corner. He
seemed most interested in all that went on, but not entirely happy. At
the end, after many compliments to Mr. Irving and Miss Terry, he
commented on the unpatriotic conduct of taking aid from the French—from
any foreigner—under any circumstances whatever of domestic stress.
IV
Saturday, December 19, 1896, was an eventful day in Irving’s life. That
evening, in the full tide of his artistic success and with a personal
position such as no actor had ever won, he placed on the stage _Richard
III._, his acting in which just twenty years before had added so much
and so justly to the great reputation which he had even then achieved.
His early fight had long been won. The public, and in especial the
growing generation whose minds were free from the prejudice of ancient
custom, had received his philosophic acting without cavil; the “Irving
school” of acting had become a part of the nation’s glory.
From the early morning of that day crowds were waiting to gain
admission. Many of those in the passage to the pit door, leading in from
the Strand, had camp-stools. One man had brought a regular chair so that
he might sit all day with as little discomfort as possible. At four
o’clock, when a great crowd had assembled, Irving had them all supplied
with tea and bread-and-butter at his own expense. This was a custom
which had grown up under his care and which made for a feeling of great
personal kindness between the actor and his unknown friends. Most of
those who waited at the pit door on first nights were young ladies and
gentlemen, and of course quite able to provide for themselves. But
nothing would induce them to have a cup of tea till it was sent out to
them by the management. That came to be a part of their cherished
remembrance of such occasions, and was not to be foregone.
Many and many a time since then have I met in society persons, both
ladies and gentlemen, who introduced themselves as old friends since the
days when I had spoken to them, whilst waiting, through the iron rail
which kept them from lateral pressure by newcomers and preserved the
_queue_.
That day they were in great force, and even then, long before the house
was, or could be, opened, there was no denying the hope-laden thrill of
expectation with which they regarded the coming of the night’s
endeavour.
They were well justified, for nothing, so far as the Richard was
concerned, could have gone with more marked success. The audience was
simply wild with enthusiasm. That alone helps to make success in a
theatre; the whole place seems charged with some kind of electric force
and every one is lifted or even exalted beyond the common—the actors to
do, the others to be receptive. At the close of the performance there
were endless calls and cheering which made the walls ring.
In his very early youth Irving had found a certain attractiveness in
_Richard III._, though doubtless he did not then know or realise what a
play was. His cousin, John Penberthy, told me in 1890 how when they were
both boys “Johnny” had a book opening out into long series of scenes of
plays and that he used to be fond of saying dramatically? “My horse! my
horse! A kingdom for my horse!” Whether the error lay with the child’s
knowledge or the man’s memory I know not.
Some of the scenes—not merely the painted or built pictures, but that
which took in the persons as well as the setting of the stage—were of
great beauty. In especial was the first scene when the funeral
procession of King Henry VI. came on. Irving had tried to realise some
of the effect of the great picture by Edwin A. Abbey, R.A. Here the tide
of mourners seems to sweep along in resistless mass, with an
extraordinary effect of the spear-poles of royal scarlet amidst the
black draperies.
Whilst the bulk of the audience were taking their reluctant way home
certain invited guests from their body were beginning to fill up again
the great stage which had by now been transposed into a room surrounded
by supper-tables. Irving was receiving his friends after what had by
then grown to be an established custom of first and last nights. From
the buoyancy and joy of the guests it was easy to see how the play had
gone. All were rejoicing as if each one had achieved a personal success.
V
In his own rooms that night he met with an accident which prevented his
working for ten weeks. And so the run of _Richard III._ at that time was
limited to one triumphant night.
On February 27 it was resumed till the coming of the time, which had
long before been fixed, for the production of _Madame Sans-Gêne_.
XIII
IRVING’S METHOD
I