The music of its murmuring flow,
With all the wild-bird notes that quiver
Where Avon’s scarlet meadows glow,
If we could twine with joy at meeting
Their love who lately grieved to part,
Ah, then, indeed, our word of greeting
Might find an echo in his heart.
II
But though we cannot, in our singing,
That music and that love combine,
At least we’ll set our blue-bells ringing,
And he shall hear our whispering pine;
And these shall breathe a welcome royal,
In accents tender, sweet, and kind,
From lips as fond and hearts as loyal
As any that he left behind!
WILLIAM WINTER.
XXX
PERFORMANCE AT WEST POINT
The United States Military Academy at West Point on the Hudson River had
from the time of his first visit to America a great charm for Irving.
One of the first private friends he met on arriving at New York was
Colonel Peter Michie, Professor of Applied Mathematics at the College.
During the war he had been General Grant’s chief officer of Engineers.
Another friend made at the same time was Colonel Bass, Professor of
Mathematics. With these two charming gentlemen we had become close
friends. When Irving visited West Point he said that he would like to
play to the cadets if it could be arranged. The matter came within hail
in 1888, when he repeated the wish to Colonel Michie. The latter, as in
duty bound, had the offer conveyed, through the Commandant, to the
Secretary for War at Washington. To the intense astonishment of every
one the War Secretary not only acquiesced at once but conveyed his
appreciation of Irving’s offer in most handsome and generous terms. The
effect at West Point was startling. The authorities there had taken it
for granted that such an exception to the iron rule of discipline which
governs the Military and Naval Academies of the United States would not
be permitted. The professors had a feeling that the closing his theatre
in New York for a night was too great a sacrifice to make. I was made
aware of this feeling by an early visit from Colonel Michie on the
morning after the sanction of the War Secretary had been given. At
half-past seven o’clock he came into my room at the Brunswick Hotel and
was almost in a state of consternation as to what he should do. He was
vastly relieved when I told him that Irving’s offer had, of course, been
made in earnest and that nothing would please him so much. And so it was
arranged that on the evening of Monday, March 19, Irving and Ellen Terry
and the whole of the company should play _The Merchant of Venice_ in the
Grant Hall, the cadets’ mess-room.
In the meantime an obstacle arose which covered us all with concern. On
the night of Sunday, March 11, the eastern seaboard was visited by the
worst blizzard on record. Between one and eight in the morning some four
feet deep of snow fell, and as the wind was blowing a hundred miles an
hour, as recorded by the anemometer, it was piled up in places in
gigantic drifts. For some days New York and all around it was paralysed.
The railways were blocked, the telegraph cut off. Even the cables had
suffered. We were getting our news from Philadelphia _via_ London—and
even these had to come _via_ Canada. West Point is sixty miles from New
York and the two railways—the New York Central on the left hand and the
West Shore line on the right—the West Point side—were simply obliterated
with snowdrifts. The managers of these two lines and that of the New
York, Ontario, and Western line—it having running powers over the West
Shore—had most kindly arranged to place a special train at Irving’s
disposal for the West Point visit. Towards the end of the week the
outlook of the journey, which had at first seemed unfavourable, grew a
little brighter; it _might_ be possible. Possible it was, for by
superhuman exertions the line was cleared in time for our journey of
March 19. Our train opened the line.
Of course it was not possible to use scenery in the space available for
the performance; so it was arranged that the play should be given as in
Shakespeare’s time. To this end notices were fastened to the curtains at
the proscenium: “Venice: A Public Place”; “Belmont: Portia’s House”;
“Shylock’s House by a Bridge,” &c. As it happens, the Venetian dress of
the sixteenth century was almost the same as the British; so that the
costumes now used in the piece were alike to those worn by the audience
as well as on the stage at the Globe Theatre in Shakespeare’s time. Thus
the cadets of West Point saw the play almost identically as Shakespeare
had himself seen it.
I think that we all in that hall felt proud when we saw over the
proscenium of the little stage the flags of Britain and America draped
together and united by a branch of palm. It thrilled us to our heart’s
core merely to see.
It was a wonderful audience. I suppose there never was another on all
fours with it. I forget how many hundreds of cadets there are—I think
four or five, or more, and they were all there. As they sat in their
benches they looked, at the first glance, like a solid mass of steel.
Their uniforms of blue and grey with brass buttons; their bright young
faces, clean-shaven; their flashing eyes—all lent force to the idea. As
I looked at them I remembered with a thrill an anecdote that John
Russell Young had told me after dinner the very night before. He had
been with General Grant on his journey round the world and had heard the
remark. At Gibraltar Grant had reviewed our troops with Lord Napier.
When he saw them sweep by at the double he had turned to the great
British General and said:
“Those men have the swing of conquest!”
The attention and understanding of the audience could not be surpassed.
Many of these young men had never seen a play; and they were one and all
chosen from every State in the Union, each one having been already
trained or being on the way to it to command an army in the field. There
was not a line of the play, not a point which did not pass for its full
value. This alone seemed to inspire the actors down to the least
important. At the end of each act came the ringing cheers which are so
inspiring to all.
When the curtain finally fell there was a pause. And then with one
impulse every one of those hundreds of young men with a thunderous cheer
threw up his cap; for an instant the air was darkened with them. There
was a significance in this which the ordinary layman may not understand.
By the American Articles of War—which govern the Military Academy—for a
cadet to throw up his cap, except at the word of command given by his
superior officer, is an act of insubordination punishable with
expulsion. These splendid young fellows—every one of whom justified
himself later on in Cuba or the Philippines—had to find some suitable
means of expressing their feelings; and they did it in a way that they
and their comrades understood. Strange to say, not one of the superior
officers happened to notice the fearful breach of discipline. They
themselves were too much engaged in something else—possibly throwing up
their own caps; for they were all old West Point men.
Right sure I am that no one who had the privilege of being present on
that night can ever forget it—men, women, or children; for behind the
corps of cadets sat the officers with their wives and families.
When Irving came to make the little speech inevitable on such an
occasion he said at the close:
“I cannot restrain a little patriotic pride now, and I will confess
it. I believe the joy-bells are ringing in London to-night, because
for the first time the British have captured West Point?”
He spoke later of that wonderful audience in terms of enthusiasm, and
Ellen Terry was simply in a transport of delight. For my own part,
though I had been in the theatre each of the thousand times Irving and
Ellen Terry played _The Merchant of Venice_, I never knew it to go so
well.
Beyond this delightful experience, which must long be a tradition in
West Point, the Academy has another source of perpetual memory. In the
officers’ mess hangs a picture presented by Henry Irving which they hold
beyond price. It is a portrait of the great Napoleon done from life by
Captain Marryat when he was a midshipman on the British warship
_Bellerophon_ which carried the Conquered Conqueror to his prison in St.
Helena.
XXXI
AMERICAN REPORTERS
I
I can bear the highest testimony to the _bona fides_ of American
reporters, though they do not, either individually or collectively,
require any commendation from me. I have had, in the twenty years
covered by our tours in America, many hundreds of “interviews” with
reporters, and I never once found one that “went back” on me. I could
always speak quite openly to them individually on a subject which we
wished for the present to keep dark, simply telling him or them that the
matter was not for present publication. Any one who knows the inner
working of a newspaper, and of the keenness which exists in the
competition for the acquisition of news, will know how much was implied
by the silence—the scorn and contempt that would now and then be hurled
at those who “couldn’t get a story.” I have no doubt that sometimes the
engagement on the paper was imperilled, or even cancelled. Of course I
always tried to let them get _something_. It was quite impossible at
times that Irving should give interviews. Such take time, and time was
not always available in the midst of strenuous work; sickness and
weariness are bars to intellectual undertakings; and now and again the
high policy of one’s business demands silence. In Irving’s case his
utterances had to be carefully considered. He was one of the very few
men who was always reported _verbatim_. With ordinary individuals there
is habitual compression and “editing” which, though it may occasionally
suppress some fact or step in an argument, is protective against many
errors. It is an old journalistic saying that “Parliamentary reputations
are made in the Gallery!” This is almost exact; were it qualified so as
to admit of exceptions it would be quite exact. In ordinary speeches, or
in any form of _extempore_ and unpremeditated utterance, there are
evidences of changement during the process of thought—uncompleted
sentences, confused metaphors, words ill chosen or slightly misapplied.
In addition, as in almost every case Irving spoke or was interviewed on
professional subjects or matters closely allied to his own work or
ideas, there was always a possibility of creating a wrong impression
somewhere. Also, he stood so high amongst his own craft that an omission
would now and again be treated as an affront. I have known him to
receive, after some speech or interview or recorded conversation where
he had given a few names of actors as illustrating some part, a dozen
letters asking if there was any reason why the writer’s name was omitted
in that connection. Irving was always most loyal to all those of his own
calling and considerate of their needs and wishes; and so in all matters
where he was by common consent or by general repute vested with the
responsibilities of judgment he tried to hold the scales of justice
balanced. In order, therefore, to see that his real views were properly
set out—and incidentally for self-protection—he always took precautions
with regard to speeches and interviews. The former, he always wrote out.
On occasions where he had to speak as if _impromptu_—such as on the
stage after the performance on first or last nights; any time when mere
pleasant commonplaces were insufficient—he learned the speech by heart.
When he could have anything before him, such as at dinners, he would
have ready his speech carefully corrected, printed in very large type on
small pages printed on one side only and not fastened together—so that
they could be moved easily and separately. This he would place before
him on the table. He would not seem to read it, and of course he would
be familiar with the general idea. But he read it all the same; with a
glance he would take in a whole sentence of the big type and would use
his acting power not only in its delivery but in the disguising of his
effort. If there were not time to get the speech printed he would write
it out himself in a big hand with thick strokes of a soft pen. With
regard to interviews he always required that the proof should be
submitted to him and that his changes, either by excisions or additions,
should be respected. He would sign the proof if such were thought
desirable. I never knew a case where the interviewer or the newspaper
did not loyally hold to the undertaking. I am anxious to put this on
record; for I have often heard and read diatribes by the inexperienced
against not only the system of interviewing but the interviewers. Let me
give an instance of the chagrin which must be felt by men, skilled in
the work and with responsibilities to their newspapers, who are baffled
in their undertakings by reasons which they do not understand or agree
with.
In the winter of 1886 I went across to arrange a tour of _Faust_ for the
coming year. We especially wished the matter kept dark, for we had
alternative plans in view. Therefore I went quietly and without telling
any one. When I landed in New York my coming was some way known—I
suppose I had been missed at the Lyceum and some one had guessed the
purpose of my absence and cabled—and I was met by a whole cloud of
interviewers, nearly all of whom I had known for some years. When we
were all together in my hotel I told them frankly that I would talk to
them about anything they wished except the purpose of my visit. This
being _their_ purpose, they were naturally not satisfied. I saw this and
said:
“Now, look here, boys, you know I have always tried to help you in your
work in any way I was free to do. I want for a few days to keep my
present purpose secret. When what I want to do is through, I shall tell
you all about it. It will be only a few days at most. Won’t you trust me
about the wisdom of this? All I want is silence for a while; and if you
will tell me that you will say nothing till I let you go ahead, I shall
tell you everything—right here and now!”
One of them said at once:
“No! Don’t tell us yet. If you are silent the difficulty will be only
between you and us. But if you tell us we shall each have to fight his
own crowd for not telling them what we know!” The general silence
vouched this as accepted by all. We sat still for perhaps a minute, no
one wishing to begin. Before us was the whisky of hospitality. At last
one of my guests said:
“By the way, how do you like American as compared with Irish whisky?—_of
course, not for publication!_”
There was a roar of laughter. I felt that my reticence was forgiven, and
we had a pleasant chat through a delightful half-hour. Out of that they
made a “story” of some kind to suit their mission.
II
In a few instances the reporter who writes from his own side without
consultation has said funny things. Two cases I remember. The first was
when more than twenty years ago we made a night journey from Chicago to
Detroit. When we boarded our special train I found one strange young man
with a gripsack who said he was coming with us. To this I demurred,
telling him that we never took any stranger with us and explaining that,
as all our company was divided into little family groups they would not
feel so comfortable with a stranger as when, as usual, they were among
friends and comrades only. He said he was a reporter, and that he was
going to write a story about the incidents of the night. I cannot
imagine what kind of incidents he expected! However, I was firm and
would not let him come.
When we arrived in Detroit in the morning a messenger came on board with
a large letter directed to me. It contained a copy of a local paper in
which was marked an article on how the Irving company travelled—a long
article of over a column. It described various matters, and even made
mention of the appearance _en déshabille_ of some members of the
company. At the end was appended a note in small type to say that the
paper could not vouch for the accuracy of the report as their
representative had not been allowed to travel on the train. I give the
whole matter from memory; but the way in which the writer dealt with
myself was most amusing. It took up, perhaps, the first quarter of the
article. It spoke of “an individual who _called himself_ Bram Stoker.”
He was thus described:
“... who seems to occupy some anomalous position between secretary and
valet. Whose manifest duties are to see that there is mustard in the
sandwiches and to take the dogs out for a run; and who unites in his
own person every vulgarity of the English-speaking race.”
I forgave him on the spot for the whole thing on account of the last
sub-sentence.
The second instance was as follows:
When on our Western tour in 1899–1900 we visited Kansas City for three
nights, playing in the Opera House afterwards destroyed by fire. At that
time limelight for purposes of stage effect had been largely superseded
by electric light, which was beginning to be properly harnessed for the
purpose. It was much easier to work with and cheaper, as every theatre
had its own plant. Irving, however, preferred the limelight or calcium
light, which gives softer and more varied effects; and as it was not
possible to get the necessary gas-tanks in many places we took with us a
whole railway waggon-load of them. These would be brought to the theatre
with the other paraphernalia of our work. As we had so much stuff that
it was not always possible to find room for it, we had to leave some of
the less perishable goods on the sidewalk. This was easy in Kansas City,
as the theatre occupied a block and its sidewalks were wide and not much
used except on the main street. Accordingly the bulk of our gas-tanks
were piled up outside. The scarlet colour of the oxygen tanks evidently
arrested the attention of a local reporter and gave him ideas. On the
morning after the first performance his paper came out with a
sensational article to the effect that at last the treasured secret was
out: Henry Irving was in reality a dying man, and was only kept alive by
using great quantities of oxygen, of which a waggon-load of tanks had to
be carried for the purpose. The reporter went on to explain how, in
order to investigate the matter properly, he had managed to get into the
theatre as a stage hand and had seen the tanks scattered about the
stage. Further, he went on to tell how difficult it was to get near
Irving’s dressing-room as rude servants ordered away any one seen
standing close to the door. But he was not to be baffled. He had seen at
the end of the act Irving hurry into his room to be reinvigorated. He
added, with an inconceivable _naïveté_, that precautions were taken to
prevent the escape of the life-giving oxygen—_for even the keyhole was
stopped up_.
XXXII
TOURS-DE-FORCE
I
Perhaps the greatest _tour de force_ of Irving’s life was made on the
night of February 23, 1887, when at the Birkbeck Hall he read the play
of _Hamlet_ before a large audience for the benefit of the Institute. He
had, of course, cut the play, just as he did for acting; indeed his
cutting for the reading was a further slight curtailment, as on such an
occasion there has to be a limit of time. But the cutting is in itself a
tribute to his immense knowledge of the play, and is a lesson to
students.
He read the play in two sections, with an interval of perhaps ten
minutes between. The sustained effort must have been a frightful strain;
for in such an undertaking there is not an instant’s pause. Character
follows character, each necessitating an instant change of personality;
of voice; of method of speech and bearing and action. Irving was a great
believer in the value of time in acting. He used to say that on certain
occasions the time in which things were taken increased or marred the
attention, emotion and eagerness of the audience. A play like _Hamlet_
has as many and as varying times as an opera; thus the first knowledge
and intention of the reader must have been complete. Strong as he was,
it was a wonder how he got through that evening. When I went round to
him at the end of the first part I found him sitting down and almost
gasping. He had a wonderful recuperative power, however, and like a good
fighter he was up at the call of “time.” With unimpaired vitality,
strength and passion he went on with his work right to the very end. For
my own part I have never had so illuminative an experience of the play.
Irving’s own performance of the title _rôle_ I had of course seen, and
with even greater effect than then; for dress and picturesque
surroundings, in addition to the significance of movement and action,
can intensify speech even when aided by the expression conveyed by face
and hands. But the play as a whole came into riper prominence. Imagine
the play with _every part_ in it done by a great actor! It was never to
be forgotten. The passionate scenes were triumphant. Knowing that he had
the whole thing in his own hands and that he had not to trust to others,
howsoever good they might be, he could give the reins to passion. The
effect was enthralling. We of the audience sat spell-bound, hardly able
to breathe.
When he ceased, almost fainting with the prolonged effort and excess of
emotion, the pent-up enthusiasm burst forth like a storm.
In his dressing-room he had to sit for a while to recover himself—a rare
thing indeed for him in those days. The note in my diary of that night
has the following:
“Immense enthusiasm—remarkable—magnificent—every character given in
masterly manner—consider it greatest _tour de force_ of his life—even
_he_ exhausted!”
II
Eight years before, on July 25, 1879, the night of his “Benefit,” as it
was called after the old-time custom, he had given another wonderful
example of his power. On that occasion he had taken the great and
strenuous act out of each of five plays and finished up with a comedy
character. The bill was: _Richard III._, Act I.; _Richelieu_, Act IV.;
_Charles I._, Act IV.; _Louis XI._, Act III.; _Hamlet_, Act III. (to end
of Play Scene); _Raising the Wind_.
The strain of such a bill was very great. Not only the playing and the
changing to so many complete identities each in moments of wild passion,
but even the dressing and preparation for each part. Throughout the
whole of that even there was not a single minute—or a portion of a
minute—to spare. Such a strain of mind and body and psychic faculties
all at once and so prolonged does not come into the working life of any
other art or calling. Small wonder is it if the wear and tear of life to
great actors is exceptionally great.
But Irving up to his sixtieth year was compact of steel and whipcord.
His energy and nervous power were such as only came from a great brain;
and the muscular force of that lean, lithe body must have been
extraordinary. The standard of animal mechanics is “foot-pounds”—the
force and heart effort necessary to raise a pound weight a foot high. An
actor playing a heavy part, judged by this rule, does about as much work
in an evening as a hod-man carrying bricks up a ladder. For more than
forty years this man did such work almost every night of his life; with
the added strain and stress of high emotion—no negligible quantity in
itself. I know of no other man who could have done such work in such a
way and with such astounding passion as Henry Irving on great occasions.
XXXIII
CHRISTMAS
I
All through Irving’s management of the Lyceum Christmas was, with regard
to the working staff and supers, kept in a patriarchal way. Every man
and woman had on Christmas Eve or the night before it a basket
containing a goose with “trimmings”—sage and onions and apples—and a
bottle of gin. The children had each a goose, and a cake instead of the
gin. There were some four or five hundred altogether, and as they
trailed away you could trace them through distant streets by their
scent. On most Christmas Eves there was in the Green Room punch and cake
for the company. The punch-bowl was a vast one, and was refilled as
often as required. We would sometimes use a five-gallon keg of old
whisky in that bowl, for a liberal supply was always left over for the
stage hands.
II