known in the actor’s craft as “make-up” afforded in themselves a lesson
in stage art. In the first act, where he had to strike the true note of
Robespierre’s character, everything was done to create the proper
effect. Here Robespierre was shown in his true light: A doctrinaire, a
self-seeking politician; vain, arrogant, remorseless; something of a
poet; a little of an artist; an intriguer without scruple. Irving showed
in face and form, in bearing, in speech and even in inflection of the
voice, the true inwardness of the man. The clear-cut face with prominent
chin; the pronounced stillness of bearing, except for the restless eyes;
the eager suspicion of one who is watched; the gaudy colour of his
well-fitting clothes. All these things had their lessons for stranger
eyes. He took no chance whatever that the idea of the man’s dominant
qualities should not be closely and deeply marked in the minds of the
audience. But after that—although the man _seemed_ to be the same—he was
gradually and perpetually changing. And all the changes were, in
addition to the acting and the spoken words, unconsciously conveyed in
dress, bearing and facial appearance. When the fatherhood woke in him in
Act III., it seemed natural enough, though it would not have seemed out
of place in the first or second acts. In Act IV., sympathy with the
mother was added to intense and overwhelming anxiety for his son—and all
seemed still consistent with the original conception of the character as
shown. That is, there was no jarring note as things progressed. In fact
he was subtly changing in the mind of the audience the original idea of
the man’s nature. And all the time the face was growing refined and more
marked with human kindness, till in the last act he seemed to be a
saintly man full of noble and generous feelings; a patriot and martyr.
In the last act all the externals were changed: wig, “make-up” of face,
clothing from top to toe. The harsh colour of his first-seen coat was
softened to an ineffable blue, suggestive at once of distance,
refinement and delicacy. Altogether, though the personality seemed
always consistent, it was a figure of harsh and ruthless scheming that
walked in at one end of the play, but a noble martyr who was carried out
at the other!
IV
Irving had long wished to act the part of Dante if he could get a good
play on the subject. To this end he had made several efforts, including
that in the direction of Tennyson. In July 1894, when _Madame Sans-Gêne_
was being played in London by Rejane, Irving had a conversation
regarding a play on the subject of Dante with Emile Moreau, joint author
with Victorien Sardou of the French comedy. The issue of the meeting was
that Sardou and Moreau were to write a play and submit it to Irving. It
was not, however, till some seven years later that the idea began to
materialise. There was a good deal of correspondence spread over the
time, but after an interview at the end of May 1901 in London with Miss
Marbury, who had just returned from paying a prolonged visit to Sardou,
the matter rose over the horizon of practicability. It was agreed that
Sardou was to submit a _scenario_ before the end of that year. Irving
felt justified after the success of _Robespierre_ to venture on another
play by the same author. The _scenario_ was sent to him in due course,
and he studied it very carefully in such pauses as were in the American
tour of that autumn. When we were in Chicago in December he told me that
he had practically given up hope of doing _Dante_ as he could not see
his way to accepting the _scenario_. By his wishes I drafted a letter
for him to that effect. I considered that the matter had there ended and
did not have an opportunity of reading the _scenario_ which was
returned.
Much to my surprise, in the following spring Irving told me that he had
decided to do the play and asked me to draw out a contract on the lines
of that of _Robespierre_. I asked him why he had changed his mind and
reminded him that from what he had told me of the original _scenario_,
we had agreed that it was not likely to make for success. He did not,
however, wish to talk about it then—he could be very secretive when he
wished—but said he had sent word to Sardou that he would go on with the
idea of the play. I knew it would upset him to argue about anything to
which he was pledged; I said no more.
MM. Sardou and Moreau delivered the completed play in August, and
forthwith Irving began to use his great imagination on its production.
His son Laurence had taken the translation in hand.
The production was on a gigantic scale; the arrangements for it having
been made in Paris, but not through me. The labour of preparation and
rehearsal was endless, the expense enormous. The curtain went up on the
night of production to an incurred expense of nearly thirteen thousand
pounds.
On Monday, January 12, 1903, Irving read _Dante_ to the actors and
actresses of his company at his office in Bedford Street—the great room
occupied for so many years by the Green Room Club. My contemporary note
runs:
“Read it wonderfully well. Adumbrated every character!”
To me this was in one way the most interesting of all his readings to
the company of a new play. Hitherto I had not read the play or even the
_scenario_, and I am bound to say that as it went on my heart sank. The
play was not a good one. It had too many characters and covered too wide
a range. Indeed had it not been for Irving’s wonderful reading I should
not have been able to follow the plot. When I saw the play on the first
night, acted by a lot of people and lacking the concentration of the
whole thing passing through one skilled mind, I found a real difficulty
of comprehension. Strange to say this very difficulty in one way helped
the play with the less cultured part of the audience. As they could not
quite understand it all they took it for granted that there was some
terribly subtle meaning in everything. _Omne ignotum pro magnifico._
The play was produced at Drury Lane Theatre on April 30, 1903—the last
day, by the way, allowable for production in London by the contract—with
great enthusiasm. There was an immense audience, and managerial hopes
ran high. Irving was certainly superb. He did not merely look like
Dante—he _was_ Dante; it was like a veritable re-incarnation. His
features had a natural resemblance to the great poet! The high-bred
“eagle” profile; the ascetic gauntness; the deep earnest resonant voice;
the general bearing of lofty gloom of the exile—these things one and all
completed a representation which can never be forgotten by any one who
saw it.
The play ran during the whole season at Drury Lane, eighty-two
performances. On the provincial tour the following autumn it was given
twenty-one times in only three towns. Then succeeded the American tour
on which it was played thirty-four times—a total of one hundred and
thirty-seven performances.
When we opened in New York the civic elections, which that term were
conducted with even more than usual vigour, were on. As the receipts
were not up to our normal we thought that the political “colieshangie”
was the sole cause; we found out the difference when the _répertoire_
bill was put up the third week. The experience was repeated in
Philadelphia, Boston, Springfield, Hartford, New Haven, Brooklyn, and
Washington. The last performance in America was given at the Federal
capital to a great house—the largest the piece was played to in America.
Perforce we had to accept the verdict: the public did not care for the
play. Accordingly we stored it in Washington and for the rest of the
tour gave the _répertoire_ plays. When the tour was over we paid the
expenses of sending the scenery into Canada where we gave it away. This
was cheaper than paying the duty into the United States, which we should
have had to do had we left it behind us.
Altogether _Dante_ as a venture was a fearful hazard. Before it was done
I remonstrated with Irving about the production, he being then not
really able to afford such an immense loss as was possible. As
Chancellor of the Exchequer to his Absolute Monarchy I had to be content
with his reply:
“My dear fellow, a play like this beats Monte Carlo as a hazard.
Whatever one may do about losing, you certainly can’t win unless you
play high!”
XXIV
VANDENHOFF
Old Vandenhoff played his farewell engagement in Edinburgh, at the
Queen’s Theatre, in 1858. In _The Merchant of Venice_, Irving played
Bassano to his Shylock; this was on Tuesday, February 16. In Act I,
scene 3, where Shylock and Bassano enter, an odd thing occurred. I give
it in Irving’s words as he told me of it!
“Vandenhoff began: ‘Three thousand’—there was a sort of odd click of
something falling, and the speech dried up. I looked up at him and saw
his mouth moving, but there was no sound. At the moment my eye caught
the glitter of something golden on the stage. I stooped to pick it up,
and as I did so saw that it was a whole set of false teeth. This I
handed to Shylock, keeping my body between him and the audience so that
no one might see the transaction. He turned away for an instant, putting
both hands up to his face. As he turned back to the audience his words
came out quite strong and clearly: ‘Three thousand ducats—well!’”
XXV
CHARLES MATHEWS
Irving had always a deep regard for Charles Mathews. Not only did he
look upon him as a consummate dramatic actor—which was always in itself
a sure road to his heart, but he had lively recollections of his
kindness to him. The first was in his youth on the stage in Edinburgh
when he played the boy in one of the plays of his _répertoire_. Irving
had invented for himself a little piece of business; when the lad was
placed in the militant position in the play he took out his handkerchief
to mop his brow. As he pulled it out there came with it an orange which
rolled along the stage and which he hastily followed and recovered.
Charles Mathews seemed pleased. His kindly recognition was, however,
opposed a little later by another actor who played the same part as
Mathews. This gentleman strongly objected to what he delicately called
the “tomfoolery” which he said interfered with the gravity of his own
acting. When Mathews again visited Edinburgh, Irving omitted the
incident, fearing it might be out of place. But at the end of the act
Mathews sent for him to his dressing-room and in a very kind manner
called his attention to a piece of business of which he had made use on
the last occasion, and there and then recapitulating the incident asked
why he had omitted it. Irving explained that he had been held to task
for it by the other actor. To his great delight Mathews spoke quite
crossly of the other actor. Said he:
“He had no right to find fault! He must have been an ignorant fellow not
to see that it helped his own part. The humour of the situation in the
play hangs on the contrast between the boy’s bellicose attitude towards
the elder man whom he considers his rival, and his own extreme
youthfulness. That very incident is all that is wanted to make the
action complete; and since I saw you do it I have asked every other who
plays the part to bring it in. I should have asked you, only that I took
it of course for granted that you would repeat it. Never let any one
shake you out of such an admirable piece of by-play!”
The other occasion was when he had played Doricourt at his first
appearance at the St. James’s Theatre in 1866. One of the first
congratulations he got was from Charles Mathews, who not only sent him
by hand a letter in the morning but followed it up with a visit later in
the day.
Mrs. Charles Mathews was, till the day of her death, a very dear friend
of Irving; and the tradition of affection was kept up till Irving’s own
death by the son, Sir Charles W. Mathews, the eminent barrister.
For my own part I first knew Charles Mathews in 1873, when I had the
pleasure of being introduced. From that time on I met him occasionally
and was always fascinated with his delightful personality. Years
afterwards I was not surprised to hear an instance of its effect from
the late Henry Russell, the author of the song “_Cheer, boys, cheer_”
and a host of other dramatic and popular songs. It was after supper one
night in the Beefsteak Room. Russell told his story thus:
“I was at that time tenant of the Lyceum, and had let it for a short
season to Charles Mathews. He did not pay my rent and, as I suppose you
know, the freeholder, Arnold, was not one to let _me_ off my rent on
that account. The debt ran on till it grew to be quite a big one. I
wrote to Mathews, but I never could get any settlement. He was always
most suave and cheery; _but_ no cash! At last I made up my mind that I
_would_ have that money; and finding that letters were of no avail, I
called on him one forenoon. He was having his breakfast and asked me to
join him in a cup of chocolate. I said no! that I had come on business—
and pretty stern business at that; and that I would not mix it up with
pleasure. I had come for cash—cash! cash! He was very pleasant, quite
undisturbed by my tirade; so that presently I got a little ashamed of
myself and sat down. I stayed with him an hour.”
“And did you get your money?” asked Irving quietly. Russell smiled:
“Get my money! I came away leaving him a cheque for three hundred pounds
which he had borrowed from me; and I never asked him for rent again!”
Then after a pause he added:
“He was certainly a great artist; and a most delightful fellow!”
XXVI
CHARLES DICKENS AND HENRY IRVING
Irving often spoke with pride of the fact that Charles Dickens had
thought well of his acting, when he had seen him play at the St. James’s
Theatre in 1866 and the Queen’s Theatre in 1868. Unhappily the two men
never met then; and Dickens died in 1870. In later years he had the
pleasure of the friendship of several of Dickens’ children, and of his
sister-in-law, Miss Georgina Hogarth, to whom he was so much attached.
Charles Dickens the younger was an intimate friend and was often in the
Beefsteak Room and elsewhere when Irving entertained his friends; Kate
Dickens, the present Mrs. Perugini, was also a friend. But the youngest
son, Henry Fielding Dickens, was the closest friend of all. Both he and
his wife and their large family—who were all children, such of them as
were then born, when I knew them first—were devoted to Irving. In all
the years of his management no suitable gathering at the Lyceum was
complete without them. Whenever Irving would leave London for any long
spell some of them were sure to be on the platform to see him off; when
he returned their welcome was amongst the first to greet him. Indeed he
held close in his heart that whole united group, Harry Dickens and his
sweet family and the dear old lady whom happily they are still able to
cherish and as of old call “Aunty.”
Lately I asked Henry Dickens if he remembered the occasion of his father
speaking of Irving. The occasion of my asking was a gathering at which
he had many social duties to fulfil, so that there was no opportunity of
explaining fully. But next day he wrote me the following letter:
“2 Egerton Place, S.W.
“_May 29 1906._
“MY DEAR BRAM,
“I do not remember the exact year in which _Hunted Down_ was played at
the St. James’s. It must have been somewhere about 1866. But I have a
vivid recollection of the fact owing to the impression which Irving’s
performance made upon me father. He was greatly struck by it. It
seemed to appeal at once to his artistic and dramatic sense:
“‘Mark my words: that man will be a great actor.’
“I should not like to pledge myself to the exact words, but that is
the substance of what he said after the performance.
“He also saw Irving in _The Lancashire Lass_, when he had been much
impressed by his acting though not to the same extent.
“I do not suppose any man was more competent to give an opinion than
my father. He was himself, as you know, a great actor. The fever of
the footlights was always with him. He had a large number of friends
in the dramatic profession, amongst them Macready and Fechter, the two
greatest actors of his time.
“What a pity he did not live long enough to add Irving’s name to that
brilliant list!
“Irving was certainly one of the most striking personalities I ever
met, besides being, beyond all question, the most loyal and delightful
of friends as I and those who are dear to me have good reason to know.
“We shall always hold his name in loving remembrance.
“Yours very sincerely,
HENRY F. DICKENS.”
XXVII
MR. J. M. LEVY
Amongst many loving, true friends Irving had none more loving or more
helpful than the late J. M. Levy, the owner and editor of the _Daily
Telegraph_. From the first he was a warm and consistent friend, and his
great paper, which in the early days of Irving’s success was devoting to
the drama care and space unwonted in those days, did much—very much—to
familiarise the public with his work and to spread his fame. As a
personal friend his hospitality was unsurpassed. His house was always
open, and nothing pleased him better than when Irving would drop in
unasked. Up to the time of Mr. Levy’s death there were many delightful
evenings spent with him. These were always on Sundays, for during
working days we of the theatre had no opportunity for such pleasures.
But even after his death the same hospitality was extended by his
children. Some are gone, but those who happily remain, Lord Burnham,
Miss Matilda Levy, Lady Faudel-Phillips, Lady Campbell Clarke, were
friends up to the hour of his death; and with them all his memory is and
shall be green. Lord Burnham truly held as a part of his great
inheritance this friendship; and he always extended to the actor the
helpfulness which had been his father’s. In a thousand delicate ways he
always tried to show his love and friendship. Whenever, for instance, he
had the honour of entertaining at his beautiful place, Hall Barn, Edward
VII., either as Prince of Wales or King, he always included Irving in
his house-party.
Such a friendship is a powerful help to any artist—and to like and
cherish artists is a tradition in that family.
XXVIII
VISITS TO AMERICA
I
Irving’s first visit to America, in 1883, was a matter of considerable
importance, not only to him, but to all of his craft and to all by whom
he was held in regard. At that time the body of British people did not
know much about America; and perhaps—strange as it may seem—did not care
a great deal. Irving had played nearly five years continuously at the
Lyceum, and his theatre had grown to be looked upon as an established
institution. The great _clientèle_ which had gathered round it, now
numbering many thousands, looked on the venture with at least as much
concern as he did himself. Thus the last night of the season, July 28,
1883, was a remarkable occasion. The house was jammed to suffocation and
seemingly not one present but was a friend. When the curtain fell at the
end of _The Belle’s Stratagem_, there began a series of calls which
seemed as though it would never end. Hand-clapping and stamping of feet
seemed lost in the roar, for all over the house the audience were
shouting—shouting with that detonating effect which is only to be found
from a multitude animated with a common feeling. The sight and sound
were moving. Wherever one looked were tears; and not from women or the
young alone.
At the last, after a pause a little longer than usual—from which the
audience evidently took it that the dramatic moment had arrived—came a
marvellous silence. The curtain went up, showing on the stage the entire
_personnel_ of the company and staff.
Then that audience simply went crazy. All the cheers that had been for
the play seemed merely a preparation for those of the parting. The air
wherever one looked was a mass of waving hands and handkerchiefs,
through which came wave after wave of that wild, heart-stirring
detonating sound. All were overcome, before and behind the floats alike.
When the curtain fell, it did so on two thousand people swept with
emotion.
[Illustration:
HENRY IRVING BETWEEN ENGLAND AND AMERICA
_From a drawing by Fred Barnard, 1883, after the picture by Sir Joshua
Reynolds “Garrick between Tragedy and Comedy”_
]
II
Something of the same kind was enacted across the Atlantic. When on the
evening of Monday, October 29, the curtain rose on the first scene of
_The Bells_, there was the hush of expectation, prolonged till the
moment when the door of the inn parlour was thrown open and Irving
seemed swept in by the rushing snowstorm. The tempest of cheers seemed
just as though the prolongation of that last moment in London; and for
six or seven minutes—an incredibly long time for such a matter on the
stage—the cheering went on.
III
For my own part, I had a curious experience of that reception. Mr. Levy
had asked me to send a cable to the _Daily Telegraph_ describing
Irving’s reception. He knew, and I knew too, that it was a close shave
for such a message to reach London in time for press. For in those days
printing had not reached the extreme excellence of to-day, and the
multiplication of stereos in the present form had not been accomplished.
The difference of longitude seemed almost an insuperable difficulty. As
I had to wait till Irving had actually appeared, I arranged with the
manager of the Direct United States Cable Company to keep the wire for
me. He was himself anxious to make a record, and had all in readiness. I
had a man on a fleet horse waiting at the door of the theatre; and when
Irving’s welcome had _begun_, I ran out filling up the last words of my
cable at the door. The horseman went off at once _ventre à terre_.
But my cable did not arrive in time. Another did, however, that sent to
the _Daily News_ by its correspondent, J. B. Bishop. I could not imagine
how it was done, for the account cabled was a true one, manifestly
written after the event.
Years afterwards, one night at supper with two men, J. B. Bishop and
George Ward, then manager of the newly established Mackey-Bennett Cable,
it was explained to me. They had come to know that I was cabling and in
order not to be outdone Ward had had a wire brought all the way up from
the Battery, and actually over the roof of the theatre and in by a side
window.
Whilst my man was galloping to Lower Broadway, Bishop was quietly
wording the despatch which his friend was telegraphing to his local
office as he wrote!
IV
The welcome which Irving received on that night of October 29, 1883,
lasted for more than twenty years—until that night of March 25, 1904,
when at the Harlem Opera House he said “Good-bye” to his American
friends—for ever! Go where he would, from Maine to Louisiana, from the
Eastern to the Western Sea, there was always the same story of loving
greeting; of appreciative and encouraging understanding; of heartfelt
_au revoirs_, in which gratitude had no little part. As Americans of the
United States have no princes of their own, they make princes of whom
they love. And after eight long winters spent with Henry Irving amongst
them, I can say that no more golden hospitality or affectionate belief,
no greater understanding of purpose or enthusiasm regarding personality
or work has ever been the lot of any artist—any visitor—in any nation.
Irving was only putting into fervent words the feeling of his own true
heart, when in his parting he said:
“I go with only one feeling on my lips and one thought in my heart—God
bless America!”
XXIX
WILLIAM WINTER
Amongst the many journalists who were Irving’s friends, none was closer
than William Winter, the dramatic critic of the New York _Tribune_,
whose work is known all over America. Winter is not only a critic, but a
writer of books of especial charm and excellence, and a poet of high
order. One of his little poems which he spoke at a dinner of welcome to
Irving on his first arrival at New York in 1883 is so delightful that I
venture to give it—especially as it had a prophetic instinct as to the
love and welcome extended to the actor throughout the whole of the
United States. He and Irving had been already friends for some time, and
always saw a good deal of each other during Winter’s visits to London.
The occasion was the dinner given by Colonel E. A. Buck, to attend which
many of the friends present came from Cleveland, Buffalo, West Point,
Louisville, Chicago—distances varying from fifty to a thousand miles.
HENRY IRVING.
A WORD OF WELCOME.
_November 18, 1883._
I