consists or how it brings conviction to those whose gift it is.
Certainly any one not an actor could not attempt the task at all. In the
course of a quarter of a century of intimate experience of this actor,
when he has confided to me the very beginnings of his intentions and let
me keep in touch with his mind when such intentions became at first
fixed and then clamorous of realisation, I have known him see his way to
personal success with regard to several characters. For instance:
When in 1885 he had arranged to do _Olivia_ and was making up the cast
he put himself down as Dr. Primrose. I had not seen the play in which
Ellen Terry had appeared under John Hare’s management—with enormous
success for a long run—and I had no guiding light, except the text of
the play, as to the excellence of the part as an acting one. But neither
had Irving seen it. He too had nothing but the text to go by, but he was
quite satisfied with what he could do. He knew of course from report
that Ellen Terry would be fine. For myself I could not see in the Vicar
a great part for so great an actor, and tried my best to dissuade him
from acting it. “Get the best man in London, or out of it—at any price,”
I said; “but don’t risk playing a part like that, already played
exhaustively and played well according to accounts!”—Hermann Vezin had
played it in the run. Irving answered me with all his considerate
sweetness of manner:
“My dear fellow, it is all right! I can see my way to it thoroughly. If
I can’t play the Vicar to please I shall think I don’t know my business
as an actor; and that I really think I do!” This was said not in any way
truculently or self-assertively, but with a businesslike quietude which
always convinced. When any man was sincere with Irving, he too was
always both sincere and sympathetic, even to an opposing view to his
own. When one was fearless as well as sincere he gained an added measure
of the actor’s respect.
Again, when in 1885 _Faust_ was being produced I began to have certain
grave doubts as to whether we were justified in the extravagant hopes
which we had all formed of its success. The piece as produced was a vast
and costly undertaking; and as both the _décor_ and the massing and
acting grew, there came that time, perhaps inevitable in all such
undertakings of indeterminate bounds, as to whether reality would
justify imagination. With me that feeling culminated on the night of a
partial rehearsal, when the Brocken scene on which we all relied to a
large extent was played, all the supers and ballet and most of the
characters being in dress. It was then, as ever afterwards, a wonderful
scene of imagination, of grouping, of lighting, of action, and all the
rush and whirl and triumphant cataclysm of unfettered demoniacal
possession. But it all looked cold and unreal—that is, unreal to what it
professed. When the scene was over—it was then in the grey of the
morning—I talked with Irving in his dressing-room before going home. I
expressed my feeling that we ought not to build too much on this one
play. After all it _might_ not catch on with the public as firmly as we
had all along expected—almost taken for granted. Could we not be quietly
getting something else ready, so that in case it did not turn out all
that which our fancy painted we should be able to retrieve ourselves.
Other such arguments of judicious theatrical management I used
earnestly.
Irving listened, gravely weighing all I said; then he answered me
genially:
“That is all true; but in this case I have no doubt. I _know_ the play
will do. To-night I think you have not been able to judge accurately.
You are forming an opinion largely from the effect of the Brocken. As
far as to-night goes you are quite right; but you have not seen my
dress. I do not want to wear it till I get all the rest correct. Then
you will see. I have studiously kept as yet all the colour scheme to
that grey-green. When my dress of flaming scarlet appears amongst it—and
remember that the colour will be intensified by that very light—it will
bring the whole picture together in a way you cannot dream of. Indeed I
can hardly realise it myself yet, though I know it will be right. You
shall see too how Ellen Terry’s white dress, and even that red scar
across her throat, will stand out in the midst of that turmoil of
lightning!”
He had seen in his own inner mind and with his vast effective
imagination all these pictures and these happenings from the very first;
all that had been already done was but leading up to the culmination.
IV
Let me say here that Irving loved sincerity, and most of all in those
around him and those who had to aid him in his work—for no man can do
all for himself. Alfred Gilbert the sculptor once said to me on seeing
from behind the scenes how a great play was pulled through on a first
night, when every soul in the place was alive with desire to aid and
every nerve was instinct with thought:
“I would give anything that the world holds to be served as Irving is!”
He was quite right. There must be a master mind for great things; and
the master of that mind must learn to trust others when the time of
action comes. The time for doubting, for experimenting, for teaching and
weighing and testing is in the antecedent time of preparation. But when
_the_ hour strikes, every doubt is a fetter to one’s own work—a barrier
between effort and success.
In artistic work this is especially so. The artist temperament is
sensitive—almost super-sensitive; and the requirements of its work
necessitate that form of quietude which comes from self-oblivion. It is
not possible to do any work based on individual qualities, when from
extrinsic cause some unrequired phase of that individuality looms large
in the foreground of thought.
This quality is of the essence of every artist, but is emphasised in the
actor; for here his individuality is not merely a help to creative power
but is a medium by which he expresses himself. Thus it will be found as
a working rule of life that the average actor will not, if he can help
it, do anything or take any responsibility which will make for the
possibility of unpopularity. The reason is not to be found in vanity, or
in a merely reckless desire to please; it is that unpopularity is not
only harmful to his aim and detrimental to his well-being, but is a
disturbing element in his work _quâ_ actor. In another place we shall
have to consider the matter of “dual consciousness” which Irving
considered to be of the intellectual mechanism of acting. Here we must
take it that if to a double consciousness required for a work a third—
self-consciousness—is added, they are apt to get mixed; and fine purpose
will be thwarted or overborne.
Thus it is that an actor has to keep himself, in certain ways at least,
for his work. When in addition he has the cares and worries and
responsibilities and labours and distractions of management to encounter
daily and hourly, it is vitally necessary that he has trustworthy, and
to him, sufficing assistance. It is quite sufficient for one man to
originate the scope and ultimate effect of a play; to bring all the
workers of different crafts employed in its production; to select the
various actors each for special qualities, to rehearse them and the less
skilled labourers employed in effect; in fact to bring the whole play
into harmonious completeness. All beyond this is added labour,
exhausting to the individual and ineffective with regard to the work in
hand. When, therefore, an actor-manager has such trusty and efficient
assistance as is here suggested many things become possible to him with
regard to the finesse of his art, which he dared not otherwise attempt.
_Somebody_ must stand the stress of irritating matters; there must be
_some_ barrier to the rush of mordant distractions. Irving could do much
and would have in the long run done at least the bulk of what he
intended; but he never could have done _all_ he did without the
assistance of his friend and trusty stage-lieutenant, who through the
whole of his management stood beside him in all his creative work and
shaped into permanent form his lofty ideas of stage effect. It is not
sufficient in a theatre to see a thing properly done and then leave it
to take care of itself for the future. Stage perfection needs constant
and never-ending vigilance. No matter how perfectly a piece may be
played, from the highest to the least important actor, in a certain time
things will begin to get “sloppy” and fresh rehearsals are required to
bring all up again to the standard of excellence fixed. To Loveday and
the able staff under him, whose devotion and zeal were above all praise,
the continued excellence of the Lyceum plays had to be mainly trusted.
Let it be clearly understood here, however, that I say this not to
belittle Irving, but to add to his honour. In addition to other grand
qualities he had the greatness to trust where trust was due. With him
lay all the great conception and imagination and originality of all his
accomplishments. He was quite content that others should have their
share of honour.
When one considers the amazing labour and expense concerned in the
“production” of a play, he is better able to estimate the value of
devoted and trusted assistance.
V
Even the thousand and one details of the business of a theatre need
endless work and care—work which would in the long run shatter entirely
the sensitive nervous system of an artist. In fact it may be taken for
granted that no artist can properly attend to his own business. As an
instance I may point to Whistler, who, long after he had made money and
lost it again and had begun to build up his fortune afresh, came to me
for some personal advice before going to America to deliver his “Five
o’clock” discourse. In the course of our conversation he said:
“Bram, I wish I could get some one to take me up and attend to my
business for me—I can’t do it myself; and I really think it would be
worth a good man’s while—some man like yourself,” he courteously added.
“I would give half of all I earned to such a man, and would be grateful
to him also for a life without care!”
I think myself he was quite right. He was before his time—long before
it. He did fine work and created a new public taste ... and he became
bankrupt. His house and all he had were sold; and the whole sum he owed
would, I think, have been covered by the proper sale of a few of the
pictures which were bought almost _en bloc_ by a picture-dealer who sold
them for almost any price offered. He had a mass of them in his gallery
several feet thick as they were piled against the wall. One of them he
sold to Irving for either £20 or £40, I forget which.
This was the great picture of Irving as King Philip in Tennyson’s drama
_Queen Mary_. It was sold at Christie’s amongst Irving’s other effects
after his death and fetched over five thousand pounds sterling.
VI
During the run of _Cymbeline_ a pause of one night was made for a
special occasion. November 25, 1896, was the twenty-fifth anniversary of
the first performance of _The Bells_, and on that memorable birth-night
the performance was repeated to an immense house enthusiastic to the
last degree.
After the curtain had finally fallen the whole of the company and all
the employees of the theatre gathered on the stage for a presentation to
Irving to commemorate the remarkable occasion. One and all without
exception had contributed in proportion to their means. Most of all,
Alfred Gilbert, R.A., who had given his splendid genius and much labour
as his contribution. Of course on this occasion it was only the model
which was formally conveyed. The form of the trophy was a great silver
bell standing some two feet high, exquisite in design and with the grace
and beauty of the work of a Cellini; a form to be remembered in after
centuries. I had the honour of writing the destined legend to be wrought
in a single line in raised letters on a band of crinkly gold on the
curve of the bell. Gilbert had made a point of my writing it, and be
sure I was proud to do so. It ran:
HONOUR TO IRVING THROUGH THE LOVE OF HIS COMRADES I RING THROUGH THE
AGES.
Gilbert was enthusiastic about it, for he said it fulfilled all the
conditions of the legend on a bell. In the first place, according to the
ancient idea, a bell is a person with a soul and a thought and a voice
of its own; it is supposed to speak on its own initiative. In the second
place, the particular inscription was short and easily wrought and would
just go all round the bell. Moreover from its peculiar form the reading
of it could begin anywhere. I felt really proud when he explained all
this to me and I realised that I had so well carried out the idea.
VII
It may perhaps be here noted that according to the tradition of the
Comédie-Française a play becomes a classic work when it has held the
boards for a quarter of a century. The director, M. Jules Claretie,
asked Irving if they might play _The Bells_ in the House of Molière. Of
course he was pleased and sent to Claretie a copy of the prompt-book and
drawings of the scenes and appointments.
Jules Claretie was by now an old friend. In 1879, when the
Comédie-Française came to London and played at the Gaiety Theatre, he
came over as one of the men of letters interested in their success. It
was not till afterwards that he was selected as Director. I remember
well one night when he came to supper with Irving in the Lyceum. This
was before the old Beefsteak Room was reappointed to its old use; and we
supped in the room next to his own dressing-room, occasionally used in
these days for purposes of hospitality. There came also three other
Frenchmen of literary note: Jules Clery, Jacques Normand and the great
critic Francisque Sarcey. There was a marked scarcity of language
between us; none of the Frenchmen spoke in those days a word of English,
and neither Irving nor I knew more than a smattering of French. We got
on well, however, and managed to exchange ideas in the manner usual to
people who _want_ to talk with each other. It was quite late, and we had
all begun to forget that we did not know each other’s language, when we
missed Sarcey. I went out to look for him, fearing lest he might come to
grief through some of the steps or awkward places in the almost dark
theatre. In those days of gas lighting we always kept alight the “pilot”
light in the great chandelier of bronze and glass which hung down into
the very centre of the auditorium—just above the sight-line from the
gallery. This pilot was a matter of safety, and I rather think that we
were compelled, either by the civic authorities or the superior
landlord, to see it attended to. The gas remaining in the pipes of the
theatre was just sufficient to keep it going for four and twenty hours.
If it went out there must be a leak somewhere; and that leak had to be
discovered and attended to without delay.
I could not find Sarcey on the dim stage or in the front of the house.
In a theatre the rule is to take up the curtain when the audience have
passed out so that there may be as much time and opportunity as possible
for ventilating the house. I began to get a little uneasy about the
missing guest; but when I came near the corner of the stage whence the
private staircase led to Irving’s rooms I heard a queer kind of thumping
sound. I followed it out into the passage leading from the private door
in Burleigh Street to the Royal box. This was shut off from the theatre
by an iron door—not locked, but falling gently into the jambs by its own
weight. When I pushed open the door I found Sarcey all by himself,
dancing an odd sort of dance something after the manner of the “Gillie
Callum.” It was positively weird. I never afterwards could think of
Sarcey without there rising before me the vision of that lively, silent,
thick-set, agile figure moving springily in the semi-darkness.
Jules Claretie was many times at the Lyceum after the first visit, and
in his _régime_ the Theâtre-Français was the home of courtesy to
strangers.
XV
STAGE EFFECTS
I
_The Lady of Lyons_ was produced on April 17, 1879. It kept in the bill
for a portion of each week for the remainder of the first and the whole
of the second season; in all forty-five times—no inconsiderable run of
such an old and hackneyed play.
The production was a very beautiful one. There was a specially
attractive feature in it: the French army. At the end of the fourth act
Claude, all his hopes shattered and he being consumed with remorse,
accepts Colonel Damas’ offer to go with him to the war in that fine
melodramatic outburst:
“Place me wherever a foe is most dreaded—wherever France most needs a
life!”
As Irving stage-managed it the army, already on its way, was tramping
along the road outside. Through window and open door the endless columns
were seen, officers and men in due order and the flags in proper place.
It seemed as if the line would stretch out till the crack of doom! A
very large number of soldiers had been employed as supers, and were of
course especially suitable for the work. In those days the supers of
London theatres were largely supplied from the Brigade of Guards. The
men liked it, for it provided easy beer-money, and the officers liked
them to have the opportunity as it kept them out of mischief. We had
always on our staff as an additional super-master, a Sergeant of Guards
who used to provide the men, and was of course in a position to keep
them in order.
The men entered thoroughly into the spirit of the thing, and it was
really wonderful how, availing themselves of their professional
training, they were able to seemingly multiply their forces. Often have
I admired the dexterity, ease and rapidity with which that moving army
was kept going with a hundred and fifty men. Four abreast they marched
across the stage at the back. The scene cloth of the landscape outside
the cottage was set far up the stage so that there was but a narrow
space left between it and the wall, scarcely room for one person to
pass; and it was interesting to see the perfection of drill which
enabled those soldiers to meet the difficulties of keeping up the
constant stream of the troops. They would march into the wings with set
pace, but the instant they passed out of sight of the audience they
would break into a run; in perfect order they would rush in single file
round the back of the scene and arrive at the other side just in time to
fall into line and step again. And so the endless stream went on. When
Claude ran out with Damas the ranks opened and a cheer rose; he fell
into line with the rest and on the army marched.
That marching army never stopped. No matter how often the curtain went
up on the scene—and sometimes there were seven or eight calls, for the
scene was one specially exciting to the more demonstrative parts of the
house—it always rose on that martial array, always moving on with the
resistless time and energy of an overwhelming force.
It was only fair that Irving should always get good service from supers,
for they never had such a friend. When their standard pay was sixpence
per night he gave a shilling. When that sum became standard he gave one
and sixpence. And when that was reached he paid two shillings—an
increase of 300 per cent. in his own time.
If the smallness of the pay, even now, should strike any reader, let me
remind such that supers are not supposed to live on their pay. There are
a few special people who generally dress with them, but such are in
reality minor actors and get larger pay. The super proper is engaged
during the day as porter, workman, gasman, &c. They simply add to their
living wage by work at night. At the Lyceum, if a man only worked as a
super, we took it for granted that he was in reality a loafer, and did
not keep him.
II
_The Corsican Brothers_ is one of the pieces which requires picturesque
setting. The story is so weird that it obtains a new credibility from
unfamiliar _entourage_. Corsica has always been accepted as a land of
strange happenings and stormy passions. Things are accepted under such
circumstances which would ordinarily be passed by as bizarre. The
production was certainly a magnificent one. There are two scenes in it
which allow of any amount of artistic effort, although their
juxtaposition in the sequence of the play makes an enormous difficulty.
The first is the scene of the Masked Ball in the Opera House in Paris;
the other the Forest of Fontainebleau, where takes place the duel
between Fabian and de Château-Rénaud. Each of these scenes took up the
whole stage, right away from the footlights to the back wall; thus the
task of changing from one to the other, with only the interval of the
supper at Baron de Montgiron’s to do it in, was one of extraordinary
difficulty. The scene of the Masked Ball represented the interior of the
Opera House, the scenic auditorium being furthest from the footlights.
In fact it was as though the audience sitting in the Lyceum auditorium
saw the scene as though looking in a gigantic mirror placed in the
auditorium arch. The scene was in reality a vast one and of great
brilliance. The Opera House was draped with crimson silk, the boxes were
practical and contained a whole audience, all being in perspective. The
men and women in the boxes near to the footlights were real; those far
back were children dressed like their elders. Promenading and dancing
were hundreds of persons in striking costumes. It must be remembered
that in those days there were no electric lights, and as there were
literally thousands of lights in the scene it was a difficult one to
fit. Thousands of feet of gas-piping—the joining hose being flexible—
were used; and the whole resources of supply were brought into
requisition. We had before that brought the use of gas-supply to the
greatest perfection attainable. There were two sources of supply, each
from a different main, and these were connected with a great “pass” pipe
workable with great rapidity, so that if through any external accident
one of the mains should be disabled we could turn the supply afforded by
the other into all the pipes used throughout the house. This great scene
came to an end by lowering the “cut” cloth which formed the background
of Montgiron’s salon, the door leading into the supper-room being in the
centre at back. Whilst the guests were engaged in their more or less
rapid banquet, the Opera scene was being obliterated and the Forest of
Fontainebleau was coming down from the rigging-loft, ascending from the
cellar and being pushed on right and left from the wings. Montgiron’s
salon was concealed by the descent of great tableau curtains. These
remained down from thirty-five to forty _seconds_ and went up again on a
forest as real as anything can be on the stage. Trees stood out
separately over a large area, so that those entering from side or back
could be seen passing behind or amongst them. All over the stage was a
deep blanket of snow, white and glistening in the winter sunrise—snow
that lay so thick that when the duellists, stripped and armed, stood
face to face, they each secured a firmer foothold by kicking it away. Of
many wonderful effects this snow was perhaps the strongest and most
impressive of reality. The public could never imagine how it was done.
It was _salt_, common coarse salt which was white in the appointed
light, and glistened like real snow. There were tons of it. A crowd of
men stood ready in the wings with little baggage-trucks such as are now
used in the corridors of great hotels; silent with rubber wheels. On
them were great wide-mouthed sacks full of salt. When the signal came
they rushed in on all sides each to his appointed spot and tumbled out
his load, spreading it evenly with great wide-bladed wooden shovels.
III
One night—it was October 18—the Prince of Wales came behind the scenes
as he was interested in the working of the play. It was known he was
coming, and though the stage hands had been told that they were not
supposed to know that he was present they all had their Sunday clothes
on. It was the first time his Royal Highness had been “behind” in
Irving’s management; and he seemed very interested in all he saw. King
Edward VII. has and has always had a wonderful memory. That night he
told Irving how Charles Kean had set the scenes, the rights and lefts
being different from the present setting; how Kean had rested on a log
in a particular place; and so forth. Some of our older stage men who had
been at the Princess’s in Kean’s time bore it out afterwards that he was
correct in each detail.
That night the men worked as never before; they were determined to let
the Prince see what could, under the stimulating influence of his
presence, be done at the Lyceum, of which they were all very proud. That
night the tableau curtains remained down only _thirty seconds_—the
record time.