Premiers, and some few of the foreign guests. The house was crammed from
wall to wall; from floor to ceiling; the bill was _Waterloo_ and _The
Bells_. No such audience could have been had for this military piece. It
sounded the note of the unity of the Empire which was then in
celebration; all were already tuned to it. The scene at the end was
indescribable. It was a veritable ecstasy of loyal passion.
_Waterloo_ was played by Irving eighty times in London; one hundred and
seventy-seven times in the provinces; and eighty-eight times in America—
in all three hundred and forty-five times, the last being at London on
June 15, 1905.
III
For a long time Irving had in view of production a play on the subject
of King Arthur. He broached the subject to Tennyson, but the latter
could not see his way to it. He had dealt with the subject in one way
and did not wish to try it in another. Then he got W. G. Willis to write
a play; this he purchased from him in 1890. As, however, he did not
think it would act well, he got Comyns Carr to write another some three
years later.
In 1894 the production was taken in hand. Sir Edward Burne-Jones
undertook to design scenes and dresses, armour and appointments. His
suggestions were new lights on stage possibilities. As he was not
learned in stage technique and mechanism, there were of course some
seemingly insuperable difficulties; but these in the hands of artists
skilled in stage work soon disappeared. To my own mind it was the first
time that what must in reality be a sort of fairyland was represented as
an actuality. Some of the scenes were of transcendent beauty, notably
that called “The Whitethorn Wood.” The scene was all green and white—the
side of a hill thick with blossoming thorn through which, down a winding
path, came a bevy of maidens in flowing garments of tissue which seemed
to sway and undulate with every motion and every breath of air. There
was a daintiness and a sense of purity about the whole scene which was
very remarkable.
The armour which Burne-Jones designed was most picturesque. I fear it
would hardly have done for actual combat as the adornments of shoulder
and elbow were such that in the movement of the arms they took strange
positions. When some virtuoso skilled in the lore of mail asked the
great painter why he fixed on such a class of armour he answered:
“To puzzle the archæologists!”
For the great Fancy Ball given by the Duchess of Devonshire in
Devonshire House, the armour was lent by Irving. It furnished the men of
a quadrille and was a very striking episode in a gorgeous scene.
In the preparation of the scenes we had at first some difficulty, for
great scene-painters like to make their own designs. But Burne-Jones’
genius together with his great reputation—to both of which all artists
bow—accompanied by Irving’s persuasions carried the day. When it was
objected that the suggested scenes were impossible to work in accordance
with stage limitations, Irving pointed out that there was in itself
opportunity for the ability of the scene-painters’ skill and invention.
Burne-Jones suggested the effect aimed at; with them rested the carrying
it out. And surely neither Hawes Craven nor Joseph Harker could have
ever had any emotions except those of pleasure when the round of
applause nightly welcomed each scene as the curtain went up.
The cast was a fine one; Irving as King Arthur and Johnston
Forbes-Robertson as Sir Lancelot, Ellen Terry as Guinevere, and
Geneviève Ward as Morgan Le Fay. Some of the parts were not easy to
play. One had a difficulty all its own. In the scene where Elaine is
brought in on her bier she had to remain for a considerable time
stone-still in full view of the audience. All that season Miss Lena
Ashwell, who played the part, never once sneezed or yielded to any other
temporary convulsion.
_King Arthur_ was produced on January 12, and ran that season for one
hundred and five performances. It was played twelve times in the
provinces and seventy-four times in America. In all one hundred and
ninety-one performances. It was one of those plays cut short in its
prime. The scenery and appointments were burned in the stage fire of
1898.
IV
The subject of Don Quixote for a play was matter that Irving had for a
long time held in mind. In 1888, he had bought from W. G. Wills the
entire rights of a play on the subject which he had suggested his
writing. He was not, however, satisfied with it. Don Quixote is a great
name and a picturesque figure to remember. He is also a great subject
for a book, and Cervantes made him the hero and centre of many
entertaining and amusing adventures. But he is not in reality a figure
for prolonged stage use. He is too much in one note to make effective
music. If any one ever succeeds in making a “full” play with him as hero
the author will have to invent a story for it, or compile one out of the
materials which Cervantes has in his immortal work bequeathed to
mankind. The dramatic author or adapter can thus maintain the figure in
its simplicity, keeping his personality always as a _deus ex machina_.
When he was satisfied he could not do Wills’ play in its entirety Irving
got another enthusiast of the subject, Mr. J. I. C. Clarke of New York,
to write a fresh play on the theme. Clarke made an admirable play, of
which Irving bought the entire rights in 1894. There were some very fine
points in this new play, especially in illustrating the gravity of the
Don’s high character and his deep understanding of a noble act. But the
difficulty of the subject was again apparent; the character was too
simple and too fixed for the necessary variety and development of
character in a long grave play.
Recognising the limitation of the subject, Irving, being determined to
essay the character, made up a one-act play from Cervantes’ book,
keeping as far as possible to the lines of the first act of Wills’ play.
There were two scenes; the first showing Don Quixote in his own house
with the madness of his chivalric belief upon him. A notable figure he
looked as fully armed in rusty armour and with drawn sword in hand he
sat reading a great folio of _Amadis de Gaule_. His own physique—tall
and lean, his fine high-bred features heightened by the resources of art
to an exaggerated aquiline, all helped to the efficacy of the illusion.
In his old armour, his worn leather and threadbare velvet, he was indeed
the Knight of La Mancha.
When in the second scene he rode into the inn yard on his skeleton steed
Rosinante the effect was heightened. The scene was beautifully lit.
There was a fine, rich, soft light from the moon, hung high in the
semi-tropic sky. It softened everything to the possibilities of romance.
One seemed to forget the unreality in the dim, quaint beauty. The very
shadows seemed to be full of possibilities, and to hold a mystery of
their own. No one who saw it can ever forget that spare, quaint figure
marching up and down, lance on shoulder, watching his armour laid in
front of the pump—a solemn, grim travesty of the vigil of a probationary
knight.
V
In the preparation of _Don Quixote_ there was an incident which was not
without its humorous aspect—though not to some of those who had a part
in it. When it was decided that Rosinante was to be a factor in the
play, Irving told the Property Master, Arnott, to get a horse as thin
and ragged-looking as he could.
“I think I know the very one, sir,” said Arnott. “It belongs to a baker
who comes down Exeter Street every day. I shall look out for him
to-morrow and get him to bring the horse for you to see!”
In due course he saw the baker and arranged that he should on the next
day bring the horse. The morrow came; but neither the baker nor the
horse. Inquiries having been made, it turned out that on the morning
arranged, as the baker was leading the horse down Bow Street to bring it
to the Lyceum, an officer of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty
to Animals saw them, and being dissatisfied with the appearance of the
animal, “ran in” both man and beast. The sitting magistrate went out to
the police yard and made inspection for himself. When he came back to
court where the prisoner was waiting in the dock, he said that the case
was one of the worst within his experience and gave his decision: He
fined the owner of the horse ten pounds; sent the man who had been
arrested whilst in charge of it to prison for a week without option of a
fine; and ordered the horse _to be killed_!
XXIII
ART AND HAZARD
I
When Irving read the report of the production of _Madame Sans-Gêne_ in
Paris, he bought the British rights; but it was not till April 10, 1897,
that the new play could be given. This was the Saturday before Holy
Week; not in itself a good time, but it would get the play into swing
for Easter.
The part of Napoleon in the play is not one that could appeal to any
great actor on grounds of dramatic force. Its relative position in the
play is not even one that appeals to that measure of self-value which
is, to some degree, in all of us. True, it is the part of a great man
and such is pleasurable histrionically—if there be an opportunity of
excellence. An actor of character finds his own pleasure in the study
and representation of strong individuality. Irving had always been
interested in Napoleon. As long as I can remember he had always in his
room a print and a bust of him—both beautiful. He had many books
regarding him, all of which he had studied. He was always delighted to
talk of him. I had long taken it for granted that he had an idea of some
day playing the character; but I hardly took it seriously. The very
light of history which makes the character known to the public also has
made known his stature. No two men could be further apart in matter of
physique and identity. Napoleon, short and stout, full-faced,
aggressive, coarse. Irving, tall, thin, ascetic; with manners of
exquisite gentleness; with a face of such high, thoughtful distinction
that it stood out in any assemblage of clever men. I have been with
Irving in many Universities—Oxford, Cambridge, Dublin, Edinburgh,
Glasgow, Manchester, Harvard, Columbia, Princeton, Chicago. I have stood
by him whilst he was the host of Princes, Ambassadors, Statesmen,
Soldiers, Scholars. I think I have seen him under most conditions in
which man may be compared with men; but I never found his appearance,
bearing or manner other than the best. How then reconcile such opposites
to such beguilement of his audience that the sense of personal
incongruity should not mar the effect at which he aimed. It must be by
some strange _tour de force_ that this could be accomplished; and a
special effort of the kind, though in its own way a dangerous experiment
to a reputation already won, has a charm of its own. Man always wants to
climb, even if the only charms of climbing be difficulty and danger. He
saw at once that a chance to essay Napoleon was in _Madame Sans-Gêne_.
The play was a comedy and Napoleon’s part in it was a comedy position.
Matters that work against one in serious drama can be made actually to
further one’s purpose in comedy.
When he began to think of the part he very often spoke of it with me and
took me into his confidence as to his idea of doing it.
“You see,” he said to me one time, “perspective is a matter of contrast
and juxtaposition. You can enlarge the appearance of anything by placing
something smaller beside it, or _vice versa_. Of course you must choose
for the contrasted object something which to common knowledge is of at
least or at most a standard size. It would not make a man look big to
put him next a doll’s house—such you expect to be small and the sense of
comparison does not strike one. The comparison must, on the part of the
spectator, be unconscious.”
Thus it was that in the play Napoleon in his study, when the scene
opened and he made his first appearance, sat behind a huge writing-table
piled with books; he sat on an exceedingly low chair so that he seemed
dwarfed. The room was a vast one with pillars and pilasters which
carried the eye upward from the floor. The attendants, the soldiers on
guard, the generals and statesmen who surrounded him were all big, fine
men. The ladies who played the Princesses, his sisters, were of good
stature, and Ellen Terry is a tall woman. He applied here to himself the
lesson of juxtaposition which in _Cymbeline_ he had used for Ellen
Terry’s service in the previous year. She, a tall, fine woman, had to
represent a timid young girl. Matters had therefore to be so arranged
that size should be made a comparative and not an absolute matter. To
this end Imogen was surrounded by the tallest and biggest women
obtainable. The Queen looked, and Helena was, tall, and such
miscellaneous ladies as are possible in a royal _entourage_ even in the
semi-mythical days of early England were simply giantesses. Amid her
surroundings her timidity seemed natural to one so sweet and tender and
almost frail. The towering height and girth of the trees and the
architecture and stonework lent themselves to the illusion. All the men
too were tall and of massive build, so that the illusions of size and
helplessness were perfect.
Irving was now face to face with the same difficulty, but reversed;
there was still the matter of his own proportions. Long before, when we
had spoken of the difficulties ahead of him in representing the part, he
had said:
“I shall keep the proportions of Napoleon. After all it is only dressing
a big doll instead of a little one. They have given me a big doll,
whereas Napoleon had a little one. No one need notice the difference,
unless the dolls are put together!”
This idea he carried out absolutely. He had made for him “fleshings” of
great proportions. When these were on he looked like a Daniel Lambert
for the white had no relief in variety; but this was but the doll which
he had to dress. When the breeches—which were made to proportion by the
best tailor in London—were drawn on, the thighs stood out as in De La
Roche’s picture. When the green coat was on and buttoned high up, the
shoulders, especially at the back, were so wide and tight as to make him
look podgy. That dress was certainly supremely artful. It was so
arranged that all the lines, either actual or suggested, were
horizontal. The sloping of the front of the buttoned coat was from very
high on the chest and the slope very generous. The waistcoat was short
and the lower line of it wide and broadly marked. The concealment of
real height was further effected by the red sash and many orders which
were so artfully placed as to lead the eye in the wished-for direction.
All that Irving required to satisfy the audience was the _coup d’œil_;
in endeavouring to convince it does not do to start off with antagonism.
So long as the first glance did not militate against him, he could
depend on himself to realise their preconceived idea—which was of
historical truth—by acting.
And when he did act how real it was. The little short-stepped quick run
in which he moved in his restless dominance was no part of general
historic record; but it fitted into the whole personality in such a way
that, having seen, one cannot dissociate them. The ruthless dominance;
the quick blaze of passion which recalled to our memory the whirlwind
rush at Lodi or the flamelike sweep over the bridge at Arcola; the
conscious acting of a part to gain his end; the typical attack on
Nipperg. All these were so vivid that through the mist of their swirling
memory loomed the very identity of Napoleon himself.
Strange to say the very excellence of Irving’s acting, as well as his
magnitude in public esteem, injured the play, _quâ_ play. To my mind it
threw it in a measure out of perspective. The play is a comedy, and a
comedy of a woman at that. Napoleon is in reality but an incidental
character. It is true he and his time were chosen, because of his
absolutism and his personal character; he is a glorified _deus ex
machina_, whose word is law and is to be accepted as ruling life and
death. So far Irving’s reputation and personality helped. He was on the
mimic stage what Napoleon was on the real one. Still, after all _Madame
Sans-Gêne_ is a comedy though the authors were a little clumsy in
changing it into melodrama at the end; but when Irving was present
comedy, except his comedy, had to cease. Of course in the part of the
scene where he and Ellen Terry played together comedy was triumphant;
but here the note of comedy was the note of the scene and nothing could
be finer than the double play, each artist foiling the other, and all
the time developing and explaining their respective characters. But
after that Irving, as the part was written, was too big for the play. It
was not in any way his fault. No modification of style or repression of
action could have obviated the difficulty. It was primarily the fault of
the dramatists in keeping the Emperor, who was incidental, on the stage
too long.
The same reasoning applied to _Cymbeline_. Irving was too big for
Iachino, and the better he played the worse the harm. Each little touch
that helped to build up the individuality of the character helped—he
being what he was in public esteem—to expand the sense of deliberate
villainy. Iachino’s purpose was not to injure; he only used wrong-doing,
however base, as a means to an end: the winning of his wager.
In Ellen Terry’s performance of _Madame Sans-Gêne_ came an incident
which I have always thought to be typically illustrative of “unconscious
cerebration” in art—that “dual consciousness” which we shall by-and-by
consider. The actress had steeped herself in the character; when playing
the part she thought as the laundress-duchess thought. She had already
played it close on a hundred times. The occasion was the first
performance of the piece at Sheffield, where the audiences were enormous
and the people hearty. In the scene with the dancing-master, where she
is ill at ease and troubled with her unaccustomed train—“tail” she calls
it—it is part of the “business” that this keeps falling or slipping from
her arm. Once when she put it back its bulk seemed to attract
unconsciously her troubled mind. Accordingly she began to _wring_ it as
she had been used to do with heavy articles in the days of her wash-tub.
There was an instantaneous roar of applause. Half the women of the
audience did their own washing and half the men knew the action; all
throughout the house, both men and women, recognised the artistic
perfection from which she utilised the impulse.
From that evening the action became an established usage.
II
In 1897 Laurence Irving completed his play on _Peter the Great_ and his
father purchased it from him. At that time he had in expectation a play
by H. D. Traill and Robert Hichens, for which he had contracted on
reading the _scenario_ in July of that year. As, however, the latter
play was not ready when arrangements had to be made for opening the
London season early in January 1898, young Irving’s play was put into
preparation by his father before he went on the provincial tour.
Naturally he wished to do all he possibly could for his son’s play, and
in the production neither pains nor expense was spared.
On July 24, the night after the closing of the season, he read the play
in the Beefsteak Room to Loveday and myself and Johnston
Forbes-Robertson, whom he hoped would play the part of Alexis. The
reading took three hours and twenty minutes, and was a remarkable fine
piece of work. Forbes-Robertson, however, did not see his way to the
part, which was ultimately given to Robert Taber, a fine actor, then
young and strong, who had just come from America, where he had played
leading business.
Great pains were spent in the archæology of the play, so that when it
was produced it was in its way a historical lesson. Irving cut off a
whole week of his own work of the tour in order to come up to London to
superintend the production personally. Miss Terry and the company played
_Madame Sans-Gêne_ at Bradford and Wolverhampton—strange to say, the
last two towns he played in eight years later.
The production was certainly a very interesting one. The place and time
did not allow much opportunity for beauty, but all appeared so real as
to enhance the natural power of the play. The part of Peter was a
terribly trying one, even to a man of Irving’s “steel and whipcord”
physique. I fancy it was a lesson to the dramatist—as yet not at his
full skill—in saving the actor of his plays. On the seventh night the
stage manager, before the play began, asked for the consideration of the
audience for Irving, who was suffering from a partial loss of voice.
Laurence Irving was having a brief holiday in Paris, so we telegraphed
him to return at once. On Monday night Henry Irving was unable to play
and Laurence Irving took his place. It was really a wonderful effort—
especially for so young a man—to play such a part on short notice.
Fortunately, as author, he knew the words well; and as he had helped his
father in the stage management he was familiar with the business. That
night after the performance I went to see Irving and had the pleasure of
telling him of his son’s success.
Unfortunately the tone of the play did not suit the public taste. It was
not altogether the fault of the dramatist, but rather of the originals.
History is history and has to be adhered to—in some measure at any rate;
and the spectacle of a father hounding his son to death is one to make
to shudder those whose instincts and sympathies are normal. The history
of the time lent itself to horrors. On the first night in one scene
where one of the conspirators who had been tortured—off the stage, but
whose screams were heard—was brought in pale and bloody, the effect was
too great for some of the audience, who rose quickly and left their
seats. On the next night this part of the scene was taken out and other
lesser horrors modified. Towards the end of the month it became
necessary to prepare for a change of bill. On the last night of the
piece the Prince and Princess of Wales were present as they wished to
see the play again. The Prince had already seen it twice and had
expressed his appreciation of it.
III
_Robespierre_ was produced on April 15, 1899—the date on which the
Lyceum was re-opened under the management of the Lyceum Company.
Irving’s reception after his dangerous illness was exceptionally warm,
even for him.
The play had been in hand for some time. In May 1896, whilst in New
York, Irving and I went to see Miss Elizabeth Marbury, the agent for
America of the French Dramatic Author’s Society. The purpose of the
interview was regarding the writing by Sardou of a play on the subject.
Irving suggested as a scene that in Robespierre’s lodgings. He had read
somewhere of Robespierre shaving himself whilst listening to a matter of
life and death for many people and all the time turning to spit. This
was a grim streak of character which fastened on his imagination. The
suggestion was well received by Sardou and the following year Irving
entered into a contract whereby he was, after previous acceptance of the
_scenario_, to receive the play before May 1898. On his part he
undertook to produce the piece in London before June 1899. In due order
the _scenario_ was sent and approved, and the script of the play finally
delivered and translated into English by Laurence Irving.
_Robespierre_ was played in London one hundred and five times—of which
ninety-three were the first season; in the provinces forty-three times;
and in America one hundred and nine times. In all two hundred and
fifty-seven times.
Charles Dickens used to say that it was a perpetual wonder to him how
small the world was. Here is an instance of how the same may be said
to-day:
When we were playing the piece in New England a gentleman wrote to
Irving to thank him for preserving in the play the honourable character
of his ancestor, Benjamin Vaughan, M.P., one of the _dramatis personæ_
who has an interview with Robespierre in the first act!
_Robespierre_ was a terrific play to stage manage. There are in it no
less than _sixty-nine_ speaking parts. The rehearsals were endless, for
there were required in the play a very large number of supers—more than
a hundred. In the scene of the Convention, in which Robespierre is
overthrown, much of the effect depends on the rush of the deputies
across the floor of the house, and the series of fights for the tribune.
It was a stormy scene, and was admirably done. Everywhere the piece was
played it went with uncontrollable effect.