Ellen Terry in a play she is to appear in—of a part she is to act.
XVIII
TENNYSON AND HIS PLAYS—I
I
Irving had been a friend of Tennyson before I had first met him in 1876.
When during the Bateman rule _Queen Mary_ had been produced, he had
naturally much to do with the author, and the friendship thus begun
lasted during the poet’s life. In my own young days Tennyson was a name
of something more than reverence. Not only was his work on our
tongue-tips, but the extraordinary isolation of his personal life threw
a halo of mystery over him. It is a strange thing how few of the people
of his own time—and all through his long life of such amazing worth and
popularity, had ever seen him. Naturally a man who knew him was envied
if only from this source alone. Whenever we met in early days Irving,
knowing my love and reverence for the poet, used to talk about him—
always with admiration. More than once when speaking of his personality
as distinguished from his work he said:
“Tennyson is like a great Newfoundland dog. He is like an incarnate
truth. A great creature!”
From some persons comparison with a dog might not have seemed flattery,
but to Irving a dog was the embodiment of all the virtues. Often and
often he compared the abstract dog to the abstract man, very much to the
detriment of the latter. And certainly Tennyson had all that noble
simplicity which is hard to find in sophisticated man—that simplicity
which lies in the wide field of demarcation between naked brutal truth
and an unconsciousness of self. That simplicity it is which puts man on
an altitude where lesser as well as greater natures respect him. To him
truth was a simple thing; it was to be exact. Irving told me of an
incident illustrating this. He had heard a story that not long before
Tennyson had been lunching with friends of his in his own neighbourhood
not far from Haslemere. His hostess, who was a most gracious and
charming woman whom later I had the honour to know, said to him as they
went into the dining-room:
“I have made a dish specially for you myself; I hope you will try it and
tell me exactly what you think of it.”
“Of course I shall,” he answered. After lunch she asked him what he
thought of it and he said:
“If you really wish to know, I thought it was like an old shoe!”
When they met, Irving asked him if the story were true.
“No!” he answered at once, “I didn’t say that. I said something; but it
wasn’t that it was like an old shoe!”
“What did you say?”
“I said it was like an old boot!”
With him ethical truth was not enough; exactness was a part of the
whole. I had myself an instance of his mental craving for truth on the
very last day I saw him.
Irving had a wonderful knowledge of character. I have never in my own
experience known him to err in this respect; though many and many a time
has he acted as though he trusted when he knew right well that a basis
was wanting. This was of the generosity of his nature; but be it never
so great, generosity could not obscure his reason. This was shown, even
at the time, by the bounds set to his trust; he never trusted beyond
recall, or to an amount of serious import. He had, in the course of a
lifetime spent in the exercise of his craft, which was to know men from
within, given too much thought to it not to be able from internal
knowledge to fathom the motives of others. In philosophy analysis
precedes synthesis. On one occasion there was a man with whom we had
some business dealings and who, to say the least of it, did not impress
any of us favourably. Irving was very outspoken about him, so much so
that I remonstrated, fearing lest he might let himself in for an action
for libel. I also put it that we had not sufficient data before us to
justify so harsh a view. Irving listened to me patiently and then said:
“My dear fellow, that man is a crook. I _know_ it. I have studied too
many villains not to understand!”
In another matter also Tennyson had the quality of a well-bred dog: he
was a fighter. I do not mean that he was quarrelsome or that he ever
even fought in any form. I simply mean that he had the quality of
fighting—quite a different thing from determination. In a whole group of
men of his own time Tennyson would have, to any physiognomist, stood as
a fighter. A glance at his mouth would at once enlighten any one who had
the “seeing eye.” In the group might be placed a good many men, each
prominent in his own way, and some of whom might not _primâ facie_ be
suspected of the quality. In the group, all of whom I have known or met,
might be placed Archbishop Temple, John Bright, Gladstone, Sir Richard
Burton, Sir Henry Stanley, Lord Beaconsfield, Jules Bastien Lepage,
Henry Ward Beecher, Professor Blackie, Walt Whitman, Edmund Yates. I
have selected a few from the many, leaving out altogether all classes of
warriors in whom the fighting quality might be expected.
Tennyson had at times that lifting of the upper lip which shows the
canine tooth, and which is so marked an indication of militant instinct.
Of all the men I have met the one who had this indication most marked
was Sir Richard Burton. Tennyson’s, though notable, was not nearly so
marked.
Amongst other things which Irving told me of Tennyson in those early
days was regarding the author’s own ideas of casting _Queen Mary_. He
wanted Irving to play Cardinal Pole, a part not in the play at all as
acted. One night years afterwards, January 25, 1893,, at supper in the
Garrick Club with Toole and two others, he told us the same thing. I
think the circumstance was recalled to him by the necessary excision of
another character in _Becket_.
It was my good fortune to meet Tennyson personally soon after my coming
to live in London. On the night of March 20, 1879, he being then in
London for a short stay, he came to the Lyceum to see _Hamlet_. It was
the sixty-ninth night of the run. James Knowles was with him and
introduced me. After the third act they both came round to Irving’s
dressing-room. In the course of our conversation when I saw him again at
the end of the play he said to me:
“I did not think Irving could have improved his Hamlet of five years
ago; but now he has improved it five degrees, and those five degrees
have lifted it to heaven!”
Small wonder that I was proud to hear such an opinion from such a
source.
I remember also another thing he said:
“I am seventy, and yet I don’t feel old—I wonder how it is!” I quoted as
a reason his own lines from the _Golden Year_:
“Unto him that works, and feels he works,
The same grand year is ever at the doors.”
He seemed mightily pleased and said:
“Good!”
After this meeting I had a good many opportunities of seeing Tennyson
again. Whenever he made a trip for a few days to London it was usually
my good fortune to meet him and Lady Tennyson. My wife and I lunched
with them; and their sons, Hallam and Lionel, spent Sunday evenings in
our house in Cheyne Walk. Meeting with Tennyson and his family has given
us many many happy hours in our lives, and I had the pleasure of being
the guest of the great poet both at Farringford and Aldworth. I am proud
to be able to call the present Lord Tennyson my friend. My wife and I
were lunching with the Tennysons during their stay in London when the
first copy arrived from Hubert Herkomer—now Von Herkomer—R.A., of his
fine portrait etching of the Poet Laureate. It is an excellent portrait;
but there is a look in the eye which did not altogether please the
subject.
II
Just before the end of the season 1879–80, Irving completed with
Tennyson an agreement to play _The Cup_. This play, which he had not
long before finished, he had offered to Irving. It had not yet been seen
by any one, and he was willing that it should not be published till
after it had been played. The play required some small alterations for
stage purposes—little things cut out here and there, and a few
explanatory words inserted at other places. Tennyson assented without
demur to any change suggested. As it has been said that Tennyson was
absolutely set as to not altering a line for the stage, let me say here,
after an experience of his two most successful plays that any such
statement was absurd. Of course he was careful of his rights. Every one
ought to be careful in such a matter, and to him there was special need.
His manuscript was so valuable that it was never safe; and in other ways
he had to be suspicious. Years afterwards he told me that one of his
poems had been sold by a critic in America with errors in it which had
been corrected.
“I hate the creature! He said he was owner of the proof!”
Perhaps it was for this reason he was so careful when a play was being
printed for stage use. He always wished his own copy returned with the
proof.
In his agreements he had a clause that the licensee should not without
his consent make any alteration in the play. This was absolutely right
and wise; it is the protection of the author. The time for arranging
changes is _before_ the agreement; then both parties to the contract
know what they are doing. In no case did Tennyson hesitate to give
Irving permission to make changes. Like the good workman that he was, he
was only too anxious to have his work at its best and highest
suitability.
Tennyson had in him all the elements of a great dramatist; but unhappily
he had little if any technical knowledge of the stage. Each art and each
branch of art has its own technique. Though a play, like any other poem,
has its birth, the means of its expression is different. A poem for
reading conveys thoughts by words alone. A poem for the stage requires
suitable opportunity for action and movement—both of individuals and
numbers. Sound and light and scene; music, colour and form; the
vibration of passion, the winning sweetness of tremulous desire, and the
overwhelming obliteration that follows in the wake of fear have all
their purpose and effect on the stage. Inasmuch as on the one hand there
is only thought, whilst on the other there is a superadded mechanism,
the two fields of poetry may be fairly taken to deal in different media.
In his later years when Tennyson began to realise in his own work the
power of glamour and stress and difficulty of the stage, he was willing
to enlist into his service the skill and experience of others. Had he
begun practical play-writing younger, or had he had any kind of
apprenticeship to or experience of stage use, he would have been a great
dramatist.
In the draft agreement was an interesting clause which Mr. (afterwards
Sir) Arnold White, Tennyson’s solicitor, and I worked out very
carefully, having regard to the rights of both parties. This was
concerning the definition of the “first run” of a play. We were quite at
one in intention and only wished to make the purpose textually correct.
Finally we made it to read as thus:
“... first run of the said play (that is to say) during such time as the
said play shall remain in the Bills of the Theatre where it is first
produced announcing its continuance either nightly or at fixed periods
without a break in such announcements.”
III
Irving was determined to do all in his power to put _The Cup_ worthily
on the stage. Accordingly much study and research in the matter began.
Galatia has ceased to exist on the map, and the period of the play is
semi-mythical. The tragedy stands midway between East and West; at a
period when the belief in the old gods was a vital force. For the work
which Tennyson and Irving undertook, learning and experience lent their
aid. James Knowles reconstructed a Temple of Artemis on the ground plan
of the great Temple of Diana. The late Alexander Murray, then Assistant
Keeper—afterwards Keeper—of the Greek section of the British Museum,
made researches amongst the older Etruscan designs. Capable artists made
drawings from vases, which were reproduced on the great amphoræ used in
the Temple service. The existing base and drum of a column from Ephesus
was remodelled for use, and lent its sculptured beauty to the general
effect. William Telbin painted some scenes worthy of Turner; and Hawes
Craven and Cuthbert made such an interior scene of the Great Temple as
was surely never seen on any stage.
By the way, regarding this there was another experience of
super-criticism. In judging the scene, and with considerable admiration
_The Architect_, I think, found fault with the proportions of the
columns supporting the Temple roof. They should have been of so many
diameters more than were given. The critic quite overlooked the
difficulty—in extremes the impossibility—of adhering to fact in fiction.
For the mechanism of the stage and for purposes of lighting it is
necessary that every stage interior have a roof of some sort. Now in
this case there was a dilemma. If the columns were of exact proportion
they would have looked skimpy in that vast edifice; and the general
architecture would have been blamed instead of the detail. As it was the
stage perspective allowed of the massive columns close to the proscenium
appearing to tower aloft in unimaginable strength, and at once conveyed
the spirit of the scene. Just as the colossal figure of Artemis far up
the stage—an image of fierce majesty wrought in green bronze—was
intended to impress all with the relentless power of the goddess.
But it was to Irving that the scene owed most of its beauty and
grandeur. Hitherto, in all pagan ceremonials on the stage—and, indeed,
in art generally—priestesses and votaries were clothed in white. But he,
not finding that there was any authority for the belief, used colours
and embroideries—Indian, Persian, Greek—all that might add conviction
and picturesque effect. Something like a hundred beautiful young women
were chosen for Vestals; and as the number of persons already employed
in _The Corsican Brothers_ was very great, the stage force available for
scenic display was immense. Irving himself devised the processions and
the ceremonies; in fact he invented a ritual. One of the strange things
about the audience all through the run of the play was the large number
of High Church clergy who attended. The effect of the entry into the
Temple of the gorgeously armoured Roman officers was peculiarly strong.
IV
It is seldom given to man, however, to achieve full perfection. When
_The Cup_ had been running for a considerable time, Dr. Alexander
Murray, whom at first we had in vain tried to persuade, came to see it.
We were all anxious to know how the Greek-Eastern effect impressed him,
and I made it a point to see him at the end of the play. When I asked
him how he liked it he said:
“Oh, I liked it well enough at first; but when the Temple scene came it
was different. At the beginning two girls came on bearing a great
amphora; but you will hardly believe me when I tell you it had red
figures on a black ground, instead of black figures on a red ground. I
need not say that after that I could enjoy nothing!”
Both forms of using the colours were practised in the history of
Etruscan art, and our people, since the time of the play was somewhat
indeterminate, used the older one.
The dress of Ellen Terry as Camma in this scene was a difficult matter.
It had for stage purposes to be one which would stand out distinct and
apart from the rest. Dress after dress was tried, stuff after stuff was
chosen; but all without satisfaction. At length, as the opening night
drew near, she began to get seriously anxious. Finally, as a last
resource, she asked me to try and find her something. I had been
peculiarly lucky in coming across just such stuffs for dresses as she
had seemed to want. Now I went off, hot-foot, and was fortunate enough
to find, through turning over a whole stock of material at Liberty’s, an
Indian tissue of a sort of loosely woven cloth of gold, the _wrong_ side
of which produced the exact effect sought for. I may here say that a
good many of the special effects on the Lyceum stage were got by using
the inside instead of the outside of stuffs. Among them was the basis of
Irving’s dress as Shylock.
_The Cup_ was produced on the evening of January 3, 1881. It was an
immense success, and was played one hundred and twenty-seven times that
season. It was burned in the great scenery fire in 1898.
Tennyson came himself to see it for the first time on February 26, 1881.
XIX
TENNYSON AND HIS PLAYS—II
I
In their conversations, after _Queen Mary_ and before _The Cup_, Irving
and Tennyson had talked of the possibility of putting on the stage some
other play of the Laureate’s. After the success of _The Cup_ had been
assured Irving was more fixed on the matter; and later on, in 1884, when
_Becket_ had been published, he considered it then and thereafter as a
possibility. He was anxious to do it if he could see his way to it. Like
Tennyson, he had a conviction that there was a play in it; but he could
not see its outline. In fact _Becket_ was not written for the stage;
and, that being so, it was for stage purposes much in the position of a
block of Carrara marble from which the statue has to be patiently hewn.
As it was first given to the world it was entirely too long for the
stage. For instance, _Hamlet_ is a play so long that it must be cut for
acting, but _Becket_ is longer still. For many reasons he was anxious to
do another play of Tennyson’s. The first had added much to his
reputation, and now the second was a huge success. He loved Tennyson—
really loved the man as well as his work—and if for this reason alone
exerted all his power to please him. Moreover as a manager he saw the
wisdom of such a move. Tennyson’s was a great name and there had been a
lot of foolish argument in journals and magazines regarding “literature”
in plays, and also concerning the national need of encouraging
contemporary dramatic literature. Rightly or wrongly the public interest
has to be considered, and Tennyson’s name was one to conjure with.
Moreover he came to depend on the picturesque possibilities of
Tennyson’s work. _The Cup_ had allowed of a splendid setting, and in
_Becket_ its picturesque aspect of the struggle between Court and Church
might be very attractive. Beyond this again there were two episodes of
the period which so belonged to the history of the nation that every
school child had them in memory: the martyrdom of Becket and the
romantic story of Fair Rosamund and her secret bower.
Irving took the main idea of the play into his heart and tried to work
it out. He kept it by him for more than a year. He took it with him to
America in the tour of 1884–5; and in the long hours of loneliness,
consequent on such work as his, made it a part of his mental labour. But
it was all without avail; he could not see his way to a successful
issue. Again he took it in hand when going to America in 1887–8; for the
conviction was still with him that the play he wanted was there, if he
could only unearth it. Again long months of effort; and again failure.
This time he practically gave up hope. He had often tried to get
Tennyson to think of other subjects, but without avail. Tennyson would
not take any subject in hand unless he felt it and could see his way to
it. Now Irving tried to interest him afresh in some of his other themes.
He wished him to undertake a play on the subject of Dante. Tennyson
considered the matter a while and then made a memorable reply:
“A fine subject! But where is the Dante to write it?”
Again Irving asked him to do Enoch Arden; but he said that having
written the poem he would rather not deal with the same subject a second
time in a different way.
Then he tried King Arthur; but again Tennyson applied the same reasoning
with the same result.
At last he suggested as a subject, Robin Hood. Tennyson did not
acquiesce, but he said he would think it over. I remember that Irving,
hoping to interest him further in the matter, got all the books treating
of the subject; all the stories and plays which he could hear of. He had
hopes that the romantic side of the outlaw’s life would touch the poet.
In fact Tennyson did write a play, _The Foresters_, which has been
successful in America.
II
In the autumn of 1890, in response to a kindly invitation, Irving
visited Aldworth, the lovely home which Tennyson made for himself under
the brow of Blackdown. It was nine years since the two men had had
opportunity for a real talk. Sunday, October 19, was fixed for the
visit. I was invited to lunch also, and needless to say I looked forward
to the visit, for it was to be the first opportunity I should have of
seeing Tennyson in his own home.
On the Sunday morning Irving and I made an early start, leaving Victoria
Station by the train at 8.45 and arriving at Haslemere a little after
half-past ten. Blackdown is just under mountain height—one thousand
feet; but it is high enough and steep enough to test the lungs and
muscles of man or beast. It was a typically fine day in autumn. The air
was dry and cold and bracing, after a slight frost whose traces the
bright sun had not yet obliterated. All was bright and clear around us,
but the hills in the distance were misty.
Aldworth is a wonderful spot. Tennyson chose it himself with a rare
discretion. It is, I suppose, the most naturally isolated place within a
hundred miles of London. Doubtless this was an element in his choice,
for he is said to have had a sickening of publicity at his other home,
“Farringford,” at Freshwater in the Isle of Wight. The house lies just
under the brow of the hill to the east and faces south. This side of the
hill is very steep, and now that the trees which he planted have grown
tall the house cannot be seen from anywhere above. It is necessary to go
miles away to get a glimpse of it from below. When he bought the ground
it was all mountain moorland and he had to make his own roads. The house
is of stone with fine mullioned windows, and the spaces everywhere are
gracious. In front, which faces south, is a small lawn bounded by a
stone parapet with a quickset hedge below and just showing above the top
of the stonework. From here you look over Sussex right away to Goodwood
and the bare Downs above Brighton. A glorious expanse of country
articulated with river and wood and field of seeming toy dimensions. It
would, I think, be impossible to find a more ideal place for quiet work.
From it the howling, pushing, strenuous world is absolutely shut out;
the mind can work untrammelled, fancy free. To the west lies a beautiful
garden fashioned into pleasant nooks and winding alleys, with
flower-starred walks, and bowers of roses, and spreading shrubs. Behind
it rise some fine forest trees. The garden trends some way down the
hillside, opening to seas of bracken and the dim shelter of pine woods.
In the fringes these woods in due season are filled with a natural
growth of purple foxglove, the finest I have ever seen. Just below where
the garden ends is a level nook, a corner between shelving lines of
tree-clad hill where a tiny stream flows from a vigorous bubbling well.
Just such a nook as Old Crome or Nasmyth would have loved to paint.
[Illustration:
_Photo Dickinsons_
HENRY IRVING AS CHARLES I.
]
Hallam Tennyson met us at the door. When we entered the wide hall, one
of the noticeable things was quite a number of the picturesque
wide-brimmed felt hats which Tennyson always wore. I could not but
notice them, for a certain similarity struck me. In the house of Walt
Whitman at Camden, New Jersey, was just such a collection of hats;
except that Walt Whitman’s hats—he being paralysed and not naturally
careful of his appearance at that time of life—were worn out. Walt only
got a new hat when the old one was badly worn. But he did not part with
the old ones even then.
After a short visit to Lady Tennyson in the drawing-room we were brought
upstairs to Tennyson’s study, a great room over the drawing-room, with
mullioned windows facing south and west. We entered from behind a great
eight-fold screen some seven or eight feet high. In the room were many
tall bookcases. The mullioned windows let in a flood of light. Tennyson
was sitting at a table in the western window writing in a book of
copybook size with black cover. His writing was very firm. He had on a
black skull-cap. As we entered he held up his hand saying:
“Just one minute if you don’t mind. I am almost finished!” When he had
done he threw down his pen and rising quickly came towards us with
open-handed welcome.