one hundred and ninety performances in that season, _The Cup_ being
played along with it ninety-two times. The special reason for _The
Corsican Brothers_ being played during that season was that Ellen Terry
had long before promised to go on an autumn tour in 1880 with her
husband, Charles Kelly. It was, therefore, necessary that a piece should
be chosen which did not require her services, and there was no part
suitable to her in _The Corsican Brothers_. This was the only time she
had a tour except with Irving, until when during his illness in 1899 she
went out by herself to play _Madame Sans-Gêne_ and certain other plays.
When she returned to the Lyceum at the close of her tour _The Cup_ was
added to the bill.
IV
In the course of the run of _The Corsican Brothers_ there were a good
many incidents, interesting or amusing. Amongst the latter was one
repeated nightly during the run of the piece. In the first scene, which
is the house of the Dei Franchi in Corsica, opportunity had been taken
of the peculiarity of the old Lyceum stage to make the entrance of
Fabian dei Franchi—the one of the twins remaining at home—as effective
as possible. The old stage of the Lyceum had a “scene-dock” at the back
extending for some thirty feet beyond the squaring of the stage. As this
opening was at the centre, the perspective could by its means be
enlarged considerably. At the back of the Dei Franchi “interior” ran a
vine-trellised way to a wicket-gate. As there was no side entrance to
the scene-dock it was necessary, in order to reach the back, to go into
the cellarage and ascend by a stepladder as generously sloped as the
head-room would allow. But when the oncomer did make an appearance he
was some seventy feet back from the footlights and in the very back
centre of the stage, the most effective spot for making entry as it
enabled the entire audience to see him a long way off and to emphasise
his coming should they so desire. In that scene Irving wore a Corsican
dress of light green velvet and was from the moment of his appearance a
conspicuous object. When, therefore, he was seen to ascend the mountain
slope and appear at the wicket the audience used to begin to applaud and
cheer, so that his entrance was very effective.
But in the arrangement the fact had been lost sight of that another
character entered the same way just before the time of his oncoming.
This was Alfred Meynard, Louis’s friend from Paris, a somewhat
insignificant part in the play. Somehow at rehearsal the appearance of
the latter did not seem in any way to clash with that of Fabian, and be
sure that the astute young actor who played Alfred did not call
attention to it by giving himself any undue prominence. The result was
that on the first night—and ever afterwards during the run—when Alfred
Meynard appeared the audience, who expected Irving, burst into wild
applause. The gentleman who played the visitor had not then achieved the
distinction which later on became his and so there was no reason, as
yet, why he should receive such an ovation. From the great stage talent
and finesse which he afterwards displayed I am right sure that he saw at
the time what others had missed—the extraordinary opportunity for a
satisfactory entrance so dear to the heart of an actor. It was a very
legitimate chance in his favour, and nightly he carried his honours
well. That first night a play of his own, his second play, was produced
as the _lever de rideau_. The young actor was A. W. Pinero, and the play
was _Bygones_. Pinero’s first play, _Daisy’s Escape_, had been played at
the Lyceum in 1879.
V
The Masked Ball was a scene which allowed of any amount of fun, and it
was so vast that it was an added gain to have as many persons as
possible in it. To this end we kept, during the run, a whole rack in the
office full of dominoes, masks and slouched hats, so that any one who
had nothing else to do could in an instant make a suitable appearance on
the scene without being recognised. As the masculine dress of the time,
the forties, was very much the same as now, a simple domino passed
muster. I shall never forget my own appearance in the scene a few nights
after the opening. We had amongst others engaged a whole group of
clowns. There were eight of them, the best in England; the pantomime
season being still far off, they could thus employ their enforced
leisure—they were of course changed as their services were required
elsewhere according to their previously made agreements. These men had a
special dance of their own which was always a feature of the scene, and
in addition they used to play what pranks they would, rushing about,
making fun of others, climbing into boxes and then hauling others in, or
dropping them out—such pranks and _intrigué_ funniments as give life to
a scene of the kind. When I ventured amongst them they recognised me and
made a ring round me, dancing like demons. Then they seized me and spun
me round, and literally played ball with me, throwing me from one to the
other backwards and forwards. Sometimes they would rush me right down to
the footlights and then whirl me back again breathless. But all the time
they never let me fall or gave me away. I could not but admire their
physical power as well as their agility and dexterity in their own
craft.
The second time I went on I rather avoided them and kept up at the back
of the stage. But even here I was, from another cause of mirth, not
safe. I was lurking at the back when Irving, his face as set as flint
with the passion of the insult and the challenge in the play, came
hurriedly up the stage on his way to R.U.E. (right upper entrance). When
he saw me the passion and grimness of his face relaxed in an instant and
his laughter came explosively, fortunately unnoticed by the audience as
his back was towards them. I went after him and asked him what was
wrong, for I couldn’t myself see anything of a mirthful nature.
“My dear fellow!” he said, “it was you!” Then in answer to my look he
explained:
“Don’t you remember how we arranged when the scene was being elaborated
that in order to increase the effect of size we were to dress the
shorter extras and then boys and girls and then little children in
similar clothes to the others and to keep in their own section. You were
up amongst the small children and with your height”—I am six feet two in
my stockings—“with that voluminous domino and that great black feathered
hat and in the painted perspective you look fifty feet high!” And he
laughed again uproariously.
VI
_The Corsican Brothers_ was, so far as my knowledge goes, the first
play—under Irving’s management—which Mr. Gladstone came to see. The
occasion was January 3, 1881—the first night when _The Cup_ was played.
He sat with his family in the box which we called in the familiar slang
of the theatre “The Governor’s Box”—the manager of a theatre is always
the Governor to his colleagues of all kinds and grades. This box was the
stage box on the stall level, next to the proscenium. It was shut off by
a special door which opened with a pass key and thus, as it was
approachable from the stage through the iron door and from the
auditorium by the box door, it was easy of access and quite private.
After _The Cup_ Mr. Gladstone wished to come on the stage and tell
Irving and Ellen Terry how delighted he was with the performance. Irving
fixed as the most convenient time the scene of the masked ball, as
during it he had perhaps the only “wait” of the evening—a double part
does not leave much margin to an actor. Mr. Gladstone was exceedingly
interested in everything and went all round the vast scene. Seeing
during the progress of the scene that people in costume were going in
and out of queer little alcoves at the back of the scene he asked Irving
what these were. He explained that they were the private boxes of the
imitation theatre; he added that if the Premier would care to sit in one
he could see the movement of the scene at close hand, and if he was
careful to keep behind the little silk curtain he could not be seen. The
statesman took his seat and seemed for a while to enjoy the life and
movement going on in front of him. He could hear now and again the
applause of the audience, and by peeping out through the chink behind
the curtain, see them. At last in the excitement of the scene he forgot
his situation and, hearing a more than usually vigorous burst of
applause, leaned out to get a better view of the audience. The instant
he did so he was recognised—there was no mistaking that eagle face—and
then came a quick and sudden roar that seemed to shake the building. We
could hear the “Bravo, Gladstone!” coming through the detonation of
hand-claps.
VII
One night, Wednesday, November 17, 1880, the sixty-first performance of
the play, Lord Beaconsfield came to a box with some friends. I saw him
coming up the stairs to the vestibule of the theatre. This was the only
time I ever saw him, except on the floor of the House of Commons. He was
then a good deal bent and walked feebly, leaning on the arm of his
friend. He stayed to the end of the play and I believe expressed himself
very pleased with it. His friend, “Monty” Corry—afterwards Lord Rowton—
who was with him, told Irving that it seemed to revive old memories. As
an instance, when he was coming away he asked:
“Do you think we could have supper somewhere, and ask some of the
_coryphées_ to join us, as we used to do in Paris in the fifties?”
The poor dear man little imagined how such a suggestion would have
fluttered the theatrical dovecote. These _coryphées_, minor parts of
course in the play, were supposed to be very “fast” young persons, and
the difficulty of getting them properly played seemed for a long time
insurmountable. The young ladies to whom the parts were allotted were
all charming-looking young ladies of naturally bright appearance and
manner. But they would _not_ act as was required of them. One and all
they seemed to set their faces against the histrionic levity demanded of
them. It almost seemed that they felt that their personal characters
were at stake. Did they act with their usual charm and brightness and
nerve somebody _might_ to their detriment mix up the real and the
simulated characters. The result was that never in the history of
choregraphic art was there so fine an example of the natural demureness
of the _corps de ballet_. They would have set an example to a
Confirmation class.
VIII
For the tableau curtain in _The Corsican Brothers_, Irving had had
manufactured perhaps the most magnificent curtains of the kind ever
seen. They were of fine crimson silk-velvet and took more than a
thousand yards of stuff. The width and height of the Lyceum proscenium
were so great that the curtains had to be fastened all over on canvas,
fortified with strong webbing where the drag of movement came. Otherwise
the velvet would with the vast weight have torn like paper. They were
drawn back and up at the same time, so as to leave the full stage
visible, whilst picturesquely draping the opening. Material, colour and
form of these curtains—which were a full fifty per cent. wider than the
opening which they covered—brought both honour and much profit to the
manufacturers, who received many orders for repetitions on a smaller
scale. When John Hollingshead burlesqued _The Corsican Brothers_ at the
Gaiety Theatre this curtain was made a feature. It was represented by an
enormous flimsy patchwork quilt which tumbled down all at once in the
form of a tight-drawn curtain covering the whole proscenium arch.
In this burlesque too there was a notable incident when E. W. Royce—an
actor with the power and skill of an acrobat—who personated Irving,
walked up a staircase in _one step_.
IX
Another feature was the “double.” In a play where one actor plays two
parts there is usually at least one time when the two have to be seen
together. For this a double has to be provided. In _The Corsican
Brothers_, where one of the two _sees the other seeing his brother_,
more than one double is required. At the Lyceum, Irving’s chief double
was the late Arthur Matthison, who though a much smaller man than Irving
resembled him faintly in his facial aspect. He had a firm belief that he
_was_ Irving’s double and that no one could tell them apart. This belief
was a source of endless jokes. There was hardly a person in the theatre
who did not at one time or another take part in one. It was a
never-ending amusement to Irving to watch and even to foment such jokes.
Even Irving’s sons, then little children, having been carefully coached,
used to go up to him and take his hand and call him “Papa.” On the
Gaiety stage they had about twenty doubles of all sizes and conditions—
giants, dwarfs, skinny, fat—of all kinds. At the end of the scene they
took a call—all together. It was certainly very funny.
One more funny matter there was in the doing of the play. The supper
party at Baron Montgiron’s house was supposed to be a very “toney”
affair, the male guests being the _crême de la crême_ of Parisian
society, the ladies being of the _demi-monde_; all of both classes being
persons to whom a “square” meal was no rarity. As, however, the majority
of the guests were “extras” or “supers” it was hard to curb their zeal
in matters of alimentation. When the servants used to throw open the
doors of the supper-room and announce “_Monsieur est servi!_” they would
make one wild rush and surround the table like hyenas. For their
delectation bread and sponge-cake—media which lend themselves to
sculptural efforts—and _gâteaux_ of alluring aspect were provided. The
champagne flowed in profusion—indeed in such profusion and of so
realistic an appearance that all over the house the opera-glasses used
to be levelled and speculations as to the brand and _cuvée_ arose, and a
rumour went round the press that the nightly wine bill was of colossal
dimensions. In reality the champagne provided was lemonade put up
specially in champagne bottles and foiled with exactness. It certainly
_looked_ like champagne and foamed out as the corks popped. The orgy
grew nightly in violence till at the end of a couple of weeks the
noblesse of France manifested a hunger and thirst libellous to the
Faubourg St. Germain. Irving pondered over the matter, and one day gave
orders that special food should be provided, wrought partly of
plaster-o’-Paris and partly of _papier-mâché_. He told the Property
Master to keep the matter secret. There was hardly any need for the
admonition. In a theatre a joke is a very sacred thing, and there is no
one from highest to lowest that will not go out of his way to further
it. That night, when the emaciated noblesse of France dashed at their
quarry, one and all received a sudden check. There were many
unintentional ejaculations of surprise and disappointment from the
guests, and much suppressed laughter from the stage hands who were by
this time all in the secret and watching from the wings.
After that night there was a notable improvement in the table manners of
the guests. One and all they took their food leisurely and examined it
critically. And so the succulent sponge-cake in due time reappeared;
there was no need for a second lesson against greed.
XVI
THE VALUE OF EXPERIMENT
I
In 1883 the Prince of Wales was very much interested in the creation and
organisation of the new College of Music, and as funds had to be
forthcoming very general efforts were made by the many who loved music
and who loved the Prince. On one occasion the Prince hinted to Irving
that it would show the interest of another and allied branch of art in
the undertaking if the dramatic artists would give a benefit for the new
College. He even suggested that _Robert Macaire_ would do excellently
for the occasion and could have an “all-star” cast. Irving was delighted
and got together a committee of actors to arrange the matter. By a
process of natural selection Irving and Toole were appointed to Macaire
and Jacques Strop.
The Prince and Princess of Wales attended at the performance. The house
was packed from floor to ceiling, and the result to the College of Music
was £1002 8_s._ 6_d._—the entire receipts, Irving himself having paid
all the expenses.
An odd mistake was made by Irving later on with regard to this affair.
In the first year of its working, when the class for dramatic study was
organised, he was asked by the directorate to examine. This he was of
course very pleased to do. In due season he made his examination and
sent in his report. Then in sequence came a letter of thanks for his
services. It was, though quite formal, a most genial and friendly
letter, and to the signature was appended “Chairman.” In acknowledging
it to Sir George Grove, the Director of the College, Irving said what a
pleasure it had been to him to examine and how pleased he would be at
all times to hold his services at the disposal of the College and so
forth. He added by way of postscript:
“By the way, who is our genial friend, Mr. Edward? I do not think I have
met him!”
He got a horrified letter sent by messenger from Sir George explaining
that the signature was that of “Albert Edward”—now His Most Gracious
Majesty Edward VII., R. et I. In his modest estimate of his own worth
Irving had not even thought that the Prince of Wales would himself
write. But the gracious act was like all the kindness and sweet courtesy
which both as Prince and King he always extended to his loyal subject
the player—Henry Irving.
II
_Faust_ was produced on December 19, 1885. It ran till the end of that
season, the tenth of Irving’s management; the whole of the next season,
except a few odd nights; again the latter part of the short season of
1888; and for a fourth time in the season of 1894. The production was
burned with the other plays in storage in 1898, but the play was
reproduced again in 1902.
Altogether it was performed in London five hundred and seventy-seven
times: in the provinces one hundred and twenty-eight times; and in
America eighty-seven times—in all seven hundred and ninety-two times—to
a total amount of receipts of over a quarter of a million pounds
sterling.
Irving had a profound belief in _Faust_ as a “drawing” play. He was so
sure of it that he would not allow of its being presented until it was
in his estimation ready for the public to see. This scrupulosity was a
trait in his artistic character, and therefore noticeable in his
management. When he had been with Miss Herbert at the St. James’s
Theatre he was cast for the part of Ferment in _The School of Reform_ at
short notice; he insisted on delaying the piece for three days as he
would not play without proper rehearsal. This he told me himself one
night when we were supping together at the theatre, December 7, 1880. As
_Faust_ was an exceedingly heavy production there was much opportunity
for delay. It had been Irving’s intention to produce the play very early
in the season which opened on September 5, but as the new play grew into
shape he found need for more and more care. Many of the effects were
experimental and had to be tested; and all this caused delay. As an
instance of how scientific progress can be marked even on the stage, the
use of electricity might be given. The fight between Faust and
Valentine—with Mephistopheles in his supposed invisible quality
interfering—was the first time when electric flashes were used in a
play. This effect was arranged by Colonel Gouraud, Edison’s partner, who
kindly interested himself in the matter. Twenty years ago electric
energy, in its playful aspect, was in its infancy; and the way in which
the electricity was carried so as to produce the full effects without
the possibility of danger to the combatants was then considered very
ingenious. Two iron plates were screwed upon the stage at a given
distance so that at the time of the fighting each of the swordsmen would
have his right boot on one of the plates, which represented an end of
the interrupted current. A wire was passed up the clothing of each from
the shoe to the outside of the indiarubber glove, in the palm of which
was a piece of steel. Thus when each held his sword a flash came
whenever the swords crossed.
The arrangement of the fire which burst from the table and from the
ground at command of Mephistopheles required very careful arrangement so
as to ensure accuracy at each repetition and be at the same time free
from the possibility of danger. Altogether the effects of light and
flame in _Faust_ are of necessity somewhat startling and require the
greatest care. The stage and the methods of producing flame of such
rapidity of growth and exhaustion as to render it safe to use are well
known to property masters. By powdered resin, properly and carefully
used, or by lycopodium great effects can be achieved.
There was also another difficulty to be overcome. Steam and mist are
elements of the weird and supernatural effects of an eerie play. Steam
can be produced in any quantity, given the proper appliances. But these
need care and attention, and on a stage, and below and above it, space
is so limited that it is necessary to keep the tally of hands as low as
possible. In the years that have elapsed, inspecting authorities have
become extra careful with regard to such appliances; nowadays they
require that even the steam kettle be kept outside the cartilage of the
building.
In addition to all these things—perhaps partly on account of them—the
stage manager became ill and Irving had to superintend much of the doing
of things himself. The piece we were then running, _Olivia_, however,
was comparatively light work for Irving, and as it was doing really fine
business the time could partially be spared. I say “partially,” because
prolonged rehearsals mean a fearful addition to expense, and when
rehearsals come after another play has been given the expense mounts up
in arithmetical progression. For instance, the working day of a stage
hand is eight working hours. If he be employed for longer, the next four
hours is counted as a day, and the two hours beyond that again as a
third day. All this time the real work done by the stage hands is very
little. Whilst actors or supers or ballet or chorus, or some or all of
them, are being rehearsed the men have to stand idle most of the time.
Moreover they are now and again idle _inter se_. Stage work is divided
into departments, and for each division are masters, each controlling
his own set of men. There is the Master Machinist—commonly called Master
Carpenter—the Property Master, the Gas Engineer, the Electric Engineer,
the Limelight Master. In certain ways the work of these departments
impinge on each other in a way to puzzle an outsider. Thus, when a stage
has to be covered it is the work of one set of men or the other, but not
of both. Anything in the nature of a painted cloth, such as tessellated
flooring, is scenery, and therefore the work of the carpenters; but a
carpet is a “property,” and as such to be laid down by the property
staff. A gas light or an electric light is to be arranged by the
engineer of that cult, whilst an oil lamp or a candle belongs to
properties. The traditional laws which govern these things are deep
seated in trade rights and customs, and are grave matters to interfere
with. In the production of _Faust_ much of the scenery was what is
called “built out”; that is, there are many individual pieces—each a
completed and separate item, such as a wall, a house, steps, &c. So that
in this particular play the property department had a great deal to do
with the working of what might be broadly considered scenery.
When Irving was about to do the play he made a trip to Nuremberg to see
for himself what would be most picturesque as well as suitable. When he
had seen Nuremberg and that wonderful old town near it, Rothenburg,
which was even better suited to his purpose, he sent for Hawes Craven.
That the latter benefited by his experience was shown in the wonderful
scenes which he painted for _Faust_. He seemed to give the very essence
of the place.
III