Lyceum to see _Faust_, I was much struck by the way he spoke of the
great city of the Guttenbergs and Hans Sachs. He had come alone, quite
informally, from Windsor, where he was staying with Queen Victoria. As
he modestly put it in his own way when speaking to me? “The Queen was
gracious enough to let me come!” He was delighted and almost fascinated
with the play and its production and acting. I had good opportunity of
hearing his views. It was of course my duty to wait upon him, as
ceremonial custom demanded, between the acts. In each “wait” he went
into the Royal room to smoke his cigarette, and on each occasion was
gracious enough to ask me to join him. Several times he spoke of
Nuremberg with love and delight, and it seemed as if the faithful and
picturesque reproduction of it had warmed his heart. Once he said:
“I love Nuremberg. Indeed I always ask the Emperor to let me have the
autumn manœuvres in such a place that I can stay there during part of
the time they last!”
IV
As a good instance of how on the stage things may change on trial I
think we may take the last scene of _Faust_—that where the scene of
Margaret’s prison fades away—after the exit of Faust in answer to the
imperious summons of Mephistopheles: “Hither to me.” Then comes the
vision of Margaret’s lying dead at the foot of the Cross with a long
line of descending angels. For this tableau a magnificent and elaborate
scene had been prepared by William Telbin—a rainbow scene suggestive of
Hope and Heavenly beauty. In it had been employed the whole resources of
scenic art. Indeed a new idea and mechanism had been used. The edges of
the great rainbow which circled the scene were made of a series of
stuffs so fine as to be actually almost invisible, beginning with linen,
then skrim, and finally ending up with a tissue like gold-beaters’ skin;
all these substances painted or stained with the colours of the prism in
due order. I believe Telbin would have put in the “extra violet ray” if
it had been then common property.
When, however, the scene was set, which was on the night before the
presentation of the play, Irving seemed to be dissatisfied with it. Not
with its beauty or its mechanism; but somehow it seemed to him to lack
simplicity. Still he waited till it was lit in all possible ways before
giving it over. The lighting of scenes was always Irving’s special
province; later on I shall have something to say about it. To do it
properly and create the best effect he spared neither time nor pains.
Many and many and many a night did we sit for four or five hours, when
the play of the night had been put aside and the new scene made ready,
experimenting.
On this occasion Irving said suddenly:
“Strike the scene altogether, leaving only the wings!”
This was done and the “ladder” of Angels was left stark on the empty
stage. For such a vision a capable piece of machinery has to be
provided, for it has to bear the full weight of at least a dozen women
or girls. The backbone of it is a section of steel rail which is hung
from the flies with a steel rope, to this are attached the iron arms
made safe and comfortable for the angels to be strapped each in her own
“iron.” The lower end of the ladder rests on the stage and is fastened
there securely with stage screws. The angels are all fixed in their
places before the scene begins, and when the lights are turned on they
seem to float ethereally. This ladder was of course complete with its
living burden when the lighting was essayed, for as in it the centre
figures are pure white—the strongest colour known on the stage—it would
not be possible to judge of effect without it. Again Irving spoke:
“Now put down a dark blue sky border as a backing; two if necessary to
get height enough.” This was done. He went on:
“Put sapphire mediums on the limelights from both sides so as to make
the whole back cloth a dark night blue. Now turn all the white
limelights on the angels!”
Then we saw the nobly simple effect which the actor had had in his
imagination. Never was seen so complete, so subtle, so divine a vision
on the stage. It was simply perfect, and all who saw it at once began to
applaud impulsively. After a minute Irving, turning to Telbin, who stood
beside him, said:
“I think, Telbin, if you will put in some stars—proper ones you know—in
the back cloth when you have primed it—it had better be of cobalt!”—a
very expensive paint by the way—“it will be all right. They can get a
cloth ready for you by morning.”
The device of the “ladder of angels” was of course an old one; it was
its suitable perfection in this instance that made it remarkable. For
this ladder it is advisable to get the prettiest and daintiest young
women and children possible, the point of honour being the apex. A year
before, during the run of _Henry VIII._, a box was occupied by a friend
of Irving’s whose three little girls were so beautiful that between the
acts the people on the stage kept peeping out at them. Then the Master
Carpenter asked Ellen Terry to look out from the prompt entrance. As she
did so he whispered to her:
“Oh, miss! Wouldn’t that middle one make a lovely ‘top angel’!”
Even children as well as grown-ups have their vanities. It became a
nightly duty of the Wardrobe Mistress to inspect the “ladder” when
arranged. She had to make each of the angels in turn show their hands so
that they should not wear the little rings to which they were prone.
V
The educational effect of _Faust_ was very great. Every edition of the
play in England was soon sold out. Important heavy volumes, such as
Anster’s, which had grown dusty on the publisher’s shelves were cleared
off in no time. New editions were published and could hardly be printed
quick enough. We knew of more than a hundred thousand copies of Goethe’s
dramatic poem being sold in the first season of its run.
One night early in the run of the play there was a mishap which might
have been very serious indeed. In the scene where Mephistopheles takes
Faust away with him after the latter had signed the contract, the two
ascended a rising slope. On this particular occasion the machinery took
Irving’s clothing and lifted him up a little. He narrowly escaped
falling into the cellar through the open trap—a fall of some fifteen
feet on to a concrete floor.
VI
When we played _Faust_ in America, it was curious to note the different
reception accorded to it undoubtedly arising from traditional belief.
In Boston, where the old puritanical belief of a real devil still holds,
we took in one evening four thousand eight hundred and fifty-two
dollars—more than a thousand pounds—the largest dramatic house up to
then known in America. Strangely the night was that of Irving’s fiftieth
birthday. For the rest the lowest receipts out of thirteen performances
was two thousand and ten dollars. Seven were over three thousand, and
three over four thousand.
In Philadelphia, where are the descendants of the pious Quakers who
followed Penn into the wilderness, the average receipts were even
greater. Indeed at the _matinée_ on Saturday, the crowd was so vast that
the doors were carried by storm. All the seats had been sold, but in
America it was usual to sell admissions to stand at one dollar each. The
crowd of “standees,” almost entirely women, began to assemble whilst the
treasurer, who in an American theatre sells the tickets, was at his
dinner. His assistant, being without definite instructions, went on
selling till the whole seven hundred left with him were exhausted. It
was vain to try to stem the rush of these enthusiastic ladies. They
carried the outer door and the checktaker with it; and broke down by
sheer weight of numbers the great inner doors of heavy mahogany and
glass standing some eight feet high. It was impossible for the
seat-holders to get in till a whole posse of police appeared on the
scene and cleared them all out, only readmitting them when the seats had
been filled.
But in Chicago, which as a city neither fears the devil nor troubles its
head about him or all his works, the receipts were not much more than
half the other places. Not nearly so good as for the other plays of the
_répertoire_ presented.
In New York the business with the play was steady and enormous. New York
was founded by the Bible-loving righteous-living Dutch.
XVII
THE PULSE OF THE PUBLIC
I
In 1882 Irving purchased from Herman Merivale the entire acting rights
in his play _Edgar and Lucy_, founded on Scott’s novel _The Bride of
Lammermoor_; but it was not till eight years later that he was able to
produce it.
This delay is a fair instance of the difficulties and intricacies of
theatrical management. So many things have to be considered in the high
policy of the undertaking; so many accidental circumstances or
continuations of causes necessitate the deviation of intention; so many
new matters come over the horizon that from a long way ahead to
undertake to produce a play at a given time is almost always attended
with great risk.
_Ravenswood_ is a thoroughly sad, indeed lugubrious play, as any play
must be which adheres fairly to the lines of Scott’s tragic novel. By
the way this novel was written at Rokeby, the home of the Morritt
family, in Yorkshire. The members of that family tell a strange
circumstance relating to it. Sir Walter Scott was a close friend of the
family and often stayed there; he wrote two of his novels whilst a
guest. Whilst at Rokeby on this occasion he was in very bad health; but
all the time he worked hard and wrote the novel. When he had finished he
was laid up for a while; and when he was well he could not remember any
detail at all of his story. He could hardly believe that he had written
it.
For seven years after Irving had possession of Merivale’s play he had
thought it over. He had in his own quiet way made up his mind about it,
arranging length and way of doing the play and excogitating his own part
till he had possession of it in every way. Then one evening—November 25,
1889—he broached the subject of its definite production. The note which
I find in my diary is succinct and explanatory and comprehensive:
“Theatre 7 (P.M.) till 5 (A.M.) H.I. read for Loveday and me _Edgar
and Lucy_, Merivale’s dramatisation to his order of _The Bride of
Lammermoor_. It was delightful. Play very fine. Literature noble. H.I.
had cut quite one-half out.”
I can supplement this brief note from memory. Irving read the play with
quite extraordinary effect. He had quite a gift for this sort of work. I
heard him read through a good many plays in the course of a quarter of a
century of work together and it was always enlightening. He had a way of
conveying the _cachet_ of each character by inflection or trick of voice
or manner; and his face was always, consciously or unconsciously,
expressive. So long before as 1859, when he had read _The Lady of Lyons_
at Crosby Hall, the _Daily Telegraph_ had praised, amongst other
matters, his versatility in this respect. I have heard him read in
public in a large hall both _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_, and his
characterisation was so marked that after he had read the entries of the
various characters he did not require to refer to them again by name. On
this occasion he seemed familiar with every character, and, I doubt not,
could have played any of them, so far as his equipment fitted him for
the work, within a short time. Naturally the most effective part was
that of Edgar of Ravenswood. Not only is it the most prominent part in
the cast, but it was that which he was to play himself, and to which he
had given most special attention. In it he brought out all the note of
destiny which rules in both novel and play. Manifestly Edgar is a man
foredoomed, but not till the note of doom is sounded in the weird and
deathly utterances of Ailsie Gourlay could one tell that all must end
awfully. Throughout, the tragic note was paramount. Well Edgar knew it;
the gloom that wrapped him even in the moment of triumphant love was a
birth-gift. As Irving read it that night, and as he acted it afterwards,
there was throughout an infinite and touching pathos. But not this
character alone, but all the rest were given with great and convincing
power. The very excellence of the rendering made each to help the other;
variety and juxtaposition brought the full effect. The prophecies,
because of their multiplication, became of added import on Edgar’s
gloom, and toned the high spirit of Hayston of Bucklaw. Lucy’s sweetness
was intensified by the harsh domination of Lady Ashton. The sufferings
of the faithful Caleb under the lash of Ailsie’s prophecy only increased
its force.
We who listened were delighted. For myself I seemed to see the play a
great success and one to be accomplished at little cost. We had now,
since 1885, produced in succession three great plays, _Faust_,
_Macbeth_, and _The Dead Heart_, and had in contemplation another,
_Henry VIII._, which would exceed them all in possibilities of expense
both of production and of working. These great plays were and always
must be hugely expensive. As I was chancellor of the exchequer I was
greatly delighted to see a chance of great success combined with a
reasonable cost and modest accessories. From the quiet effectiveness of
Irving’s reading I was satisfied that the play would hold good under the
less grand conditions. This opinion I still hold. I must not, however,
be taken as finding fault with Irving’s view, which was quite otherwise.
He looked on the play as one needing all the help it could get; and I am
bound to say that his views were justified by success, for the play as
he did it was an enormous success. The production account was not large
in comparison with that of some other great plays, being a little under
five thousand pounds. There were no author’s fees, as the play had long
ago been bought outright and paid for, so that expense had been incurred
and was chargeable against estate whether the play was produced or not.
But the running expenses were very heavy, between £180 and £200 a
performance. As it was, the play was a heavy one for Ellen Terry; she
could only play in it six times a week. To the management there is
always an added advantage in a _matinée_ or any extra performance.
_Ravenswood_ was presented on September 20, 1890, and altogether was
given during the season one hundred and two times.
II
During its run we had a strange opportunity of experiencing the
extraordinary way in which a play fluctuates with the public pulse. From
the first night it was a great success, and the booking became so great
that we were obliged to enlarge the time for the advance purchase of
seats. Our usual time was four weeks, and as a working rule it was found
well to keep to this. Where booking is not under great pressure, too
long a time means extra particularity in choice of seats, and a _de
facto_ curtailment of receipts. For _Ravenswood_ we had to advance,
first one week and then a second; so that about the end of the first
month we were booking six weeks ahead. I may say that we were _booked_
that long, for as each day’s advance sheet was opened it became quickly
filled. The agents, too, were hard at work and we were not able to allot
to any of them the full number of seats for which they asked. I have a
special reason for mentioning this, as will appear. Now at the Lyceum
from the time of my taking charge of the business we did not ever
“pencil” to agents—that is, we did not let them have seats after the
customary fashion “on sale or return.” We had, be sure, good reason for
this. Whatever seats they had they took at their own risk by week or
month, in a sort of running agreement terminable at fixed notice. When
we arrived at the fiftieth performance the play was going as strong as
ever, the receipts being on or about two thousand pounds per week.
Towards the end of the year, theatre receipts generally began to drop a
little; Christmas is coming, and many things occupy family attention;
the autumn visitors have all departed; and the fogs of November are bad
for business. We did not, therefore, give it a second thought that the
door receipts got a little less, for all the bookable seats were already
secure. On Thursday, November 20, I had an experience which set me
thinking. During that day I had visits from three of the theatre agents
having businesses in the West End and the City. They came separately and
with an unwonted secrecy. Each wished to see me alone, and being secured
from interruption, stated the reason. Each had the same request and
spoke in almost identical terms, so that the conversation of one will
illustrate all. The first one asked me:
“Will you tell me frankly—if you don’t mind—are you really doing good
business with _Ravenswood_?”
“Certainly,” I answered. “All we can do. Why you know that we can only
let you have for six weeks ahead a part of the seats you have asked for.
After some odd nervousness he said again:
“I suppose I may take it that that applies to every one you deal with? I
know I can trust you, for you always treat me frankly; and this is a
matter I am exceedingly anxious about.” For answer I rang the bell for
the commissionaire in waiting on the office and sent him round to the
box-office to bring me the booking sheets for six weeks ahead. These I
duly placed before the agent—Librarian they called them in those days,
as they were the survivors of the old lending libraries who used to
secure theatre tickets for their customers.
“See for yourself!” I said; and he turned over the sheets, every seat on
which was marked as sold.
“It is very extraordinary!” he said after a pause. By this time my own
curiosity was piqued and I asked him to tell me what it all meant.
“It means this,” he said. “Things can’t go on at this rate. We have not
sold a single ticket this week for any theatre in London!”
I opened a drawer and took out what we called the “Ushers’ Returns” for
each night that week. We used to have, as means of checking the receipts
of the house in addition to the tickets, a set of returns made by the
ushers. Each usher had a sectional chart of the seats under his charge,
and he had to show which was occupied during the evening, and which, if
any, were unoccupied. I had not gone over these as all the seats having
been sold it did not much matter to us whether they were occupied or
not. To my surprise I found that on each night, growing as the week went
on, were quite a number of seats unoccupied. On reference to the full
plan I found that most of these were seats sold to the libraries, but
that a good proportion of them had been booked at our own office.
Neither of us could account for such a thing in any way. When the next,
and then the third agent came there was a strong sense over me that
_something_ was happening in the great world. As a rule when there is
pressure in a theatre the seats belonging to agents remaining unsold can
always be disposed of in the theatre box office.
That night Irving had a little supper party of intimate friends in the
Beefsteak Room; amongst them one man, Major Ricarde-Seaver, well skilled
in the world of _haute finance_. In the course of conversation I asked
him:
“What is up? There is something going to happen! What is it?” He asked
me why I thought so, and I told him.
“That is certainly strange!” was his comment. “Then you don’t know?”
“Know what?” I asked. “What is going to happen?” His answer came after a
pause.
“You will know soon. Possibly to-morrow; certainly the next day!” The
mystery was thickening. Again I asked:
“What is it?” The answer came with a shock:
“Baring’s! They’ve gone under!”
Now any one of a speculative tendency in London, or out of it, could
have that day made a fortune by selling “bears”—and there is no lack of
sportsmen willing to make money on a “sure thing.” And yet for three
days at least there must have been in business circles some uneasiness
of so pronounced a character that it for the time obliterated social
life with many people. Had they knowledge where the public pulse lay,
and how to time its beats, they might have plucked fortune from
disaster.
In the Lyceum we became wide awake to the situation. In a time of panic
and disaster there is no need for mimetic tragedy; the real thing crowds
it out. The very next day we arranged to change the bill on the earliest
day possible. As we were booked for six weeks we arranged to change the
tragic _Ravenswood_ for _Much Ado About Nothing_—the brightest and
cheeriest comedy in our _répertoire_—on Monday, January 3.
This we did with excellent result. From the day of the failure of
Baring’s the receipts began to dwindle. The nightly return dropped from
three hundred pounds odd to two hundred pounds odd, and finally to one
hundred pounds odd. With the change to Comedy they jumped up again at
once to the tune of an extra hundred pounds a performance.
Except for some performances in the provinces in the autumn that was the
last of _Ravenswood_. There was never a chance for its revival, though
from that we might have expected much; it was burned in the fire at our
storage in 1898—of which more anon.
III
_Nance Oldfield_, as Ellen Terry plays it, is the concentration of a
five-act comedy into one act and one scene. It is a play that allows an
adequate opportunity of the gifts of the great actress. For Ellen
Terry’s gifts are of so wide a range that the mere variety of them is in
itself a gift; and the congruity of them in such a play allows them to
help each other and each to shine out all the stronger for the contrast.
Ellen Terry had long had in her mind Reade’s play as one to be given in
a single act. And now that its opportunity came over the horizon she
began to prepare it. This she did herself, I having the honour of
assisting her. That preparation was a fine lesson in dramatic
construction. Ellen Terry has not only a divine instinct for the truth
in stage art, but she is a conscious artist to her finger-tips. No one
on the stage in our time—or at any other time—has seen more clearly the
direct force of sympathy and understanding between the actor and the
audience; but at the same time she was not herself an experienced
dramatist. She knew in a general way what it was that was wanting and
what she aimed at, but she could not always give it words. During
rehearsal or during the play she would in a pause of her own stage work
come dancing into my office to ask for help. Ellen Terry’s movements,
when she was not playing a sad part, always gave one the idea of a
graceful dance. Looking back now to twenty-seven years of artistic
companionship and eternal community of ideas, I cannot realise that she
did not always actually dance. She would point to some mark which she
had made in the altered script and say:
“I want two lines there, please!”
“What kind of lines? What about?” I would ask. She would laugh as she
answered.
“I don’t know. I haven’t the least idea. You must write them!” When she
would dance back again I would read her the lines. She would laugh again
and say:
“All wrong. Absolutely wrong. They are too serious,” or “they are too
light; I should like something to convey the idea of——” and she would in
some subtle way—just as Irving did—convey the sentiment, or purpose, or
emotion which she wished conveyed. She would know without my saying it
when I had got hold of the idea and would rush off to her work quite
satisfied. And so the little play would grow and then be cut again and
grow again; till at last it was nearly complete. This last bit of it
puzzled us both for a long time. At last she conveyed her idea to me
that Alexander must not be left with a serious personal passion for Mrs.
Oldfield and that yet she should not sink in his esteem. Finally I wrote
a line which had the reward of her approbation. The actress was
explaining to Mr. Alworthy how his son did not really love her:
“It was the actress he loved and not the woman!”
In this little play, which is typical of her marvellous range of varied
excellences, she runs the whole gamut of human emotion. The part where
the great actress, wishing to disenchant her boy lover, exemplifies her
art and then turns it into ridicule, could not be adequately played by
any one not great in both tragedy and comedy. Her rendering here of
Juliet’s great speech before taking the potion: “My dismal scene I needs
must act alone,” is given with the full tragic force with which she
played the real part—when she swept the whole audience—and yet, without
the delay of a second she says to the emotional poet: “Now, that’s worth
one and ninepence to me!” It is such moments as these that put an actor
into history. Records are not troubled with mere excellence.